Monday, August 27, 2012


Cross posting from here:

I dreadfully envy people who are complacent, you know. Because only when there is a want, a desire, a passion, that is where restlessness springs up like a Jack rushing out from the box and yelling 'surprise!!' into your ear. I wish I could be freed of this restlessness and be accepting of what life tells me to take. I envy people who go down without a fight and hug to themselves all that the days of their lives rations out to them. In a way, I feel, I would be freed of most miseries if I didn't fight every rule, every diktat, every new surprise and learned to accept my 'lot'.

But then, I imagine that would be a "normal" boring life. And I like the line 'normal is boring' a tad too much to settle for anything less.

Sunday, August 26, 2012

On Writing, Again

I re-wrote again, one of the more tiresome of the writing process. But it was still writing, putting together my thoughts into words. The headache I suspect to be a migraine, suspect, for I don’t know what they are supposed to feel like, still lurks. The light from the laptop screen is blinding. But I am writing this and more. When I know how cathartic writing has always been for me, why do I ever stop? Stupid, stupid me.
I want to quote whole paragraphs from Letters to a Young Poet, a collection of Rainer Maria Rilke’s letters to a young boy who wrote to him seeking advice. I want to quote the whole book for how much sense it makes to me now, at this stage where I am. I told someone that it could be amongst the books that changed my life, perhaps it will be the book that does.

Go within. Search for the cause, find the impetus that bids you write. …Can you avow that you would die if you were forbidden to write? Above all, in the most silent hour of your night, ask yourself this: Must I write? …And if it should ring its assent, if you can confidently meet this serious question with a simple, “I must,” then build your life upon it.
I must.

I Did Not Want to Write This Post

I did not want to write this post.

A few years ago, I had this blinding headache one evening, the kind that, thankfully, I haven't had since. It made me cry and moan and ma had to sit next to me the whole night. Like my insomnia phases these days, that headache came and went without warning. Having the folks hovering around helped; sometimes you just want to be the child and be taken care of. That is not a weakness, you know.

I did not want to write this post. Over an hour ago, I switched off the lights and slipped into bed. A terrible headache has been nagging me all evening, naps didn't help, thoughts of various kinds didn't do any good either. I want ma, I miss her tonight, desperately. Funny how human beings have this notion of missing people, mostly during the oddest times. I would rather have been any other species.

So with the headache and the general blah feeling, I felt I had to sleep it off. I squint from the dull ache behind my eyes, hated having to open the laptop, yet I couldn't win the fight against opening this file and typing this out.

Where am I these days? I wish I had an easy answer. Between the morning and the groan when I fall into bed at night, the hours seem to be merging into the days and into the weeks and months. I wish I could say I had something to show for the year that is passing by.

(Bear with me, this will turn out to be a disjointed post, I get the feeling.)

Every second day, I have the urge to write on these pages but it makes me anxious too. I have had near strangers walk up to me and say that they follow my blog, apart from the known friends and some family who tell me they read what I rant. It is scary. While I always knew there was a readership here, it only recently sunk in that people actually read what I write. And they remember. They remember things I have forgotten I wrote. As a writer, I know it is supposed to make me happy but...well, it feels like a huge responsibility. I unconsciously want to monitor what I write, though my posts have never revealed much about the people in my life, beyond the basics.

This self-censorship, to me, goes against the very reason I have stuck onto this blog for so long. This was meant to be the one place no one, I reiterate, no one could tell me what to write and how to write, my place for experiments and thoughts and rants. Yet, nearly every other line here has supposedly been messages, taunts, hints to people. I have laughed those accusations off. But in the light of recent developments, in terms of a search and new found changes in my thoughts (dare I call it maturity?), I want to know how I could reconcile the two.

I deactivated my Facebook account a few weeks ago. In previous months, every time I thought of doing so, I would know that I couldn't do it, there were things to keep track of. I don't now remember what the trigger was, but one day I closed it, without warning. And I haven't missed it for even a minute since. Some called me to ask why I did that, for some it was an act of rebellion, apparently, some still ask me when I will be back, most didn't notice, I am sure. I am not sure if I will ever be fully back again. I don't have to explain why. Mostly because I don't know myself. Perhaps it is a vain attempt at keeping to myself, perhaps I am a little tired of the frivolous excesses that FB insists you subscribe to. It doesn't matter.

Come to think of it, what does matter? My writing here? My thoughts, opinions? This isn't any legacy I leave, that would be too pompous of me to say so.

A few weeks ago, I made this speech to someone about how there must be trust in any relationship. This person, very wisely, now that I think of it, said something to me that I will always remember. That trust is in some sense political, a prison of sorts. I can't explain it here like the way this person meant it and I understood it. Post the discussion, we settled on honesty being the best thing. You like something, say so, don't like something, say so, that sort of honesty. It isn't too easy, bound that you are by political correctness and etiquette and the rest of its ilk. Yet you strive, you live and you grow, you learn.

I have been learning, these past few months. Much, about myself, about people. Not much of it is pretty when you decide to be honest with yourself too. But I am calling it an expedition and like with all open roads, I am living the experiences. Perhaps that is why there have been long silences here, because I have been moving faster than I can keep pace with.

Is that good? I am not sure. I don't know what these new ideas, ideals, thoughts will do to me. But honestly, I want to try giving it a chance. I have not felt this creative in a very, very long time. My mind is constantly abuzz with words and ideas and sentences that I think are great. And for that one sole reason, everything else would be worth it. Growing up and learning is doing wonders to my art. That is my excuse.
As when I am in the grip of ranting and my thoughts are tripping over each other, this post doesn't adhere to norms of cohesive construction of paragraphs. Yet, in my mind, there is a connection here. Let me suffice to say that I am living and learning and writing again. I am back in business, baby!

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Rain in Tormented Cities

In what language does rain fall over tormented cities?

I will take rain, even if it messes up my new red shoes and runs over my freshly washed hair and straightens my curls. I will take the grim on the streets, stench from the drain, the crawling cars into the night.

I will take all of that because when there is lightning, the hills of Madikeri lit up in my stories and the fat rain drops on concrete roofs wash away the weariness from my soul. I will sleep well tonight in memory of those rainy months in the hills. Yes, I will take rain today.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

A Long Line on Identity

I questioned myself this weekend. Are we who we think we are? Not existential or identity crisis thinking, this. I began to wonder what makes us, us. Is it what we think we are or is it our actions? Am I what I perceive myself to be, even if my actions may contradict those perceptions? Or am I what my actions make me, even if they go against what my definition of self says? I am not what people perceive me as, not that I have ever cared for external validation to my existence. But this weekend has made me wonder, am I my perception or am I my actions? I think I want to know the answer. But if I were to dust off some dormant instincts, I am thinking they would point at the latter.

Which is good. At least my art would evolve, or so I want to think. And that would be a good price to meet the consequences with.