Yesterday

Yesterday was July 4th - Independence Day for the United States. I don't very clearly remember what I've done the other years that I've been here but it's interesting to note some of the things that happened yesterday.

For one, the sky was grey and overcast and it was drizzling all day long. Everything was covered in a grey mist. Once again our street looked like it was perched up on the mountains as it always does during and after rainfalls. However yesterday this was a bit of a problem because fireworks are a very big part of the Independence Day celebrations. While some people were not thwarted by the time nightfall came and went ahead with the sparklers and sprinklers - the big fireworks dispaly most likely did not go through. I've been wondering for the whole day today what they are going to do with all the fireworks.

The second thing is that I was rather grouchy and restive from the morning. I'm not so sure why but I know that I was missing home for some reason. And if I weren't really missing anything - I was indeed "seeing" these incessant images billowing through my head. I kept seeing the Oxford and the Landmark bookstores and the roads in front of them where I'd spent inordinate amounts of time during my last couple of years in Calcutta University. I could see the the times that I'd spent at these places on drizzling afternoons and early evenings when for some hours I'd forget everything else. I was reminded of my solitary outings to Nandan for movie watchings. I kept seeing the tea shop, "Dolly's" in Dakshinapan in my head. Dolly's, which had been my cubby hole for a decade and where I'd met more than a couple of people (Ria, Saron, Putul, Ratna di, Mili di, Anita di, Lily di) - some of whom went on to become very good friends, and then of course there was the image of the indomitable and formidable (in the "Poirotan" sense) Dolly di herself. I missed some other places and some people but my self-admonishing did no good. The thing is a part of me knew that the other part of me was not being reasonable in missing most of the things that it was missing. To which the part that seemed to be missing certain things replied, "I'm not missing anything. I'm not missing anything. I'm just reminded of these different things..." "And you shouldn't be missing anything. All the while that you were wandering around those bookshops you kept thinking about the day that you could be walking around a library and picking out books without anyone following you around!"

I never miss home and I certainly never miss Calcutta, and I never miss the days long gone by. The best thing that I can say about olden days is that they are old, dead, and buried. There are very few memories that I like to glance over and fewer still that I really cherish. So I always scold myself when I feel any sort of home-related pangs, even minor ones. I love the place where I currently live, and I don't intend to ever leave this country for good unless I have to (which may well happen in a year's time but I'll not go quietly), and so personally, I think it's rather stupid to get all teary-eyed or homesick when it comes to anything related to India. I am quite non-sentimental about my country and what I feel about it at the micro level and at the macro level would most likely not please anyone.

I know of some people who do get all prettily nostalgic about home. They sigh and lament as though they were being held in the United States, forced to live here like prison inmates, much against their will. They talk about missing the vibrant life and the earthy living, which is so characteristic of India. Some complain that the United States is sterile and antiseptic. They sigh and gush and wish they could just go back home where everything is so much better. Such emotions and more of the same remind me of those icky and bad stories by Jhumpa Lahiri in her Maladies of an Interpreter (that's what I call the book) and some other ickier stories written by some other Indian immigrants (Chitra Banerji Devakaruni and Anita Desai's daughter come to mind) who miss India with unbearable longing and desire. My point is if you miss being in India that much and that badly - then by all means please go back. Don't prattle, preen and prance about it, and write sob stories about that apparently non-negotiable desire and the fragmented identity. Gah, is all I can say. Although these novels and short stories collections based on themes of dislocation and longing have all made it big and are all mega hits.

The opposite is no better. Bengalis will have their Bongo-samitis. I have heard that that these samitis happen in a bigger way in large cities but this University town also boasts of its own Amra Bangali club. Now the first year I was here I actually went to one of the gatherings (I swear I went only for the food). And what do you see? Pompous, fat bengali men and women who think they are the cat's whiskers because they have immigrated to the United States and brought with them all their incorrigible cultural habits while developing no commendable ones. I vaguely remember why I was terribly amused and annoyed with the people who had organized this Amra Bangali meet and I left before any of the goodies were served. There was some name dropping - that I do remember. And I also remember that it felt as though I were at the para pujo with nosy kakimas and jethimas and pompous jethus, and I didn't see any reason to stay for another second. Now some people may like to be reminded of (and may even get tearily nostalgic for) those long-gone days with the neighbourhood aunts and uncles breathing down their necks even when living ten blocks away - for me it was a little short of a nightmare, although I must say that it was rather amusing if even a slightly demented form of amusement for the first 7 minutes or so.

For the first two years or so that I was here, I adamantly refused to interact with any Indians leave alone a bengali apart from one bengali girl, and only because I had known her earlier. I wouldn't have talked with more than 99 % of these Indian university students if I had been living in India - I didn't see any reason to hold their hands just because I was 10,000 miles away from home. When I did start making Indian friends - they were friends because I liked them - not because they were Indian.

But as luck would have it - yesterday I did end up missing some bits and pieces from back home. Some bits I do miss every day but I haven't missed Park Street and Lord Sinha Road in a very long time, and so it was curious to miss these things and some others on the 4th of July of all days. "I keep telling you that I didn't miss anything. Those places kept invading my head. I missed not a thing!"

Independence Day in the United States is celebrated with parades, barbeques, songs, and overall it's a day for eating and spending time with family and friends. It's also as I mentioned a grand day for fireworks. In Washington I hear they have lovely parades, and I know that any military base camp can fire one shot for each of the 50 states on Independence Day. These I have never viewed for myself.

Yesterday inspite of the grey weather and my own glumpiness - some of us got together. Alicia, Ian, Beth, Pablo, Namrata, Saptarshi, Guha and myself got together for a barbeque and we ate, chatted and drank and had a nice time. There were different salads including pasta salad, macaroni salad, potato salad, coleslaw along with corn on the cob, cheese and crackers, chips and salsa. There were vegetarian burgers and hotdogs, and paneer tikkas for the vegetarians, and great big juicy hamburgers, humongous polish pork sausages with stuffing, regular hotdogs and fish tandoori for the meat eaters. There were grapes, watermelon, blueberry crumble, cookies and ice-cream for dessert. There was also a fair bit of beer on the side. I had almost finished a good bit of the fish tandoori while standing in one corner when the others had been pecking at the chips and downing their beer and chatting around the kitchen table, and for the main meal I had bits of the different salads and had a great big polish sausage, which reminded me yet again why I can't be a vegetarian for good. I also had four pieces of the blueberry crumble, which Beth had made, and I would have had more if my tummy could have taken another bite. It was a good gathering yesterday evening inspite of the grey drizzles.

We went out for a walk later on in the evening and spotted some fireworks here and there. I was also reminded of the time very many years ago when I'd done something utterly naughty and had gotten scolded for it but hadn't minded even though I'd felt rather sheepish. Many years ago I had put a couple of chocolate bombs under half a coconut shell, lit the wick, and had jumped the highest at the resultant explosion. One of my friends insisted for the entire evening that she couldn't hear right with one of her ears. Now of course I'm too old to be pulling pranks of a similar sort. Alicia had some sparklers, and some rocket-looking fireworks which apparently didn't need to be put into a bottle but needed to be "planted" into the ground. Guha and I wondered how the rocket would launch itself into the air since it was being "planted" into the ground. Namrata hollered from the background, "Rockets are very dangerous. They attack people. I know of a boy who was killed because a rocket went straight through his neck." Ian said that we weren't supposed to plant the rocket into the ground but put it inside a bottle (that sounded familiar). Alicia scolded me for trying to peel off the paper cover. Guha was worried that the rockets would hit the power lines overhead. Saptarshi and Pablo were merrily playing with some blazing pink sparklers. I was thinking of coconut shells and chocolate bombs. I lit the "rockets" after planting them in the ground with Guha poking them in for good measure, and they turned out to be more like very vibrant tubris. So there was nothing to worry about. But right till the end I honestly expected the rockets to go flying into the sky.

At some point we were talking about the U.S constitution and when that was framed and when it was adopted. The Articles of Confederation was put into effect in 1781, which was signed by the original 13 states. However over the years, a confederation was seen as lacking in some important respects. For one thing, there was no centralized government to provide some overarching unity of purpose. Secondly, there was (therefore?) a lack of standardized laws and additionally there were no regulated means of raising funds for common purposes. Even a standardized coinage system did not exist. It was to address these and other issues that Congress met in early 1787 to revise the Articles of Confederation. And it was on the 17th of September, 1787, 11 years post independence that the U.S constitution was formally adopted. We did crack some jokes about the length of time in between The Declaration of Independence and the adoption of the Constitution by the 13 original states (Rhode Island, the last of the thriteen, ratified the constitution not until 1790) - but it seemed not that long considering that it is afterall a grand constitution. Piddly-plunking a dissertation these days takes some students close to a decade if they are not careful while some are able to waltz out with one in two years flat.

Some time during the course of the eve' Beth said that it was quite funny to think that out of all of us who had gathered together for the July 4th celebration there was only one American. Well there were two. Alicia and Beth. The rest of us were Indians, Eucadorians or Canadians. And the Indians outnumbered the rest as we almost always end up doing.

Now this post must be concluded. Some other day I'll talk some more.

Take care...

Ha-ha...

Robert and Sarah - both 10 years old - are in love. They've been playmates for over half a decade, and they want to get married right away.

Robert, like the gentleman he is, approaches Sarah's father one afternoon. Sarah's dad sees the serious youngster, asks him to take a seat after offering him some lemonade.

"So how are you doing, Robert? Everything okay?"

"Oh, yes Sir. I'm doing very well, thank you. I needed to talk with you today because Sarah and I have decided to get married and would like your blessings."

Sarah's dad thinks it's rather cute and amusing and decides to humour the young boy.

"That's a good idea son, but don't you think you should wait for some years?"

"Oh no, Sir. We love each other and don't want to stay apart anymore."

"I see. But son, what about living arrangements? Where do you plan to live?"

"I'll move into Sarah's room, Sir. She has a bigger room, and the bathroom's right next to her room."

"I see. But what are you going to do about money? How are you going to provide for yourselves?"

"We've thought about that. I make $14.00 a week and Sarah makes $12.50. That's $26.50 a week between the two of us, which is $106.00 a month. We've also got a savings of $520 between the two of us. We'll get along nicely. Neither one of us is a big spender, Sir. It's the occasional soda or sandwich that we go out for, and maybe a movie - apart from the books that we buy. But we've decided to eat inside, and watch movies at home, and get the books from the public library - at least until we have some decent savings set aside."

Sarah's dad is tickled pink by this point.

He looks at Robert with a twinkle in his eye, and says, "Well son, I see you've got everything planned out beautifully. But what are you going to do if a baby comes along?"

With a very thoughtful look in his eyes, Robert says, "We'll take our chances, Sir. We've been lucky so far."

Sarah's dad is no longer tickled pink, and across the street, Granny Dorothy (who's a little dotty) shoots up from her bed yelling, "The elephants. The elephants. The bellowing elephants are here!"

P.S: Read the above a couple of weeks ago somewhere....

Curious expectations

A rather curious experience in the outside world makes me write this post. I’ll write a post about teaching some other day. In some ways, this incident has little to do with my being a teacher although I do wonder how I can get some sort of a positive message across without sounding as though I am preaching or trying to force people to act, behave or think in a certain way.

Somehow, I had innately imagined that individuals who have felt marginalized or victimized in some way or the other – great or small, medium or slight – experience greater empathy and/or sympathy if they also have the benefit of being able to reflect (that is they are not fundamentally incapacitated in their mental abilities) upon their victimization and marginalization in society, which could either be at the institutional or at the individual level. Thus somehow I have almost “expected” people who have faced some sort of discrimination to be sensitive to different forms of discrimination. Thus, I would think that I would be more sensitive to the stigma faced by other groups, say for instance the sort of ridicule the physically handicapped face (especially in India) or what the elderly may face simply because they are seen to belong to a particular social category, especially if I have been viewed with negative bias because of my religion, race, sex, national identity or ethnic status. It’s the idea of abstracting the concept of discrimination and seeing how it can affect people across different groups.

But it doesn’t seem to work that way. People may be acutely aware of how they or their ancestors because of their social membership in a particular category have been subject to torture or insensitivity and how that has had adverse effects on them as an entire social group – but they don’t seem to feel that being prejudiced in some form or another against an entire social category is also a form of discrimination. I do agree completely that people can have personal likes and dislikes, and as long as there is no abuse or undesired violence involved or force or compulsion – I don’t see why we can’t just let human beings be who they are without trying to subjugate them. And I will always remember that famous line, which in my own head runs something to the effect of, “I may disagree with what you say or how you see some things but I will always defend your right to be…” I can quite see how behaviour and particular forms of behaviour and actions that human beings engage in can cause rift and strife and plenty of unpleasantness, yet I don’t think I have ever understood how active hate, indifference, and apathy can be directed against entire classes of people. Oh, I know it exists – that doesn’t surprise me. It’s just that after so many years of formal education I haven’t gotten any closer to understanding the factors or the causes or the processes behind human hate, indifference, and apathy.

On the other hand many people whom I’ve come across in my personal life and academic life have been such militant equalizers with their claim that “all human beings are the same. Bring them up the same way – and they’ll be all the same – dammit!” that they have made me roll my eyes all the more (since these people were/are of my same age group and have had more experiences, or so I would think). Also I’ve come across people who have talked so much about being the “victim” or else are so obsessed with social inequality, marginalization, discrimination and patriarchal structures that they don’t seem to see that sometimes individual level explanations are not only indispensable but that discrimination does not and cannot explain all the ills that exist in society and that patriarchy certainly is not responsible for all that is wrong with the womenfolk of today or the world of today. They seem to be completely unaware that certain things have just gone too far.

Fairly recently, I remember people (who are in gender studies and have gotten their PhDs) say “Figure skating is a flagrantly sexist sport.” Ice skating as a sport apparently serves some sort of a patriarchal interest and indulges some sort of a male perversion and was being held up as an example of institutional discrimination and male domination. I had replied and quite cheerfully that a) both men and women participate in figure skating b) it is an aesthetically appealing sport c) I liked watching it every now and again when I could and had always watched it as a kid and d) I was neither a pervert nor a male and hadn’t been either – not in this lifetime at any rate. I don’t remember whether I’d been subject to the patriarchal hegemonic discourse lecture that time around.

For some students who are specializing in gender or queer studies or race - everything in society can be boiled down to patriarchal domination or discrimination based on sexual orientation or racism or some form of a combination of all these ills. The ones who see this priceless combination of discrimination (race, gender and sexual orientation) are viewed as being utterly remarkable because they have been able to locate all the important social links that cause all the ills in this world. Some graduate students have even told me that according to them – all White students should experience absolute guilt for their treatment of Blacks (African-Americans). It doesn’t even matter whether these White students have never felt anything but goodwill towards Blacks in general and are also aware of how racism functions in the current United States society. They must still experience guilt and feel the absolute shame. They must carry the guilt of their predecessors.

Now I am not a big one for guilt. True – it has its functions and its role in some situations but endless guilt or absolute guilt does not appeal to me too much. Also, I don’t see the point in actively shaming someone who has not actively done anything wrong apart from belonging to a particular social category (I have never seen it worth my while to call all men beasts or all women idiots or all Whites racists or all African Americans victims). I have also come across my share of White students, who believe that racism is completely a thing of the past while class discrimination has never been an issue in the United States (and there are traceable reasons as to why they believe thus) while being completely aware of gender discrimination and also being aware of the need to address it (for this awareness, I have not been able to locate any clear reasons). It isn’t possible, I know, to always change how people think (and I don’t think I’ve ever been able to do that) but I know I made a bit of progress when I asked students to think about the school system, the tracking system, the location of schools in particular neighbourhoods and the available resources, the taxation system, and differences in access to education (no matter how flawed the education system is) and how different opportunity structures are blocked because of some forms of stratification. I got some reviews from students where I was labeled a “racist” and one where I was called the “worst instructor” the student had ever had but I got a couple of students who by the end of the semester really did seem to have shifted perceptibly even if infinitesimally in how they viewed stratification and social identity markers and social categories of people. And I certainly didn’t shame or accuse anyone.

And all this is not to say that I don’t for a minute think that I am above reproach. I am a member of this community of social "scientists" (!) after all – and I don’t really have any answers to any of the meaningful social questions and am indeed just as confused about some issues as I had been when I’d formally started studying this discipline some 15 years ago. Furthermore I know how embarrassingly loud of a militant I was and have been and can be even now if pushed a bit or if I get it into my head that I am being pushed.

Stereotypes are common, and not always are they false. But about that some other day. The problem is when I start treating individual human beings in a certain way based on a stereotype that I carry in my head. Differences amongst human beings are also something that simply are. And I almost want to insert a footnote at this point saying: quite apart from social identity markers (such as race, creed, caste, religion….) – there are also individual differences which are no longer talked about because such talk isn’t seen to be politically correct (popular writers thankfully enough, write about these very sensible issues in a no-nonsense manner - but of course we, fancy academicians are too good for the likes of them!). Human beings differ in their talents, abilities, in their habits, in their predispositions, in their likes and dislikes….

Sometimes, like it or not, people may also be prejudiced. Prejudices for the most part are based on stereotypes. This is a good time for a Soc 100 quiz question to get my own frames in order: what is prejudice? In short, it is the collection of often irrational and preconceived notions (which are sometimes resistant to change even in the face of new and incoming information) regarding an individual but more often regarding a group of individuals based on some social identity. Prejudice, much like stereotypes, can be both positive and negative. But whereas positive stereotypes exist for both out-groups and in-groups – prejudices more often than not remain positive for the group one is in, that is the in-group (more likely than not), and negative for the other group, the out-group – whichever group that may be.

But more importantly (at least for now), what is the most sensible way to tackle that form of prejudice and/or bias given that people will have their own tastes and preferences? I’m not asking them to like or dislike groups of people but I do want to get them thinking why it seems so hard for them to “socially accept” a group of people. In different semesters there are different things that evoke very strong sentiments. This time it is sexual orientation, which I don’t remember being a problem in previous semesters. But how does one address the issue? Especially when one happens to be the instructor in a class where half the class just seems to be innately aware that non-acceptance of and/or active discrimination against people who belong to a minority group is unfair and where another half is not so sure about the same, and don’t see anything wrong about not-accepting or being suspicious about or being rather wary about an entire category of people? And it’s not as though the students in the second group are insensitive or non-intelligent otherwise. They participate in discussions and have made many pertinent points so far….but I am rather perplexed at this point.

The irony is not completely lost on me. All along I had been quite sure that a group of people who belonged to the same social category would respond in the same/similar way (as though belonging to a particular social category bestowed on them some identical characteristics, tastes, and dispositions) to certain social processes (in this case legal and/or social discrimination). Why on earth should they? It's been an eye-opener to me for sure....and in more ways than one.

Mixed Bag of violence

1. For the last month and a half I’ve been trying (and trying is the right word) to get together a paper on terrorism (call it political violence), and maybe some day once it’s all ready and done, I will talk some more about the experience. I’ve been reading therefore on political violence a bit.

2. I read some blogposts written by friends and others on different forms of horrific violence.

3. I have been thinking about some serious episodes of violence that I have been involved - both in the recent past and the distant past.

4. Reading the news every other day – there has been one nugget regarding violence that makes me wonder how far we can sink.

5. I’ve read shocking comments on blogs and elsewhere by seemingly normal people (from political leaders to regular citizens) who say that torture is acceptable and even fine when the individual “deserves” it or that killing a person with minimum brutality is all right – if they “deserve” it. The political leaders hem and haw sometimes, and at times are very suave about it – the regular citizens are no different.

6. Yesterday I read about a thoroughly disgusting and farcical incident (quite by accident), which shocked and horrified me on so many grounds that I don’t know where to start from. If anyone is interested – type in “Aliza Shvarts” on google. Quite apart from everything else - some people have actually defended her (“well, she didn’t really do it, so what’s the big deal”), praised her, and some others have been outraged for entirely the wrong reasons. Yale even allowed her to graduate. But let me not go on with this for now. The whole thing makes me sick.

Love and Prayers

I know I believe in God - whatever my conception of God may be - and I know I believe in some level of goodness and justice existing in the world. I know I wouldn't be able to survive and stay sane if I didn't even believe in the existence of goodness and justice in the world, though I tend to agree with Russell when he says,

In the part of this universe that we know there is great injustice, and often the good suffer, and often the wicked prosper, and one hardly knows which of those is the more annoying - a quote that winked at me some seconds ago from a blog that I just revisited.

Sometimes, when all hope has simmered out of myself (and I have no illusions nor delusisons about my goodness) - I've been given some little string to look at and say "it's all right." I remember one afternoon from more than five years ago when a friend (Beth) had dragged me out of my dorm room and told me to come to a bookshop with her. We could take our books (or whatever I wanted to take) and sit in the coffee-shop, which was inside the bookshop or else I could browse around the bookstore. I didn't want to go but I don't remmeber any longer how she managed to convince me. So we drove there (she drove while I smoked and looked out of the window), and once there we got ourselves a small table near a window and got ourselves some coffee too. I had been reading a book by Feynman I remember - a collection of medium length philosophical essays by him. In the middle of reading something which made me sigh, I got up and started wandering around the bookstore - and somewhat aimlessly. I was in the section which carried diaries with inspirational quotes of all things. I was flipping through something or the other when suddenly there was a loud whomp and a diary had leapt out of the bookshelf and was lying on the floor (well it had at least fallen out of its space on the shelf and had therefore made me walk towards it). I walked to it, picked it up, and there on its front cover I saw the old Irish poem that I have loved ever since one human being sent it over to me along with some other poems:

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand....

....And that had been my string for the evening and the next....

Even if things didn't look all right at all and I haven't found any string - I've been able to say not much but just be, because I didn't see what else I could do. And if things haven't turned for the better overnight (and they hardly do - if ever) - something has given me some baseline courage to just be for a bit before I walked along.

I have often smiled wryly on reading about this or that person who has been able to live a "normal" life when he should not have been able to do thus. One of the most recent examples came in the form of a man, now in his late 50s who had a lobotomy, when he was 11 years old (this was some time in the 1960s). After going through a very troubled adolescence, he stabilised himself and then got some jobs before getting a permanent job driving a bus and he has been driving around for some time now. He also has normal levels of intelligence, is socially adjusted, and has a wife and a couple of kids. I have seen documentaries and read books about similar such people. People who were able to lead "normal" lives; when being normal becomes something of a miracle.

That's all well and good. Fine and dandy. Yet on some rare occasions in my life I have yelled out to God saying, "Blast it. What exactly do You want?...How much do You expect a person to put up with and still keep walking along? And why do You then bless us in some ways and seem to handicap us in some bizarre ways?!" Indeed, if truth be told there have been some rare occasions that I have yelled at God out of sheer frustration - certainly not hate. I can count the number of times - but I have. Over the years though I realised and knew that there was no point in yelling at God or being frustrated with Him. One can't really. It makes no sense. And I had stopped. No matter how grotty things got some years ago...I had stopped getting frustrated with God for my own shortcomings or for the bumps that I faced along the life that I had in some ways at least chosen or for the mix of my shortcomings and my karma. In any case as I always reminded myself - I had my limbs and all my other physical faculties in place.

Yet now I almost feel at my wits ends again and have been feeling this way close to a year now (which isn't a very long time at all I know), and some minutes ago just as I was about to say with absolute exasperation and desperation "...but it's not for myself this time around, God. You know that. What more can a human being do?Can't You do something..." - I stopped myself short. What am I trying to do exactly - fool both myself and God? Technically speaking I'm not praying for myself nor am I getting frustrated for myself - but when I pray for this other, I pray for myself....and when I do get frustrated with God (of all things) - it's because sometimes I can't see a way out.

If it weren't for the presence of a couple of other precious, significant and splendid beings in this world as well, I would most likely in a sudden moment have prayed to God begging Him to whisk this specific human being up and away and right next to Himself. How much can a human being take, I wonder. I've prayed for lots of people to meet with painless deaths - yet the only other human being, I have (in the same or at least similar spirit) ever wished dead, is myself - although I had made no plans of seeing or being with God. And I had not taken a millionth of what I had imagined in my batty head.

And as I wonder about this human being, I know that inspite of all the tales of horror and sadness, grottiness and terrible agony that I've read and come across I have wondered in a similar vein and with a similar consistency about only one other human being - maybe not with the same intensity, depth, and feeling though it may be - and no, it's certainly not myself that I'm talking about, but for some reason it's Tagore. Maybe it's because Tagore inspite of all his heartache, his agony, his acute sensitivity, and his repeated losses carried on and gave so much of himself. I don't know how he managed to do thus or what gave him the strength. I don't know what made him write, compose, share, and create, and keep thinking, reflecting, doing and acting with such boundless love, compassion, kindness, energy, and wisdom - but there it is. He did. And I don't know whether he did it all for himself or for others or whether it was one of those rare instances when doing for one's self and for others merges into one. And it amazes me. For amidst the depths of suffering and haunting loneliness - there is such brilliant splendour and grace that I - standing on the sidelines - cannot but weep, smile, and feel at the same time. From the very little bit that I know about Tagore and of him through his writings - that's how I feel. So maybe in some fundamental ways Tagore reminds me of this other so terribly unusual and precious human being just as this one unusual human being reminds me of Tagore in some ways, and means more to me than I can possibly say.

And so I pray and love (for as the unusual human being reminded me a week or so ago, we poor human beings can only love...the rest is up to God), and do what I can do - which is so woefully little that I can only grimace and like my younger self from close to two decades ago make deals with God or insist that a deal was made in the past, and I can but simmer and wait in my own pot.

With all my soul I love and pray that God be there, that God give strength and God bless.
Beyond that... what else?

The Hamilton Barber Bridge

Guha tells me (and has told me before - but I keep forgetting) that there is a bridge in Madras that is called "Barber" Bridge. But apparently that bridge was originally called "Hamilton" Bridge. The Tamils apparently could not pronounce "Hamilton" but called it "Umbuttun" bridge instead. Over the years it became known as "The Barber Bridge".
But why Barber bridge, of all things?
Oh, because umbuttun in Tamil means barber.
I told Guha that I'd put this little tale up because I like it and so that I'd remember it. He said he didn't know whether the story was factually correct...
Namrata, a friend, has the loopy idea that heebie-jeebies and the bengali hiji biji must be connected somehow. She even had a loopy story about it - but I've forgotten the tale she concocted.

A Word that Frazzles Me

The concept of "sacrifice" has been coming up every now and again. It's been popping out of nowhere. It's been attacking me, this word, and catching me unawares, and it's been doing the jig even when I'm not looking, and it's been snorting in my ear when I'm doing other things. So I may as well write a bit about what I think of the word/concept. I must say that the word used to bother me a lot more when I was growing up than it does now. It niggles me every now and again in a different way but let's get on with it.
It's certainly one of those words that everyone uses and everyone understands in his own way (just like countless other words). And since I recently made a big brouhaha about people using words when they don't know the meaning, I'll go into this word a bit because I claim to know the meaning. I'll see what I know of it given that it's a very common word, and not something like "epistemology" or "semantics" or "semiotics" - all of which get me into such a tizzy.

I'm going to be using many facetious examples because this is a serious topic.

Giving up something would be considered to be a sacrifice in some instances...

So if I give an entire box of papayas (which is the one fruit that disgusts me completely) away to Joe (who loves them), and then angelically sing, "I have made a sacrifice by giving up the entire box of papayas," I doubt whether anybody (right minds or not) would agree. Most people would snigger and whisper, "Jeez. She has no idea what 'sacrifice' means, has she..."

The word “sacrifice” means giving up something, for sure.
So what if I gave up an unassuming rock I picked up from the road, would that be a sacrifice?
Most people would say "of course not."
"'Sacrifice' means giving up something of value." Someone may add patiently.
"Do you think diamonds (which are rocks!) are valuable?" I may ask.
"Yes, of course they are." They would say.
"Okay, I give up diamonds then."
"Do you have any diamonds?" one of them may ask me shrewdly.
"No." I would cheerfully reply.
"Well then you can't give up something you don't have, can you?!" Would come the rather disgusted reply.

So sacrifice means giving up something that I definitely have. Something that I possess, which is of value, is it?
"Yes." They holler back.
So far so good then. I have to give up something that is of value and something that is undeniably mine.

"What if someone runs off with my bag (which is of value, and which is undeniably mine) or if someone never returns a book, which I lend out? I do end up “'giving up' something, don’t I? Is that a sacrifice?"
“Don't be idiotic. You didn't have any choice in the matter.”

So a sacrifice involves consciously giving up something that is of value. But what if indeed I do have a diamond necklace and give it away to some odd but very dear friend who loves diamond necklaces? It's the same as giving the box of papayas to Joe actually. The problem is that I don't value either the necklace (course I'd try to sell the thing if I did have it and then do something useful with the money - but let me not digress) or the papayas.

So the key thing for me to say that I made a "sacrifice" implies that I give up -
something voluntarily (a point to which I shall return);
something which is "mine" (in some sense);
and a something which is of value to me.

But how much value must that “thing” have? How valuable must the something be for an act to be considered a sacrifice?
It must be exceptionally valuable.
I give up writing.
I give it up voluntarily.
It's “mine” to do and of value to me.
Have I sacrificed anything?
“No. Course not. Not if you just give up writing. For it to be a sacrifice you have to give up writing for something else. And for something else which is also of value.” The only person who's left from the crowd bellows back at me.

And now we've inched slowly towards the centre. For indeed a “sacrifice” does mean giving up A for B.
The two things must be “comparable” in value. One cannot “give up” a trinket to save a life and then say that one has sacrificed a “trinket”.
But which one must have greater value?
The thing being “given up” or the thing for which something is being given up? Or doesn't it matter?
And it is right at this point that the word takes on different meanings for different people.

How do we ever decide when someone has engaged in sacrifice if it's all very personal. This is because we have some “common” ideas of what is of value (we may not all agree. Indeed we may actually be shocked to find out about some of the things that some others do value).

We agree to some extent that human life has value.
Therefore the most common talk of sacrifice comes up when someone (physically) “sacrifices” one's own life for some cause. Thus the soldier on the battlefield, a slave who rises against his/her cruel masters and dies, a woman who dies while fighting for political freedom....We often hear that they “sacrificed” their lives.
The concept of “sacrifice” comes up too in the Harry Potter books, when Harry's mother “sacrifices” her life so that Harry can live.

But according to whom have these people engaged in some sort of a sacrifice?
External others.
But who decides what's of “value” to the person?
I've already answered that earlier. It's according to the person who gave up his/her life. Just “giving up” is not enough, of course.
Giving up because one is too tired to live is just called “suicide”.
But giving up one's life for a particular and let's say a personally valuable cause is not a sacrifice either.
I guess some people will gasp.

The reason that I say this is because it's all about “value” and what one values. If I value freedom more than a life in physical or mental chains, then I am willing to give up my life for that freedom. This is not a sacrifice.
The only way it could be interpreted as one is if I valued that life in chains more than the state of freedom (which I may or may not be fortunate enough to enjoy but am willing to fight for).

When Lily died to save Harry, and someone says that she sacrificed her life for him –that would, according to my understanding of the word “sacrifice”, mean: Harry's life meant less to Lily than her own....and that certainly wasn't the case.

If a soldier dies on the field – one of the ways it could be called a sacrifice is if he didn't believe in the war that he was fighting for but was fighting anyway because he didn't know what else to do.

So to take one example, which doesn't involve "death": if an individual gives up his comfortable life and goes off to help orphans in some Godforsaken part of the world – the person does so because a) the second action is more valuable to him (brings him greater meaning, joy, peace and what-not) or else b) he sees orphans as being of greater value to him than his comfortable lifestyle. Or c) maybe both...

I've even read somewhere someone saying that Madame Curie sacrificed herself for science. She did not. She loved doing science and that's what she did.

The above examples do indeed have differences of course in terms of volition and choice. Lily, if she had a choice would not have chosen to die at all (she certainly would not have wanted Harry living it out in Privet Drive). Madame Curie probably and in all likelihood would have chosen to be a scientist, no matter what.

To actually talk about “sacrifice” in any of the above cases is not just wrong but it's blasphemous to say the least. At least by my book. To say that the people who give up their lives for something that they believe in (I'm leaving sociopaths and psychopaths out of here); people who stand up against intense and abnormal levels of cruelty, brutality, injustice and terror and still do not lose their grip, do not cower, do not remain timid on-lookers but face their ends – are exceptionally courageous, virtuous, honest, and morally upright people – and they do not deserve the label of some sort of a “sacrificial lamb” (which is something else that confuses me. The lamb never does have a choice one way or the other...).

People who serve humanity because that is their deepest desire are certainly not sacrificing their lives. They are undeniably morally and ethically upright people who are doing what their hearts and minds and souls – in unison – are telling them to do. They have a “calling” to which they are responding, and what they are doing is living up to their highest vision of value; their highest vision of what is “right”. Why on earth then would I want to demean them by saying that they “sacrificed” their lives?

That's how I understand the meaning of “sacrifice”. And so for a quick recap: sacrifice involves voluntarily giving up something (which is “mine”) of higher personal value for something (which is also “mine”) of a lower personal value.
And since this is the way I interpret a “sacrifice”, I wonder, who in their right minds would ever think of making a sacrifice? And wouldn't it be rather perverse and evil for someone to really make a sacrifice?
If I were to give up something, which is of greater value to me for something that I don't value half as much – then I would be giving up something that I love, care for, and cherish - for something that I don't love half as much. If indeed I believe that what I value - I also love.

I fully well realise that there may be choices that may not be all black or white. There may be terrible situations well beyond one's control when one cannot choose. Of course I do realise that. I may value and love more than one thing/being, and there is no way to choose which one I love “more” or “value more”. I may have to give up things of enormous value to me because I have no “real” choice. To give a brutal example, I might have to watch on while some madman is killing the people I love. Maybe I’m tied up. Maybe my limbs have been chopped off. But then we come back to the issue of choice again. To do something one must have to have the choice to engage in some action unless one is severely physically or mentally incapacitated.

To give another example: Normally of course I’d say that I “value” human life. But I have two cats (about them some other day). Yet if someone were to ask me whether I’d give up either of my cats – see them dead or mangled or maybe just hand them over to somebody else so that some stranger or even a causal acquaintance could live – I’d say I’d much rather have my cats alive, healthy, and as happy as they can be….
To take it further – if someone were to say that I'd have to give up one of my cats so that the other one could live - I wouldn’t be able to choose now, would I? But if I were forced to - why on earth would I call it an act of sacrifice? There is no sacrifice being made. One makes a horrid choice and then lives with it.

Finally (at least for now), and moving away from matters of life and death:
I've heard people say (and very often) that they sacrificed their lives to fulfill their parents' wishes, and only because they “loved” their parents so much.
I've heard it said that parents sacrificed their lives and their happiness for their children, and only because they loved their children so much.
I'm quite sure wives feel that they have sacrificed for their husbands and husbands feel that they made sacrifices for their wives - and all in the name of love...
This is rubbish to put it in plainly. Not the first part. Don't get me wrong. These people are the only sort of people who according to me do indeed make “sacrifices”. They spend years and years being terrified of their parents or simply being attached to their parents in some kind of a dependent or habitual way. The parents spend years feeling guilty that they don't really care about their children and never really have but still feel that they need to do things for them.

What is outright nonsense is to assume that there was any love involved.

That is why the word and the whole idea of “sacrifice” disgusts me so.

Sacrifices are made not out of love. They are made out of terrible and inarticulate guilt and fear.
I have no idea thus how people understand and interpret the word "sacrifice" to make it sound as though it were something positive and noble and grand.

The Order of Prophecies

I had been re-reading The Order of the Phoenix, and I finally finished it late last Friday night. Late it was. And once I fell asleep I had dreams about dark and spinning grey and black spirals, about "saving something or someone", and of course Harry Potter walked into my dreams. Not Harry from The Order. It was my Professor Harry Potter, whom I once told in real life "You don't look like Harry Potter, Prof. You look like Dumbledore". He had considered my observation in his serious way, and not without the sudden twinkle in his eyes he had replied with a "That is a good thing, isn't it?" So Professor Harry Potter visited my dreams saying something about reality. And I kept saying, "Reality is all very fine, but I bloody well wish that I could see something." So the dreams irritated me on the whole more than anything else. Everything seemed just beyond reach. Everything was just a dark liquidy swirling pool. People I desperately wanted to see - I could. But only in vague photographs...I could hear their voices even, or so I think. But I could make out nothing else. Everything just kept moving in slow motion and visibility was very low.

This time I took my time (and an inordinate amount of time at that!) to swim through the deep darkness. Not the darkness of the disturbing dreams. I mean of The Order...This book is dark. Not just in terms of all that happens. But in terms of everything (even in terms of time and place). There was just a dense black liquid that seemed to be spilling all over me - both this time and the last time that I read it. The last time (and the only time) I read The Order was almost exactly 5 years ago, which is rather disturbing to ponder upon for different reasons. This time I started re-reading it because of some recurrent conversations that I kept having with Guha and Pupu.
I wasn't so sure that I wanted to read it though. Sirius whom I fell in love with a little loonily (although a lot less loonily than other times vis-a-vis other characters from other books) the very first time I read Prisoner of Azkaban slips through the veil, and never does return, and even though I absolutely knew towards the end of The Prisoner...that Sirius was indeed going to slip away for good - it didn't make me any less sad when that did happen. The thing is though - maybe that's why I paid very little attention to certain parts of The Order the first time I read it. Like for instance the Prophecy. For some reason the first time around - it didn't seem to be anything that I didn't already know about. I was quite convinced that I'd known all along that only Voldemort or Harry could live - so I didn't see what the big deal was.

But I guess in my hurry I'd probably not let the bit about the prophecy linger or settle or even register in my bone-head. In fact I had completely clean forgotten what Voldemort so desperately had wanted Harry to get for him from the Ministry of Magic. I had forgotten all about the prophecy.

This time around Sirius' death did leave the clench in my tum'. I walked around with Harry at Grimmauld's Place when Harry is quite convinced that he is losing his mind. I kept muttering under my breath "Oh just learn occlumency and stop being angry with everyone around you." I felt the hollow pitty feeling when Harry tries to find McGonnagal right after he "sees" Sirius being tortured but learns that she's been taken to St. Mungo's. I remembered while reading through why I had been doubly furious with Harry. It's because of the way he yells and screams at Dumbledore and I remembered all over again why I had been so furious with Dumbledore for not having told Harry - some months earlier - what he had to in the end. And there was that bit about "the single teardrop...." (something Pupu also brought up yester') - and my heart and my silent gulp went out for Dumbledore and I gave Harry one resounding whack all over again.
But this time I was quite cheesed off with Sirius. I don't see why he had to get into a stupid and silly confrontation with Snape right in front of Harry when he knew how important it was for Harry to learn occlumency (and somebody should have told Harry why it was so terribly important!).
Ah well.

Time for some points that crossed my head this time around...
Point 1) The prophecy. That was rather interesting. Who knows what might have happened if The prophecy had never been made.
The next day eve' when I was yabbling about The Order and the prophecy with rather wide eyes, Guha remarked that the prophecy was somehow very similar to a scene out of the Matrix, where the oracle says, "Don't worry about it."
And Neo breaks the vase, and splutters, "sorry."
"Would you have broken it if I hadn't said anything...?" quizzes the oracle with a smile and a sweep.
That's a rather haunting thought actually ('course the Oracle too makes a prophecy about Neo, and Neo acts accordingly, which makes the prophecy come true - but not to digress). And to think of what might have happened had Voldemort been able to hear the prophecy all the way through.
There are other thoughts too related with the same but they can sit and simmer for some seconds in the cauldron of infinite eternity.
Guha finished re-reading The Lord of the Rings (A book I have tried to read thrice and failed all three times.) some hours after I finished The Order...and so we were talking furiously about fantasy and reality and infinity for some reason before he went back to editing a paper on parasites, and I went back to the painstaking and mind numbing job of finding and filling up a reference list.

2) I thought it amusing that Rowling took us through that whole agonising week when the kids were having their OWL exams...

3) I thought it sort of one-eyebrow-raising-worthy (meaning in this specific instance "Odusing": odd+amusing) that Voldemort "waited" for almost all of Harry's exams to get over before sneaking into Harry's mind to plant the image of Sirius being tortured.

4) Just imagine if Neville Longbottom had been "The Chosen One". Quite a thought, huhn?!...Would he then have been Neville or would he then have been Harry?...

Skipping Trips

So we're on Spring Break again. And it came as quite a surprise to be honest. Last week on Friday, a class-mate got my phone number and then called me because she needed some info. In the transmission of the info and some of her statements I realised to my utter glee that Spring Break started from Monday March 16th, and not Wednesday March 18th. Oh did I dance around a bit on receiving that bit of unexpected news. Since then of course I've been pretending that I can finish my dissertation because of the three whole holidays while reading The Order of the Phoenix, watching all the Lord of the Rings movies, and finishing at least some of the other books which have been stacked in a corner, and which I've been gazing at with fond eyes while on my frequent trips to the kitchen to make coffee in between...

Guha and I bought daily planners this year in February so that we would know about dates and days and months. I haven't had a calendar in six years - and the only time I did, because somebody gifted me one - it never got put up and the year was through before I knew it. Right from December of last year, Guha and I had been wondering whether we should take a trip during Spring Break or during May when the Spring semester comes to an official end. Of course once we bought the planners we pored over them and I said "Oh, goodie. Now we know when we have holidays and all..." I don't know where my Planner is anymore although I kept putting in time-lines for things to be done - and some things got done early and some not-so-early - and the planner is now wasting and dying slowly out of misuse and non-use (and I keep looking at the wrong month or keep finding the wrong dates for holidays anyway...).

Once we came back from India in January, I think Guha and I knew that the chances of going out for Spring Break were pretty remote. Nonetheless we hadn't dismissed the idea from our minds. Guha suggested Southern Indiana where he had been doing some field-work last year. I'd gone there for some bitty hours, and it did indeed come across as a beautiful place with a breathtaking view of the Ohio River, lovely lush forests all around and a hilly landscape. Guha noted that there were some caves that we could explore and that there were horse-riding stables as well...so all in all it would be a fine trip. We could leave on Thursday early morn', stay at a "Bed and Breakfast", have a wonderful time for a couple of days and then leave on Saturday afternoonish or on Sunday morning.

Every Spring Break, I have every intention of going if not everywhere - at least somewhere (that I end up going all over the place is a different story). Even before I knew Guha, I would plan elaborate trips in my head, pore over maps, look at some inns and places on google....but of course I never once physically moved out of Lafayette apart from this one time (and it wasn't during Spring Break but a random weekend in February), and only because my brother threatened to come and stay in Lafayette for a weekend unless I accompanied them (him and his wife) to California. Yes, I had to be threatened to visit California for a weekend.

Anyhow, as I was saying: every year for the last 3 years now - Guha and I have made these plans of going somewhere during or around Spring Break. But as the date approaches nearer - our plans get taller. First we say Indiana dunes, then we say Yosemite, then we say Grand Canyon or move North, right to Niagara and I keep moving North Westish over to Alaska, if not further onto Greenland. Guha will pipe up with "Mexico" at least once (although neither one of us really wants to go to Mexico). I'll say "Ireland" at least once because I once heard (many years ago) that tickets were going for as cheap as $99 round-trip (and because a part of me would really like to visit some parts of Ireland). Then we'll say "why not go to Rome. Why not go to the Vatican and the Sistine Chapel. Why not go all around Europe and visit all the art museums ...gugga-wugga-mugga."
Vra-voom.
As you can guess - we end up going nowhere. We stay in Lafayette and potter around...and there aren't any excuses really. It's because we are just lazy Lazy-Bones.

This time around though both of us were determined to "just do it". Not once had Ireland popped out of my mouth. And not once had Guha said, "Brazil" or "Mexico". We both stoutly and stubbornly kept saying "Southern Indiana".
So Guha and I spent the better part of Saturday on google looking at places, prices, and dates to go over to Southern Indiana for a three day trip.
We've decided to postpone our Spring Break trip.
We're planning to go to Ireland in early August.
Did I say "Ireland"? Oops, sorry. I meant Arizona.

Lids and Cups

There aren't as many kinds of disposable cups. They are pretty much the same as in terms of basic looks. Some may of course be more colourful than the others. Some coffee-shops may have designs of snowmen, bells and snowflakes during Christmas time. Other places (like Jerry's) will always have the stark white cups with the black sleeves. Cold and hot items are served in different types of cups: plastic for all cold items. The hot ones are almost always served in paper cups, and sometimes in styrofoam cups (although Joe used to glare at me whenever I picked one up rather sheepishly, having forgotten my non-disposable cup at home...). The cups come in three sizes - sometimes two: 12 and 16 ounces. Unless you go to a gas-station where you get 32 ounce coffee cups. I think some places have 48 ounce cups as well (a "normal" sized cup carries between 6-8 ounces of liquid). All said and done while some cups may differ in aesthetics and in terms of sizes - they still have a basic design.

The lids are what change from one place to another, from one coffee-shop to another, from one gas-station to another, from one restaurant to another. The lid designs are all patented too. The lids remind me of faucets, although they are not quite as bad. With faucets - just as soon as you imagine that you've seen all the different types possible - you'll come across one where you're wondering whether you must say "Turn on sesame" for the water to magically pour out of the spout. Some faucets turn clock-wise. Others anti-clockwise. Some will turn on when you push in and upwards on the mouth of the faucet. Others will work when you tug on the mouth. Others require their heads to be tapped downwards or to be lifted upwards - much like levers. Yet others will refuse to serve you. Push, pull, twist inwards, twist outwards. Down. Up. Nothing. Repeated raps and taps. Nope. No water. Nothing. There you are staring at the tap, wondering whether you need to dance around it while singing and tapping your head or something. The tap just sits there. Stone-faced. Or steel-faced or maybe steel-schnozzled to be precise. It refuses to budge. You peer at the faucet. Wondering what else you can possibly tug or tap or push or prod or maybe do everything at the same time. Other folks going in and out of the rest-room cast awkward glances towards you, and you keep staring, glaring balefully at them and back at the tap or you pretend that you suddenly spy a turnip growing on top of your head, which needs attending to. Finally when you've given up all hope you thrust your hand right below the mouth of the faucet (but without really touching it), and water starts pouring out in pretty sprinkles, magically and merrily through some 'auto-sensor' mechanism. And these are just some instances. The curious thing is that lots of other people have told me the same...maybe not lots - at least some others have expressed similar sentiments regarding mysterious faucets.
About lids I have one funny story...but I'll err..put the lid on it for now.

P.S: I realised the other day that it took me a few minutes before I remembered that I never did call gas-stations "gas-stations". It took me even longer to remember what indeed I did call them. I kept thinking of "fueling stations" - which though not wrong, didn't sound right (for some reason I saw an image of the freezing Arctic as I said that in my head). I said "Pumping station" which didn't make any sense whatsoever. "Oil station" made me see horse-drawn carriages (don't ask me why). Finally, after what seemed a very long time I remembered "Petrol Pumps", but of course. And then I also remembered how Bean (a friend I'm completely out of touch after four nice months of knowing him) and I, some 6 years ago used to snigger at the mention of "filling gas" and "gas stations" and used to wonder out aloud why people couldn't just say "petrol" since that is what it was....
Sigh. What a memory I have....!
16th March, 2009

Gmail and pretty backgrounds

I wonder whether gmail is behaving the same way for everyone (what with the new updated background and all)? My gmail background, which had previously been a regular blue I think, seems to be changing prettily every other day with the changing weather in Lafayette. I hadn't really paid too much attention to it earlier but over the last four days I have been noticing: in pretty pastels, the background's shown me heavy showers, lightning forks (no pastels here but visually pleasing nonetheless), light showers, grey and dark grey clouds, and showers with a suspended sunniness just beyond. Today it's showing me dense clouds with no hint of sun...and that's pretty much what the window to the world right in front of me shows as well (but I think it's going to get sunny later on in the day). One day, some days ago, it showed me mountains - but I don't think many mountains or any mountain actually came to me, although I've been wanting to visit the mountains.
Short notes:
It's 1.42 in the afternoon now. And it has gotten sunny and bright outside as I had predicted...and the gmail background indeed does show me happy blue skies surrounding a patch of sun. I have no idea what's going on. Surely "they" can't be updating my background according to the changing weather in my town. But I really think that's what is going on.
On another note I read in the morn' that Brin and Page have lost $6.5 billion what with google share prices going down. How much money is that! They've lost a third of their wealth it seems. So it would seem that they still have approximately $9 billion a piece. Good heavens. And more than a double good heavens at their age. I think I keep forgetting on purpose that I am 'round about the same age as they are....
There have been school shootings again: this time in Germany by a 17 year old. Similar pattern. Shoots some 9 school children from his old school and some 6 others (and then blows up himself or so the police suspect, since his body was found some three hours later).
Ciao for the day, I guess.

Of Thoughts on nameless things

Different things and thoughts have led me to put up this post of mine. I should start off with a warning that some who read the following (if they get through till the end) may find it a not-a-very-happy-post. Some two weeks ago - two different people told me in their own ways within the space of 24 hours that I tend to bring out the worst in others every now and again. They weren't being mean, malicious or spiteful, and I know them a bit as human beings. They are honest and good human beings, if anything. If some other well-meaning individual had said the same - I would have either spat out a furious and spiteful retort or just guffawed but I take the words of some rare people very seriously, and I sensed the truth in the words. My tendency to be fearful or jittery or restive about some things is something that rubs off on some people and under some circumstances. There is nothing unusual about such an occurrence. Fear is a virus, and it is infectious even under normal circumstances. That's how fear sometimes creates a world of its own, and not an entirely pleasant world (some day I might be a little more specific about this).

So one sets up tests in order to tackle some crippling fears (which must be dealt with in order to lead at least a semi-normal life). One tests and some tests end up being damp squibs and others flare up for a bit but don't really deliver what one had imagined they would. Some tests go horribly wrong and one would indeed like to go back in time and fix things.
Writing on a blog....as far as I can see doesn't harm anyone. One orders one's thoughts, one doesn't brood when one is writing; one doesn't get into a tizzy and one doesn't hyperemote or hyperventilate. One simply writes. That's all there is to it. And who knows - one might even find out other ways and means to deal with the oddities and the realities and actually find some brightness every now and again through the experience or later. All said and done, even if it does nothing brilliantly constructive - I don't think it does any harm...so here 't goes.
*******************

One can but be thankful and grateful for certain things that life gives us and doesn't give us. I've never, quite obviously, quite understood how it works out. But then again - this post isn't about karma. And if some things transpired or didn't (depending upon what the "thing" is) I know - and I know very well that life doesn't simply just go on. I know the pundits will say "one must make the most of things", that one must face life boldly and bravely, that one must get over grief and sadness and get on with life. And these are fine sentiments, I know. I know that they are noble and courageous sentiments expressed by noble people, without doubt.

And I'm sure (and I have read that) some of those same people have gone through enormous heartbreak and heartache and terrible mishaps, which leave horrible hobnailed boot stamps on their lives, and every day. Some people lose their children or a child, some lose a spouse, some lose a parent, some a sibling, some a loved one. No matter how much pain I can imagine in my head - nothing, I know even marginally compares to what the bereaved go through. I'm quite sure too that death does not affect everyone equally - some people take it harder than others. How the ones who do, cope with such traumatic events also differs.
I have known people who belong to different categories.
I have also heard people saying that "death isn't the end of life" or "death is inevitable. The ones alive must pull themselves up by their bootstraps." - To be perfectly honest - I haven't heard anyone actually say those exact words...but one knows what I mean. Go and tell that to a child who has lost her parent. Go and tell that to a parent who has lost a child. Go and tell that to a wife who has lost her husband, go and tell that to anyone who has lost a loved one....for those who indeed are able to let their humanity live inspite of such loss - I am in awe of (and there are immediate names that come to my mind) - but those who are grief stricken beyond repair - I have never and will never be able to say "Get over it."

Some people don't get over death. They don't physically die. But something dies inside them, and some things just keep dying every day that they exist and survive. Maybe they become stronger in some senses that they are better able to face a world that is for the most part not a kind one, and full of mind numbing or mind screeching misery and suffering - and they become bitter and cynical and sharp people themselves. Possibly, (unless one indeed is blessed with infinite grace and some elements, which I don't even know how to describe) the more sensitive an individual is and the more intelligent - the more crabby s/he becomes.

Some people do. They do get over death. They get over the death of their loved ones - and I've always been amazed at how they manage, and they manage constructively. That is they are still able to reach out to others; they somehow manage not to become bitter, they do not become completely closed to human contact and/or human love and compassion. They also face life with joy. I have no idea how they do it. I'm leaving out the completely disgusting people out of the equation: those who never can love yet happen to lose a parent/spouse/child and keep throwing this bit of information out while in the company of people just to squeeze out some sympathy. Of course in some cases - death is welcome. If a loved one is going through serious health problems and is in pain, and the chances of recovery are remote, I would personally see to it that the person is put out of his/her misery. Yet in other instances: I have always been quite taken aback to see or hear about bereaved ones facing life with incredible resilience.

It's a similar amazement that I feel when I hear about people who overcome physical challenges to their own selves. There was a mountaineer who once got caught in the crevice of a mountain. He was alone. Nightfall was fast approaching. The winds were getting more intense. He managed to dislodge a boulder but his left arm was still stuck in between two rocks. All he could reach into was his pocket where he found his swiss-army knife. And he did what for him was the only thing he could do. This is a tale that Beth found in a magazine and got me to read. I never will forget it of course.
The mountaineer went back to mountain climbing after a period of time...

Some people lose people - and not through death. These are the deaths of once-upon-a-time cherished and priceless relationships, and no - things are not the same. One gets through sometimes - but many things here too die. I have never quite been able to understand people who say, "Oh, get over it."

There are yet other horrifying thoughts that never quite leave me in peace. They are just thoughts however - for me. They are, in the end, just thoughts. Yet they are real for those who live through them and bear with them. There is human cruelty. There seem to be no limits at all on this one.

In and out of my musings and dealings, I cannot but still say that there are some things that are absolutes for a life to simply be. I cannot get around this - no matter how much and how hard I try. And of course these absolutes differ from person to person. It is a very individual level thing. And one learns through some experiences what one can and/or cannot live with or without, and sometimes direct experience may not be entirely necessary. Of course I am using the word "live" - not exist, not survive. And what might be earth shattering for one - may not be for another.
And that life that is lived with some absolutes in place may not even be a great or a grand life - in the sense that that life may be of no good to anyone else. The life may not end up being that of Florence Nightingale or of Joan of Arc or of Madame Curie or of a Meerabai. Then why should those absolutes not be taken away? Why might fate not suddenly be fickle and say, "other people can do without this. I don't see why you should need this to be? If I take this away - it will build your character."
No, it won't. Some things, if they aren't there, will make me potty brained. Not a laughing matter. Not for me. Yet within this universe why should it matter whether I am blessed with some absolutes or that I am potty brained? Why might those elements not be taken away from me?

I don't know. And even though I know that fear is the most crippling emotion that I experience, the fear never can completely subside. And so I pray, and I pray very hard, and I wonder whether I'm praying hard enough or in the right way. I have never really learnt how to pray. I have learnt (and I don't know how or why) not to tempt fate though. I still end up making odd deals and sometimes odd deals have already been made, or so I say - and I hope God is listening.

I hope though that I can face my own death with equanimity. I am not as yet and most likely never will be prepared for the death of some, and I can only pray.

I guess this is an odd and not a very buoyant post but I have learnt that some thoughts - no matter how badly formed are better expressed than being bottled up - and I'm not forcing anyone to read what I write. An imploding and exploding pressure cooker scalds all those who are near and around.

Snow...Blossoms...Red, and Snow

The last really heavy snowfall we had for this winter was probably a month ago. It snowed the whole day long and by the evening there were more than 9 inches of snow. And it was still snowing. I was going out in the evening to return or renew (I didn't know what it was going to end up being) "some" library books (about 57 of them packed inside a red suitcase) and also to pick up Guha from his department where he was working. I walked outside. The fresh soft snow barely scrunched under my boots, and even though it was way past 9 in the evening there was that translucent blue-white haze - which always comes in with a dense snowfall, and is probably the light from the startling white snow - lighting up our whole deserted and desolate road. I got the common apartment broom from our porch to dust off the snow from "Blossoms" (originally Guha's sister's car, which was transferred to Guha and me: I christened her). I reckoned that I could do that first and then wheel the suitcase outside and stuff it into Blossoms.

I was standing there outside with the snowflakes still whirling and twirling all around, and quite merrily but silently I started brushing off the thick snow from Blossoms. It was a silent universe, and there I was quite engaged in my task at hand.

All of a sudden I spied a man walking down our road. He boomed out a "Hello there." I nodded tersely, and said a short "Hi." He let out a rumble of a laugh at no doubt my seemingly frantic attempts to brush off the snow from Blossoms' head. He was a hurly-burly Black man visiting the shady house opposite to our apartment (no doubt), and although I had no intentions of being rude, I didn't really want to strike up a conversation either (the reasons for which may be elaborated upon on some other day). He let out another rumbling laugh, and said, "Here, let me help you." At this point there were about nine feet separating him from me. I yelled out a cheery, "Oh, I'm perfectly fine. No problem here." But he kept walking towards me with his rumbling laugh intact and without a break, he said, "Let me do that for you."
The number of feet separating the two of us was decreasing at an alarming and an uncomfortable rate. I bellowed out a, "No thank you. I'm perfectly fine, and nearly done." But he wasn't paying any attention. He just kept coming closer. Finally I had enough. I stopped brushing off the snow from Blossoms' trunk. Feet apart, I faced Mr. Hurly-Burly with my white plastic broom (with its ridiculous multi-coloured green, white, and I think pink bristles) held out like a mighty (strange!) lance. He sort of paused, and I said quite calmly, "No, I don't need your help. I can do this myself." In my head I was saying, "You take two more steps mister, and I'll be charging into you with my broom." I think he finally got the point. He mumbled, "Okay then. I'll just go and meet John. I'm visiting John, who lives there." He said pointing to where John lives. Maybe he was trying to tell me that he wasn't some kind of a dodgy character since he knew my "neighbours". I said, "You go on ahead, and good night." He mumbled the same and walked off leaving me standing with my plastic broom. What I had intended to do with that broom whose head of bristles falls off every now and again I have no idea.

As I saw the Mr. Nice-Bloke walking away, I lowered the broom, swept Blossoms clean, and then trudged back inside to grab the bright red suitcase full of books. "Come on Red." I said cheerfully. "It's you and me now." Red slid along in a funny way along the new snow, sometimes protesting in his tracks because of a mound of snow-collect near his wheels. But he didn't protest too much, and finally both of us were standing near Blossoms. I kept an eye out just in case Mr. Friendly or one of his cronies were going to make another sudden appearance. But that didn't happen. I opened the back door and heaved and heaved, while trying to swing Red in. He tried too, poor thing. And I knew that it wasn't that I lacked the strength. Oh, no. It was just that I was so infernally short. And there in the middle of the falling snow and Blossoms' door, and while trying to throw Red into the backseat instead of wasting my time cursing, I told God that if He were planning to send me back to Earth ever again, He'd better make me tall the next time around. Red finally made it in. I somehow managed to heave him up, and gave one mighty lunge and Red went phat on the car-seat, and made himself comfortable. Red was panting and squeaking more than I was by the end of all our antics.

That done, I hopped into the front seat and drove away down over the river and into the campus in the midst of the sterling white swirl. I nearly lost traction once (the snow plower hadn't been through), and sort of skidded but recovered speedily enough (unlike Joe who once did a 180 degree turn and was caught facing the headlights of the approaching traffic - certainly not somewhere one wants to be...).

I picked up Guha from his building and drove to the library. This time he lifted Red out with one little swing, and I took Red in, who this time, was squealing along merrily in the snow. I didn't have to return the books. I could renew them for which I was thankful. I got into the car after Guha yet again swung Red in with a little whoosh, and popped back into his seat. The two of us had a smoke, chattered away some, and I told him about my bizarre little incident among other things - but most of all we just kept staring and staring silently at the wondrous snowflakes filling up the bit of the world we happened to be in.
The drive back home was "uneventful" and enchanting.
Snow kept coming down in gentle bursts all night long. The next day morning, everything was still covered in the soft, powdery, cold whiteness.

Time Machines and Flying Machines

Had another conversation with Pupu today.(For those who don't know: Pupu turned 12 in December).

She would like to have a time machine. If she did - she'd travel back into one point of time in the recent past....but more importantly she would like to roam around during Akbar's reign - talk with the non-royalty as well (to get an understanding of how things were from the other side of the fence). Roam around some more. Admire some of the monuments and temples and much-famed architecture. Make sure that Nadir Shah had not stolen the Peacock Throne and make damn well sure that the British hadn't run away with the Kohinoor. She would have stopped the two World Wars and made sure that Hitler hadn't risen to power. She'd also like to travel around in Europe during the time of the renaissance. She finds that time period in history completely enthralling - from what she's read and from the stories that she's heard from her daddy.
She was contemplating on the benefits of having an invisibility cloak as well...but given one choice she had no doubts: a time machine is what she wanted and needed - to mend some things in the immediate past and to prevent some catastrophes in the distant past, which didn't preclude having a jolly good time otherwise....
She asked me what I would have liked. I knew for sure that I wouldn't really like a time machine. I wouldn't mind one...but I wouldn't know how to fix or mend anything in my life or anyone else's (I'd probably have wreaked even greater havoc inspite of all my intentions), and as for going back in history - I can't think of whether I would have or could have really changed even one thing for the better. I probably wouldn't mind traveling back in time as some form of amusement – but a Time Machine is not something that I really need....although sometimes the idea is somewhat tempting.
The first thing that came to my head was a magic carpet.

Pupu however didn't seem to think that a magic carpet was a good enough gig. What good would that do? If I wanted to go somewhere that badly, surely I could just go there instead of desiring a magic carpet? Yes and no, I grunted. I even tried enticing her with the magic carpet idea.
"I could send it over and you could come and visit and we could go over to Prophet's Town".
She snorted and replied, “If you make me travel over the Atlantic on a magic carpet, I'll get daddy to go over and tweak your ears.”
Ouch.
That's when I said that the magic carpet would mean one could travel instantaneously. For with a magic carpet, I explained, all travel would be instantaneous. As soon as you wanted to go somewhere, you could be there while "flying" for an infinitesimal second on the carpet.
Pupu was not convinced. That would take all the fun out of traveling!
But sometimes the destination is more interesting than the time spent on traveling, I argued. The only time Pupu was even remotely interested in the flying carpet was when she asked me if she could go back in time with it. I replied in the negative. No, it's only for travel through space not through time. She was rather disappointed with my choice.

I didn't think it was an out of this world choice (although a very practical one) - so I said, Oh, oh wait. I know. I'd like to be like The Pretender. I gave her a brief overview of The Pretender, who can be anything he wants to be and be a bloody genius while he's being what he wants to be – which includes being a hot-shot physicist one day to a brilliant neurosurgeon another day to a geneticist to a mountain climber to a detective to a phenomenal artist (painter) some other day to even being a marvelous and somewhat naughty con-artist.....So he could choose to do anything. He could do whatever he chose to do with flair, finesse, and flamboyance. I forgot to tell Pupu this last bit - but in between he was keeping at bay the members of the murderous organization who were after his life.
Yes. I had it. I wanted to be the female version of The Pretender (make tonnes of money while being an absolute genius at anything and everything while shooting the evil ones who wanted to kill me off). It couldn't get much better than that.
But Pupu wasn't having any of that. No, no Shilpidi – you can have only one wish. You can't make multiple wishes in one go.
So that Pretender-choice went phut.
Oh, okay Pupu – then I stick with the magic carpet. (It really would be of tremendous practical benefit at this point in time - I can't get beyond this feeling although I wonder whether anyone else would want to use it...).
Time Machine for me, she said....without any doubts.
And then we went off to talk about other things...

About Books, muffins and basic honesty

There are a couple of things that Guha and I are always amazed about while walking around on the streets and while we potter around in book shops:

1. How incredibly clean the surroundings are (people tell me that it's very different in inner city neighborhoods, and while driving through some towns on the outskirts of Chicago - quite by accident, I wouldn't disagree) – nonetheless that doesn't take away from the great majority of surroundings, and not just posh, high class localities, that are clean and neat and incredibly well-kept.

2. How incredibly honest people are.
There seems to be a basic base-line level honesty and integrity amongst people in this country, which is unthinkable (as horribly disgusting and pathetic that happens to be) in India. Not to say that people don't steal or shoplift or that there aren't any instances of burglary or looting but that still in no way takes away from the base-line honesty that exists at an individual level in this country.
Bookshops here will often have neat stacks of books outside the shop-doors (no doubt to attract any potential passer-by who doesn't have any intentions of venturing inside the store). These books are normally ones that are on sale. People will browse through them, put them back from where they got it; if any book catches their fancy, they go in and buy it. I've never seen anyone running off with three books without paying for them. Never seen a huge van stopping right in front with a couple of hooded louts leaping out and throwing the boxes of books into the back of the van and then whizzing off. Haven't noticed any shifty eyed teenagers, stuffing some books into their trousers, giggling and snorting, and running off without paying. (Some things I have heard about and some odd things I have seen - but that's for another day).
Of course not. Then the system would fail to work.

Libraries are yet another amazing place. Both the university libraries as well as the public libraries. Now with certain rule changes - graduate students can take out books and keep them for as long as they are using them. The only thing they need to do is to renew the books every three months. And then of course one can take out as many books as one wants to, and one can roam around the stacks and pick out anything that looks or sounds interesting. I remember the first time that I went to one of the school libraries. I went to the counter and very softly and politely enquired, “How many books may I check out?” The lady behind the counter said with a smile, “As many as you can carry out, dear.” And of course I packed my bag full. I couldn't believe my luck. What if they changed the rules the very next day....!

In the school libraries: students and faculty check out the books on their own with a scanner. The only thing (and obviously I have thought about this a fair bit) that is there to prevent anyone from stealing a book is the barcode. That is all. Or so it seems. Rip out the barcode and walk away with the book, and nobody would be any wiser. But it almost never happens. I can't say it never does - because I don't know whether anyone has ever stolen a book from the library - but I do know that if people were stealing books with any regularity, then the system would not be able to sustain itself.

And obviously it's not just that little barcode, which prevents people from filching books.

Once, some years ago I had chanced upon this lovely book of poems. I seem to have forgotten the exact title – but I think it was called “Songs for Krishna”. This book had not been taken out of the library for ages. The last time it had been borrowed was in the 70s. I know this. For the book did not have a barcode. It had the library card tucked away in a slot on the back flap. I examined it, checked it, and was reading through some of the poems (many were by Meerabai), and I thought of taking the book and never bringing it back. Nobody would know. It wasn't even filed under the current system. Nobody even knew that the book actually existed anymore in the library, by the looks of it. It was a forgotten book lying on a library shelf, and I knew that I would read and re-read it many times more than it had been read in all the years that it had been there...

Another place where I've noticed basic honesty is in the school cafeteria (and other eating joints - especially coffee-shops and the like). In the school cafeteria - most main course meal items are served by the folks behind the counter. Yet one does have the option of picking up salads, fruit cups, desserts, bread, muffins, donuts, and bags of chips and the like, and then paying for them at the counter. Now the glass shelf where the muffins are kept, is miles away from where one pays, and I remember one year when I was rather hungry an awful lot (but certainly not starving or anything like that), I had seriously considered the possibility of pilfering a muffin. And not just once but on plenty of occasions. That whole “muffin-madness” had the usefulness of demonstrating some useful concepts when I was teaching social psychology and even the introductory classes a couple of years back...it never failed to make the students grin or guffaw or chuckle either.
Some weeks ago when Guha, Namrata, and I were sitting in the school cafeteria, we were talking about how polite and honest people are about using the condiments (which are “free”: jam, jellies, butter, milk for coffee, and about twenty different sauces and spreads and salad dressings). Namrata half-joked, “If this were back home, there would be a security guard monitoring the use of the tartar sauce, and he'd probably be paid less than it costs to buy a bottle of the same.”

I am reminded of some things:
How hordes of students from Presidency used to steal books every year from the Calcutta book fair. Far from being ashamed or embarrassed – they would boast about their exploits.
How a student once cut out pages from an expensive encyclopaedia in the National Library, and the news was carried in The Telegraph.
How terribly intrusive and heavy-handed the library system happens to be in India.
I could put ten other points that I am reminded of – but I intend to keep this post short.
About cleanliness, I'll write in another post.
....and it does make me wonder though. Why on earth are some folks so lazy about returning shopping-carts to their proper places! But about this oddity and others – some other day.