-- The Storm, Edvard Munch (Norwegian, 1863-1944)

Try To Praise The Mutilated World

Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the grey feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.

-- Adam Zagajewski; translated by Renata Gorczynski

Rigor Mortis -- A story in many parts

Part V
(Go here for Parts I, II, III and IV)

Sandhya came home shell-shocked. Not that there wasn't an easy explanation. She knew that children sensed things faster than adults. That Maya must have sensed Ranjeeta's mood. That she must have caught her staring into the distance frequently. Or seen her eyes glaze. She must have wondered about Ranjeeta's vacant smile. Any one of those gestures that adults dismiss as moodiness or inconsistency or a plain lack of sociality. Maya must have known better.

But nothing explained the violence of her reactions. Or her willingness to transfer Ranjeeta's pain onto her fragile body. And involuntarily at that. Nothing explained her sensate body. For Sandhya who had learnt to separate mind from body, Maya's inability to watch out for herself was scary. She feared for her child.

After that however, Maya returned to her quiet self.

At six, she was an unusually precocious six year old. When she spoke, she did so in complete sentences. Many days, she did not speak at all. She nodded when asked if she was hungry and shook her head when Arun wondered aloud if she had done her homework. Sandhya wasn't sure if she had a rich inner life or just an unflappable countenance.

Arun and Maya shared a unique relationship though. He would come home from work and sit next to her at the dining table. She would not talk. He would. One by one, he would narrate the inner workings of his day. The desk he sat at, the people he met, the students who dropped into his office, the flowers blooming outside the university. And Maya listened to him and beamed for the half hour that her father let her into his life. For otherwise, Arun was a self-contained man. To his daughter and to his wife.

After a long time, reading is invoking in me, what is my only form of primeval joy. Beauty, joy, wide-eyed glee. I am galloping through some wonderful articles. It is too late at night and morning will come shortly so I cannot say everything about them that I want to. However, this much I will share. I am glad. I have increasingly begun to fear that I will bore myself to death; but now I know that there are other ways to write than mine.

(P.S Here is an abstract for one: "The Egg Men", Burkhard Bilger, New Yorker, Sept 5, 2005, pp.110; apologies for the teaser. But here's the other full article: Little Wing)

On a completely unrelated aside, when I am a diva-esque academic, I want to dress like Annalisa Cranell.

Ignore the part below; this is for me.

Keywords: Habits, Bombay-Pune trains, routines of work, searching for order, Stern's gardens, egg men and addicts and workaholics and adrenalin junkies, safety, order, America and strangeness, a stranger in a strange land, comforting objects, objects making us human -- Danny Miller, beautiful objects and homes, signature designs on the bedside table, imagined audiences.

In my rapidly aging mind, I have turned immobile. I have internalized the rules and have begun to take them seriously. The journey so far should tell me that the rules are all wrong. That there are a few good things one can do and that is really about it. So in an effort to sanity, let me write mine down. And forget the rest.

(a) Be good to people -- give as much as you can
(b) Speak softly and listen harder
(c) It is not worth it to be angry and resentful; really
(d) Reach deep inside for stability; this is all one gets
(e) Work hard, it really helps
(f) People you love, matter

Tell me your six?

(P.S My horoscope today quotes Ben Okri ""Beware of the stories you read or tell; subtly, at night, beneath the waters of consciousness, they are altering your world." )

In the manner of an acceptance speech

I give you....

"Ahem, well, actually, you know, I don't know, I love my fourth standard English teacher and...thank you?"

I mean, what do I do? I always thought awards and speeches were a little plebeian..until I received one, of course.

I am a little short of words today, but I must thank miapan who was kind enough to make my week by giving me this.



Thank you miapan. It's difficult for me to appreciate your gesture without slipping into cliche. But it does mean a lot to me that you would care to come by ever so often. Very grateful.

And now for some much in excess sentimentality. This blog is an old friend. It takes everything I have to say with nary a complaint. I am not maudlin enough to anthromorphize it (yet! a few beers and we can do that too), so I'd rather talk to all you visitors who peep in and are generous enough to comment or remark or just simply, take it in. You remind me that connections can exist, albeit in the most dissipated form, held together by just a word. I am rapidly losing faith in the ability of the pen, of words bandied in such insousiance that they might as well have not been said. After all, in a world as strange as this, what is a word? And yet :)....so thank you.

The rules demand that I pass this on. So ye five, go do something nice with this.

(1) Random Harvest: Gouri is a published author, cook, dabbler extraordinaire and purveyor of all things Puneri. Guaranteed to make you think/ laugh/ chuckle/ quiet down.
(2) Mexiroccan: My fellow graduate student, fieldwork, mixed-up connoisseur of all things worth my while. They will be worth yours too. Blogs about Mexico, identity, life, school, dogs.
(3) Mentalie is quite simply, quite mad. Candid, quirky, observant and obsessive. This is my regular fix.
(4) Rambling nothingnesses: Anna mol blogs about movies, people, thoughts, life and just simply the everyday. Every once in three posts, something she says will make you stop in your tracks.
(5) And lastly, because I doubt he will pass this on since he doesn't blog no more, In Between Lives: Magnificently funny, a little wicked, and always clad in complete and elegant sentences.

And for the necessary fine print:

- Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving blogger/ friends/ both.

- Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author & the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.

- Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to This Post, which explains The Award.

- Each Blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit this post and add his/her name to Mr. Linky List.

- Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.

Alright, am done, say no more.

A little secret from long ago

I played with a pug today and wished that life were simpler. To give it due credit, it never claimed to be.