A Breakthrough

It happens. It does. Sometimes you stare long enough at something and something else begins to emerge. And no, it is not holistic, or contextual, or big picture, or any of those cliched, banal, horridly unimaginative senses of the world. Not figure and ground. Not front and back. Not yin and yang. (Lord save us from antonyms)

So what exactly is this sense of the world? At the risk of being similarly unimaginative, I might contend that it is a sense of parallel time and space. One which can comprehend at the least, an affective or bodily sense of simultaneity. That is, one that doesn't ask why is this red and that blue but knows that these are different schemes of color, comprehended by a unique biological visual mechanism, mediated by language and judged by a value system configured by cultural codes of beauty and apprehension. And all of this at the same time.

A breakthrough. A minor one.

Go on, ask me

And just because I have had a song floating in my head all morning, this is what I would say....

How are you?
Haal Chaal Theek Thaak Hai,
Sab Kuchh Theek Thaak Hai,
Kaam Nahin Hai Varna Yahaan
Aap Ki Dua se Sab Theek Thaak Ha

What have you been doing today?
Main Zindagi Ka Saath Nibhata Chala Gaya
Har Fikr Ko Dhuen Mein Udata Chala Gaya

Any applications come through?
Kiska Rasta Dekhe Aye Dil Aye Saudaai
Meelon Hai Khamoshi Barson Hai Tanhaee

How are you going to deal with this bleak job market?
Nafrat karne waalon ke seene mein pyaar bhar doon
Main woh parwana hoon, pathar ko maum kar doon

Day ended well?
Kahin Door Jab Din Dhal Jaye
Sanjh Ki Dulhan Badan Churaye
Chupke Se Aaye
Mere Khayaalon Ke Aangan Mein
Koi Sapnon Ke Deep Jalaaye

Want to take a break and catch some dinner?
Nahin nahin, abhi nahin, abhi karo intezaar

Got to go; catch you later then?
Abhi na jao chod kar ke dil abhi bhara nahi

I am writing now. In this time. In this space. In this body.

I wish I could tell you how much that means to me. To inhabit this moment in all its modes.

I am supine on a blue couch, the light is behind me; yellow light. My glass of wine rests on a red coffee table and the light falls softly on a sienna rug. Tango music in the background. The weather is lightly chilly.

I am reading. And I will now write.

I wish you could hear the music and feel the light. It's warm in here.




argentine tango music songs
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More?


argentine tango music songs
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My life has no clarity which is why I have no stories to tell. The frames are now all slightly awry and we are thick into the messy process of imposing structure, albeit temporary, albeit arbitrary. Which is why I have no stories to tell.

Instead, I will throw at you random bits of information and song, in no specific order of meaning or intent.

A. How to dress like an intellectual

-- Whimsy, whimsy and more whimsy. Whatever you do, dress carefully so as not to match.
-- Oversized/ Quirky glasses
-- A scarf is quite essential
-- Shop at thrift stores
-- Watch your footwear (for women and for men)
-- Carefully tousled, never perfect hair; the whiter, the nicer
-- Moleskine notebook where you scrawl notes most meaningless
-- Anachronism (shoulder pads, boleros*, Bata Quo Vadis**)

When all else fails, copy these and these (and yes, it's true, we can't afford them, but gape and get by)

* are those in fashion now?
** Thank you Vidie


B. Today I have gotten through the day on:

1 no. stupid song



P.S Can you spot Zubisco? When I was ten, I wanted to be named Zubisco.

1 no. most meaningful song



1 no. Item song (Fabulous fabulous movie)



Speaking of sound and voice and all the good stuff, Lotte Hoek was in Austin this afternoon and did a talk on the Bangladeshi film industry; most fun.

C. I would like to play Word Twist; ping me here or on facebook if you are game. I must warn you; I'm fairly good at it. Am awful at Scrabble, so I will refuse all invitations to play.

Quiz Time

Life, I have realized, is full of things we want to know. Many questions, if you will. Also doubts, queries, puzzles. Maybe conundrums and predicaments. All of them need answers. And for reasons of either time, wisdom or plain impossibility, not all of them are answered or solved when we want them to be. Even worse, they are often answered but not in the ways we want. In all cases, dissastisfaction is more often than not, guaranteed.

Sometimes it helps to realize the joy of asking and avoid postponing pleasure to the point of resolution.

Another ploy I have recently developed is to break my questions down into chota, medium and bada (Much like bada bhai, medium bhai and chota bhai of Kaizad Gustad's doomed 'Boom' fame)

Here are some samples:

Big or Bada: These are questions that everybody from the Buddha to Rakhi Sawant ponder at some point of time in their lives. They have no answers in recognizable linguistic form, are often only the symptoms of other disheartening answers and are questions we seek recourse to when philosophy is our only refuge. Or alcohol. Or moonshine.

(a) What is the meaning of life?
(b) What is our duty to the world?
(c) Am I real?
(d) Is there a higher power?
(e) Is everything transitory?
--
Medium or medium: These are questions that plague me regularly. (They are also questions that I can afford given the basic food and shelter security I enjoy; class position, education and all the sociological jazz). They bother me, inspire hate in the business of living without knowing, and make me stay in bed an extra two hours once every twenty days.

(a) Is this the work that I am supposed to be doing?
(b) What would be a good place to live?
(c) Is it good to lead a bourgeois life?
(d) Will I ever be able to handle suburbia?
(e) How will I deal with growing old?
--
Little or Chota: These are the questions I love the most. They niggle, nag, plead, cajole, beg and in totality, keep me interested in living this daily trudge and joy we call life. They are the nuts and bolts, the icing and the marzipan rose, and the only ways to stay attached to this life mine. They are about things that enter and leave my body and the sheer, heady, physicality of it. These, I can touch and they most certainly demand and receive answers. Super quickly too.

(a) Do I want rotis or rice for dinner?
(d) Did I lock the door or not? Did I turn off the gas?
(c) Can you see the pimple at the corner of my cheek?
(d) Will the cat in the cafe come and sit on my lap?
(e) Can I hold my yawn until the speaker has finished answering my question? (Yes, he is looking straight at me)

What are your questions?

Rigor Mortis -- A story in many parts

Part III
(Go here for Part I and Part II)

She was also a naturally quiet child. She rarely cried, perhaps whimpered every once in a while. Her eyes would well and hold the tears in for many minutes until Sandhya noticed. Sandhya would then rush to feed her or check her nappy or hold her until she returned to her pose of quiet, wide-eyed contemplation. Sandhya loved her child and yet, marvelled at this little being that had sprung from her in such seething pain. Sometimes, mother and child would gaze at each other many minutes in the same wide-eyed stance.

One night, when she was two, she broke her silent spells with a slightly louder whimper than usual. Sandhya and Arun, both at the dining table, looked up surprised. Soon, she began sobbing, then crying, then wailing. The not-so-new parents checked her temperature, held her up to smell for sudden excrement, tried to feed her, failing all of which they resorted to the usual rocking and error. She didn't calm down for the next two hours. Exhaustion finally caught up, and she slept only to wake up the next morning with the same saucer-eyed calm. The night seemed to have been a dream.

Sandhya knew however. She knew that the baby hadn't cried for no reason. Shravana had visited the previous afternoon. And Shravana was bad news all over. She had come into the house, reeking of resentment and ire. She had poured out her woes and let her anger seep into the many cups of tea that Sandhya poured her. She had yelled under her breath at her husband, her job, her maid and the world. She had derided the government, lamented the roads and dismissed the possibility of any life outside of complaint. And then she had left. Sandhya jumped into the shower right after, trying very hard to peel off the layer of anxiety that she had left behind. She had scrubbed herself hard and rubbed two layers of soap into her peeling skin. She had found herself a bright yellow skirt and a white shirt, brushed her hair out until it shone and creamed herself to smell of tea rose and vanilla instead of the world in ruin. Incense let out smoke trails and the sounds of classical piano greeted Arun as he returned from work. The living room was allowed new doilies and the bedroom new pillow covers. Arun knew better than to question Sandhya's cleaning fits though. He showered and they sat down to dinner at which point Maya began wailing.

The anxiety hadn't left Sandhya. And it must have crept into her milk, she thought. And the baby.