Memories outside of me...

People coming to my house for the first time, have often called it a museum. 

They walk around for a while in that small space trying absorb the individual elements. It is not a disorganized mess. No, but it does have an abundance of stimuli - sights, sounds, colors, images. It is strange to many - the amount of stuff that is present in such small quarters without being an absolute clutter. 

My dad considers it a sign of wasteful accumulation, consumerist gluttony and a materialistic lifestyle. 

I think of it as storing memories outside of me. 

I have saved a lot of my experiences in the form of tickets, pamphlets, pictures, brochures, and books. I hold onto materialistic memorabilia simply because I learnt soon enough that I couldn't trust myself to remember it all. 

These tiny fragments of my experiences: that pamphlet from the play; the pine-cone from the hike; the figurine from that trip; the snow-globe from another; the photograph from elsewhere - they all seem to serve as keys to the wonderful days, hours or moments that I have had. They help me recall my memories more faithfully and accurately than I could ever do on my own. Strange as it may seem, they are the gatekeepers to my memories of my experiences. They are the keys that help me unlock my memories as they slowly get buried behind the dusty-cobwebs of time. 

I walk into my one room, studio-esque, home and I don't find it cluttered or overwhelming. I see the home in pieces, perhaps. Things catch my attention every now and then, sporadically and in elements. A book here. A pamphlet there. A photograph somewhere. These are things that are associated with specific memories. And under moments of duress, when the chips are down, my eyes wander and lock onto one of these. 

I drift for a few moments, dust off the memory and relive it briefly. 

I experience the very same sense of awe, joy, beauty, thrill or gratitude as I had months or years ago and I am ready to step out of my microscopic view of the problem at hand. 

Through the past, I learn to step back and out, and gain a better perspective on my present. The good times, calm my nerves and restrain my anxiety. With the memory, I also recall the wonderful people associated with my life - in one way or another - and I gain that valuable outside perspective during a crisis. 

My home is perhaps a museum but everything here is a part of my story. Everything here holds a story within it. Stories, that I don't always talk about, but they are stories that prop me up, when the tide is against me. Stories of friends and family, stories of adventure, of dreams getting fulfilled and of life in all its glory. 

In some sense my home and perhaps of anyone else too, is more revealing than I could consciously ever be. 

My home may be a museum to some but to me - it is a constant reminder of the best of me. It is a reminder of the glorious potential of life when the present is overwhelming. It is that perfect amalgam when the best of my past and future come together and help me to cope with the present. 

Hands we are dealt...

As a child growing up, I was never much of a card player. There were perhaps a couple of odd years in between when I used them as minor distractions with my brother playing games as unremarkable as, "who got the bigger card?." Yes, that mundane. 

In fact, I was one of the few kids who was more fascinated by the designs on the back of the card than the numbers, hearts, diamonds and clubs on the front. 

Increasingly, though, I can sense regret and remorse at not having spent enough time playing serious games with them. 

After all, all of life now feels like a game of cards. 

Sometimes even a house of cards. Delicately balanced, carefully executed, teetering on the brink of possibilities - ready to sway with every opportunity to either find a new balance or to come crashing down only to begin afresh. 

People seem to be bluffing with that bonafide poker face as I seem to unravel trying to read between their lines. 

I am not so deft with chance or luck and have grown up with the idea of working hard and biding my time. 

I did not learn through these childhood games, the art of playing with the cards you are dealt. I entered the world a little ill prepared I feel. 

Because, in reality that's what we are all trying to do - make the best of a given hand to try and get that elusive win. To deal with unknowns and to doubt the knowns. To read faces and to read between lines. To be prepared to win big or lose big. To be prepared to just accept and move on. 

Instead growing up in a world of books, words and colors, I became a dreamer, an idealist and a reformer. In wanting to make a difference, in trying to change the world and doing the right thing, in waiting for the right opportunity, in being transparent and straightforward - I learnt to hope and dream - against all odds, if I might add.  

But life is not like that. There is pressure and sometimes the stakes are high. People lie, deceive and cheat - all with that unmoving poker face. The cards are dealt at random and you can't always walk away from the table. You can wait for a while but how long will you stay out of the game. At some point, you have to start playing the cards you are dealt to make the best you can. 

Ever so often, this question haunts me nowadays. How long will I wait patiently and stay safe? Is it better to stay in the game and lose big or is it better to wait for your time? 

In life too, there may be a perfect set of cards but its not going to come your way ever so easily. One has to get in, get dirty and play the game or choose to sit out and stare at life passing by.

I wish I had played more - just to be able to gamble a bit. Just to be able to get rid of that fear of uncertainty. To be able to accept the hand dealt to me and not wait any longer. To be able to read people, their words and their eyes.

I wish I had played more if only to not tremble with fear and trepidation with every sway of the house of cards. 

How much longer....

There are many things we yearn for as children but in most cases, the years make us wiser and strip away our childish fondness for them. 

But a few of childhood fantasies remain as points in that 'list of things to do someday' - a list that we hold onto in that secret compartment of our life, waiting, hoping for a better future. A day when we will be ready to take on more responsibilities, to move beyond the pressing concerns of our own existence and to try something new. A day when we will have a plan and a backup ready. We hold onto that list because the rational part of us tells us we are not yet there. Not yet ready to take additional responsibility. Not yet ready to spread wider, lest we spread ourselves too thin. 

And so they remain - these childhood fascinations, that grow on us and return in occasional pangs of yearning and envy. 

Having a pet, or more specifically - a dog of my own has been one such fascination for me. As a child, we (me and my accomplice in crime, my brother) tried every excuse in the book to get ourselves one but our tricks never really worked and my parents always had a good excuse in my asthmatic lungs. 

Today, decades later, I still want one; but I hold myself back. I wait for a better time - a time when I would have more time to take on additional responsibility. A time when I would have more stability and more clarity. A time when I would be able to give more time, more space and more of me to that dream.

But then I meet her and that childhood yearning returns - ever more powerfully like the hunger pang that has been denied for long. I love walking with her, sometimes unaware of who is leading whom. I love her whining,  as she runs from one window to another when she bids me goodbye. I love her paws and her muzzle as she gently nudges me into patting her. I love how as a 14 month old, she ran scared from the ocean but was soon trying to intimidate the wild waves  into submission, attempting to save her master and friend from the menacing ocean. My heart goes out to her when she scours the grounds frantically looking for us - her friends, running from one end to the other, relentlessly. Who is lost, I wonder! We or her...? I love her when she majestically stands by the car's window with the blustery wind racing her by. I love her silliness when she bumps her head trying to reach out to me in the moving car only to be patted. 

The world does look a lot different when you are look at it from her height. 

People seem taller, buildings seem gigantic and things are moving so much faster. And yet, she fights for us, holds on tight to us - unable to let go. She might forget me in a month or perhaps in a year, if I am lucky. We have, after all, met only a handful of times.  But what she shares with her 'master' is something else altogether. Its a bond unlike any other. In one moment she is the child who likes to be appreciated and cooed to. At another, she is the adult scouring through the crowds looking for her lost charge. At one time, she is the defenseless puppy being intimidated by the other dogs as she runs to your protective fold. At another, though, she follows you into the scary ocean, fearlessly, because she wants to protect you. 

She might forget me in a month or perhaps in a year, if I am lucky. We have, after all, met only a handful of times. But in those few days, she has become a part of me - a part of my dreams, a part of my future - like nothing else. I don't know if I have clarity about much else in my future but I do know, that one day, it will have a dog - as silly and intelligent as her, as loving and lovable as her. The question is - how much longer should-could-or-would I wait? 

PS - Having a giant teddy, a canvas to paint on and a garden are the other childhood fantasies of mine still buried on that crumpled sheet of paper.... they are all waiting for another day and another time. 

The question is: how much longer? 

IF

IF

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

- Kipling

A broken world...

Sometimes the world appears broken but the problem is in your glasses. So check your glasses before you complain...

The glass menagerie

“Memory takes a lot of poetic licence. It omits some details; others are exaggerated, according to the emotional value of the articles it touches, for memory is seated predominantly in the heart. The interior is therefore rather dim and poetic.” ― Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie 

“Being disappointed is one thing and being discouraged is something else. I am disappointed but I am not discouraged.” ― Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie 

“People go to the movies instead of moving. Hollywood characters are supposed to have all the adventures for everybody in America, while everybody in America sits in a dark room and watches them have them.” ― Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie 

“But here there was only hot swing music and liquor, dance halls, ban, and movies, and sex that hung in the gloom like a chandelier and flooded the world with brief, deceptive rainbows.” ― Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie 

“People are not so dreadful when you know them. That's what you have to remember! And everybody has problems, not just you, but practically everybody has got some problems. You think of yourself as having the only problems, as being the only one who is disappointed. But just look around you and you will see lots of people as disappointed as you are.” ― Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie 

“People go to the movies instead of moving.” ― Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie 

“The cities swept about me like dead leaves, leaves that were brightly colored but torn away from the branches. I would have stopped, but I was pursued by something. It always came upon me unawares, taking me altogether by surprise. Perhaps it was a familiar bit of music. Perhaps it was only a piece of transparent glass.” ― Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie 

“You are the only young man that I know of who ignores the fact that the future becomes the present, the present the past, and the past turns into everlasting regret if you don't plan for it.” ― Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie 

Memory takes a lot of poetic license. It omits some details; others are exaggerated, according to the emotional value of the articles it touches, for memory is seated predominantly in the heart.” ― Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie 

“Yes, I have tricks in my pocket, I have things up my sleeve. But I am the opposite of a stage magician. He gives you illusion that has the appearance of truth. I give you truth in the pleasant disguise of illusion.” ― Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie 

“Time is the longest distance between two places.” ― Tennessee Williams, The Glass Menagerie

Samsara - a personal journey around the world...

I have always acknowledged the power of visual imagery.
And despite my preparedness for it, I am overwhelmed and pretty much reduced to melancholy as I watch these hauntingly beautiful snapshots - shot over a period of 4 years - from 25 countries around the world.

That is Samsara for you!
Art through visual snapshots that transports you to some of the most spectacular places on earth within a span of ninety minutes. And yet, it is not a travelogue or documentary or even a story. It makes you find the words for the story even as it compels you to make the story. 

Samsara is only what you make out of it - left to your own means. Some could just appreciate the cinematography and camera angles while some others could be struck down by a sense of despair, gloom and hopelessness - as one stands witness to humanity gnawing through its very own foundations. As much as I hate to use the word, Samsara to me, IS a spiritual journey. It is a personal journey even though it traces the past, present and perhaps the future of the rest of humanity. 

As I sat in a darkened room, watching these images streaming by, accompanied by nothing but hauntingly appropriate music in the background, my only thought was - "Imagine if some aliens from another galaxy or if our future generations, after an apocalypse like event, were to watch this to try and understand the world as it exists today:
What would they think? That we drove ourself to extinction and that we were a weird and extremely social herd of men and women who couldn't/wouldn't/didn't think!!!"

That is what Samsara is. A brutally honest and yet spell-bindingly beautiful portrait of us, as a people, a race and a community. It is us, as we exist, today, in at least 25 countries around the world. 

Samsara is art - not because of the stunning images shot on 75 mm film - that makes it rather special too; but Samsara is art because it doesn't tell you what to think. It floods you with these diverse images and leaves you to make sense of it. I left disappointed and disillusioned by everything I saw. Maybe you will not.  Maybe you will manage to see the human ability to survive and thrive despite the odds. Or maybe you will be consumed by a sense of despair stronger than mine. Nonetheless, it is a journey I will strongly recommend.

There are images that you see and then there are stories that you build 

Stories of: (Spoiler alert!!!)

Regimented battalions of hundreds of thousands of men, working like machines repeating the same task over and over, and over - until the world's end - only to get their two square meals. 

Imagine an army of perfectly sculpted, identical looking, pretty but unthinking women - trying to fit the stereotypes of the world. 

Imagine ghost cities and towns - abandoned, destroyed by natural disasters with names of their own. Disasters that left behind nothing but a haunting presence of all that was and could have been. 

A world where tiny, multi-storyed, one room shanties are built with corrugated tin pieces glued together and tied by ropes - threatening to collapse at a moments notice - all in the shadow of giant, multi-storey, apartment complexes that are furnished with swimming pools, gardens and other amenities. 

A world where animals are bred only to be consumed by the select few who can afford. Where life is dismembered, packaged and sold faster than it can be grown. Where life is sometimes just food. 

Where history from hundreds of years stands witness to the atrocities of the present. Where nature unleashes its fury every now and then but human will always strives to overcome it. 

When men are united by the name of an unseen god and by a book of prayers than by the plight of a fellow human. Where men and women, live in fear - trained and ready to fight/kill at a moments' notice.  A world where borders are made in stone and sand and yet they are strong enough to separate people of the same kind.

A world where body art continues to make statements - of power, culture, and individuality - in the oldest of tribes to the youngest of civilizations. 

Where creation with meticulous labour and exquisite attention to detail is only the first step towards destruction - a symbolic, cyclical ritual that we, as a race, seem to initiate everywhere. 

A world whose lungs are fast being choked with the overwhelming amounts of garbage generated everyday. A world which looks gloriously beautiful and hideously ugly - both at the same time - through the eyes of the unspeaking, unflinching camera. 

A world where the cities buzz through the day and are glittering by the night; in hues of red, orange and gold - looking quite vulgar and expensive.

Single stories...

Men are bad with multi-tasking. Women are bad with directions. Girls are more responsible. Boys are slow learners. Indians are bad with punctuality. Trees are good for the environment. Meat is good for health. Japanese are hard-working. Americans are... Germans are... Italians are... French are...  The list goes on. And on.

We live with these stereotypes everyday.

Stereotypes - the broad sweeping generalizations that we make and refer to every single day. Generalizations, that minimize the effort involved in making a choice every time we face a familiar situation. Generalizations, that make a quick and easy lesson for us to pass on. Generalizations, that err on the side of caution in their sweeping declarations, encompassing all things remotely similar with a small footnote for the minor exceptions.

We see the world through these tinted glasses. Some of these stereotypes are what we effortlessly imbibe from others' experiences and some others are based on our own little forays into the world.

And as Chimamanda Adichie elegantly says in her talk on the danger of a single story, "The problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. "

Stereotypes, to me are the perfect example of an anachronistic asset - a key to evolutionary success that is fast becoming a handicap, a liability and a source of conflict. Stereotypes underlie our innate ability to learn, to extrapolate from our lessons, to transmit them to others and in the process flattening the learning curve of a society as a whole. This is a great evolutionary asset. To be able to learn from isolated experiences, to be able to spot patterns and to be able to form generalizations of pleasure or pain is a vital asset - a key to survival. It would have saved lives of our ancestors and aided in the transmission of their gene pool.

But today, this very asset traps us in the world of single stories. Of stereotypes and generalizations. We extrapolate based on the tiniest slivers of information. We search for patterns where there are none. We find out a few things and we assume the rest - all in our quest to arrive at the simple generalization. A stereotype.

Stereotypes are universal - to the extent that we don't even realize when we resorting to them up till the point, when we are at the receiving end.

Listening to a talk (A TED Talk) by Adichie recently brought all these thoughts and more to the fore. Here is a transcript of the talk - on the danger of a single story.

But for a trait as inherent and instinctive as this, there is no avoidance. We need to battle it out, make conscious choices to detect it and avoid it. All we can do is to consciously make a choice to not form that first impression. To then not generalize that first impression. To consciously weed out cursory value assignments even as we form those first impressions. To be aware of how we are thinking and why we are making certain choices. It requires the benefit of second-sight and of hind-sight to overcome the bias of the first. It requires reading the second story, the third and the fourth, after the first; before arriving at a conclusion.
It is a lot more work certainly, but it brings us closer to the truth as it exists and farther away from the truth as we know it.

Words of wisdom...

After a while(You learn)

After a while you learn the subtle difference
between holding a hand and chaining a soul
And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning
and company doesn't mean security.
And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts
and presents aren't promises
And you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and your eyes ahead
with the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child
And you learn to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn that even sunshine burns
if you get too much.

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure
that you really are strong
and that you really do have worth
And you learn and you learn
with every goodbye you learn...

- Veronica A. Shoffstall

If you want to walk fast, walk alone. If you want to walk far, walk together. - African proverb Begin challenging your own assumptions. Your assumptions are your windows on the world. Scrub them off every once in awhile, or the light won't come in.

- Alan Alda 

 There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in. 
- Leonard Cohen 

Bubble-wrap...

Bubble-wrap. Fairly transparent, unseemingly sturdy and exquisitely protective. So simple and yet so desirable. The world would be a broken place without it.
It cloaks and shields in a way that your most delicate belongings can breathe and still survive a tough ride.

How very magical...

So much so that on some days, that is all I want. Some bubble-wrap.

To wrap myself and stay away from all that is wrong in the world and all that can go wrong - because as Murphy says, what can go wrong, will go wrong.

There are days when I want the world outside to be muffled because the voices in my head are loud enough. When I want to be sealed into a safe place without being suffocated.
There are days, when I want something as reliable as bubble-wrap just so I can tread out a little and come back to safety it if things get too rough. Having that sanctuary within my reach made me a little more daring, a little more adventurous - to take that extra step and to walk that extra mile. Because I knew there was a safe place within my grasp.

There was a time when my relationships would do just that. Bubble wrap me - giving me the time and space to heal, to recuperate. They were but a phone call away. Today, they feel far - separated by time and space, the folds that cocooned me seem to have become bigger, more open. Time and space have taken us farther apart, a little each day. Not too far but far enough for me miss that tight niche. To miss those embraces that would hush me to sleep on a bad day. To miss those gentle folds that would give me my space and yet shield me from the worst of world.

There are days when that's all I want - my bubble-wrap.

Life lessons..

We wade into some relationships, unsure and ready to bolt.
We walk into some others, thinking all will be well.

Some glide us through, like on a gentle feather.
Some fling us about, like a raging tornado.
Some carry us away, like an ocean's powerful sway.
Some guide us through turbulence, becoming our own little parachute.
Some keep us grounded and secure, like the roots of an age-old banyan.
Some leave us scarred, like the old burn mark, that stings a little even after the years.
Some hold our hands and wait for us to lead.
Some lead us out of darkness, like the moonlight on a dark night.
Some stand by our side, and some fester in our hide.


We wade into some relationships, unsure and ready to bolt.
We walk into some others, thinking all will be well.

Life is all about the sum of these relationships and the lessons we learn from them.

Slow down...

Running has always symbolized everything desirable in the world for me - freedom, effort, reward, stamina, endurance, solitude and perhaps most importantly, free-spiritedness. Running with the wind-in-my hair brought me closer to myself and strangely to the world around me. The steady rhythm of my pulsing heart and the rhythmic footfalls would often take me to a place of peace and rest - far from the turmoil of the world. 

It was the one thing that I have always wanted to do - even when I couldn't actually do it. When my breaths were clouded by puffs of asthalin or when my lungs hated the very air they breathed refusing to cooperate - running was all I wanted to do. Not swimming, not tennis, not pilates - just running. Years of steroids, anti-histamines and inhalers later, I can run today! Perhaps not a marathon yet, but I am a lot better than where I started out from a couple of years ago - gasping and wheezing my way to the kilometer mark.

Over the years, even as this simple act of putting one foot ahead of another at a steady clip has morphed my body, it has also constantly moulded my mind. In fact, I am probably still trying to learn my most important lesson - to slow down.

A simple five letter word - speed, has stood for all that is good and desirable for so long. Speed, to me, always correlated with efficiency and was always desirable and subject to improvement. Despite the childhood stories of the hare and the tortoise, I only learnt to blame the over-confidence and lack of consistency of the hare, not its speed. 

But that was the understanding of youth - where faster meant better. 

Today, I know the virtues of being slow and steady and I also know that I have always tried to run faster than I should. Both on the road and in life - making speed my biggest handicap. 

My biggest weakness.

The one thing that would restrict me to shorter distances and hold me back with longer recoveries. 

I had always pushed myself too hard. I was the survivor who was trained to pick the difficult option at every intersection, because 'life is never easy'. I was the one who pushed myself in every way imaginable, chasing dreams, passions and goals - so much so that life felt like a long, interminable marathon, where I was breathless for a large part of the way. 

In my eagerness to finish, I would run faster and harder - only to tire myself sooner and further. It was a vicious cycle where the only solution was to learn to slow down. 

Today, after months of conscious effort, I have slowed myself on the road - a little but not enough. I run longer and easier. 

But the same skill needs to be applied in everyday life as well. Sadly, life doesn't come with easy mile-markers and stop-watches. One has to learn to pace oneself, to know how much one can and must endure. 

Each day, as I slip on my running shoes and head out in the evenings, I try and remind myself to slow down and to enjoy the happiness for as long as I can - to not go chasing the end. Even as my feet hurtle down the familiar terrain, I will myself to slow down because there is a long road ahead. 

This is a reminder for the rest of my life too - to slow down and to not rush into things; because sometimes the journey is more important than the destination and there is a long, winding road ahead. 

History...

There is something about history that is always just out of your grasp - all pervasive and still elusive.

My journey began in a country that was steeped in history.
History that dated back to several millennia. A history of migration, invasion, war, disease, annihilation, colonization, liberation and modernization.
It is a country with so much history that it lies unseen, uncared for, and unheard; by the streetside - like a homeless traveling through time, our heritage lay neglected. Allowed to disintegrate at a steady pace.

Where I grew up, history was omnipresent and unavoidable - lining the streets, dotting the towns and villages. Hundreds of years were summarized in passing. A few sentences were all they would merit because there was so much time to be covered.

History had dug its roots so deep here, that we wanted to break free.

Some of us would run from this very history to embrace other cultures and civilizations.
Some others would feel the weight of these age old customs, traditions, rituals and cultures binding them, tethering them to the dark and irrelevant mistakes of the past. Their wings were clipped and weighed down by the past.

Some others considered history to be the dead weight that was preventing the country from rising to its true potential - a kind of baggage that must be shed before we were drowned by its weight. For some others, it was an albatross around their neck - a reminder of all that went wrong and can go wrong in the times to come.
And yet, for some, there was glory in this view of the past. Lessons to be learnt from these labor pains; from the innocence of infancy to the adolescent rebellion and finally to the crisis of growth and maturation in the mid-life civilization.

No one was completely right or wrong.

History is a double edged sword.

India, has a heritage dating back more than 7 millennia and in this long window of time - a lot has happened. From the birth of civilization as we know it to the discovery of science and technology - there have been many great things that have come out of this great land. But, these achievements are also tainted. They bear the burden of the caste system, of oppression, retarded social structures, discrimination against women and religious intolerance.

Waves of migration, invasion and trade brought many different cultures to our doorstep making this country an eclectic melting pot. Its identity has changed and evolved with the times and people could find an identity convenient to them depending on how far back in time they went.
An identity that was once strong, self-assured and open, is today tipping over, crumbling under its own weight. What was once whole, strong and pliable, is being forced to be rigid, definite and precise today. And in the process, it has become a shackle to be broken. An image to be destroyed. A myth to be debunked.

And as I struggled with my own share of this burden of history and heritage, my journeys brought me to a country where history is revered, is sought after.

Simply because it is non-existent. Unlike India, where centuries were the currency of time, here, time is measured in years. The roots of these modern day cities extend only a few decades in time.
And so, the people here search for their roots. They treasure their old letters and photographs, the books and the names, the homes and the churches - whatever little they could find, was their anchor to their past. These few things are their connection to their history, to their past and to their ancestors. Their glorious present searches for an anchor, something to call its own - a rich, glorious past. They go looking for that lost time. They are not dwarfed or burdened by their history or its mistakes. Somehow, a successful present seems to atone for a lot of the past.

And still, there are other countries where the past is a burden to bear. A mistake to learn from. A mistake never to repeat. Not just for its own people, but for humanity itself. And so they run from their past even as they try to accept it.

And so, despite being its constant, unchanging, unwavering entity, history remains elusive and amorphous - subject to interpretation.
Sometimes it is the yoke that leashes you while at others it is the anchor that you seek. Sometimes, it is a burden to lose and at others, it is the foundation that you seek.

Hope...

I have often favored the harsher reality of life over the vague uncertainty of hope. Somehow knowing the truth and being prepared for it seemed better than the optimistic hope that keeps you unhinged from reality.

But today, when hope is actually dashed, and reality has made itself clear - somehow, I prefer that sense of hope - however tempestuous and elusive it may have seemed. It was enough to let me get through to the next day. It was enough to let me sleep and wake up.

It held a possibility, however small. Undaunted by probabilities or statistics, It held a possibility. It was enough to keep me calm in the face of the storm.

Hope is the thing with feathers 
Emily Dickinson 

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

I hope I learn to value that little bird and its song without words. Because sometimes, you are just not ready for that storm. Sometimes, even that glimmer of hope, however remote, however uncertain, is sufficient to keep you together. 

Remember that - will you? The next time you want to curse hope for leaving you vulnerable, uncertain and confused. 

No such thing in the world as the right decision...

Sometimes one stumbles onto pearls of wisdom in the most unlikeliest of places.

This was one such unlikely source I had never heard of, until yesterday of course. This is a song from a band that called itself "Jesus Jones"...    :)

The Right Decision... 

When they say ignorance is bliss
It makes it sound too good to miss
How about that?
And the problem with success is you become what you detest
How about that?

So who to believe and who do you trust
Well, it might as well be you
'Cos it seem that no-one else has got a clue

Get it wrong get it right
You can try as hard as you like
But there's no such thing in the world as the right decision
(Compromise and confusion steal us away)

Now it's okay for you to smoke
Just as long as it's not dope
How about that?
Two wrongs don't make a right
But there's a Gulf where they just might
How about that?

Suspended by trust
Reserved my belief
And did all I could do
In the hope that I might pick up any clues

Get it wrong get it right
You can try as hard as you like
But there's no such thing in the world as the right decision 
Compromise and confusion steal us away

When to serve and protect
Means we may just break your neck
How about that?
For every question why
There's an answer on the sly
That few will look in the eye

Get it wrong get it right
You can try as hard as you like
But there's no such thing in the world as the right decision
(Compromise and confusion steal us away)

Random thoughts....

The past few days have been stranger than usual. I have been teetering at the edge of loss, exhaustion and hopelessness but something has carried me through it all - a little bruised and wounded but still together. 

My days have been filled with random thoughts - mostly while walking or running - trying to get some air in and some anxiety out. 

I walk by the park and see a tiny two year old walking on the park's fence while clutching onto her dad. It reminds me of learning to ride a bike. Of constantly looking back to check if someone was behind me or not. To make sure that someone stayed with me even as I tried to break free - to speed away. With that tingling sense of panic, excitement and the fear of not making it. And yet, before panic grips me as the shadow behind me recedes into the distance - I feel the wind in my hair and I know I am on my way. I have fallen soon after, lost control, and gotten bruised, just when I thought I had found my wings. But for those few moments, I knew I had made it. I had done it once and I could do it again. And again. 

I was a bird ready to fly away from my nest, eager to fly, but I was still missing the nest. I still looked for that shadow. For that someone to be there, no matter what. To just be there and be mine. 

I walk by the rolling hills of the lush-green golf course on my way to the beach. With slippers on my feet and earphones in my ear, I walk. Uncaring and unsure. I see the luxurious green carpet of the golf course, dotted with specks of white spheres. My eyes try and find a pattern to make sense of it. But, there is no pattern - nothing to explain it all. Nothing but randomness. The white specks were the balls at the end of their journey. A journey directed by the sun and the wind, by the power of the stroke, by the strength and choice of the clubs, by the roll of the land, and by a whole lot else. There was no simple way to predict or to explain the chain of events that brought them there. They were at the end of journeys that were almost entirely beyond their control. I just had to walk on. 

I normally walk into an empty room with quiet solitude but walk into a crowd feeling lonely. But today was different. I was happy even on the streets because I acknowledged the crowd of strangers and realized that I owe nothing to them. Not the politeness of a smile or the courtesy of a pleasantry or the pleasure of a conversation. I was alone in a crowd of strangers and for once it was liberating to know that I did not care for them and that my existence did not matter to them. That at some level, I could be just who I am - unaffected by who I should be - because none of them were of any consequence to me, and neither I to them. To know that one's actions and decisions cannot break someone's heart or spirit and cannot hurt someone who is loved is liberating. It is liberating to know how little one means to some people because then there is no responsibility to be shouldered. There are no problems to be solved, no sentences to be structured and no decisions to be made. It is just you in a sea of loneliness. On some days, it is liberating to be surrounded by a sea of strangers. 

Sound-scapes of the mind...

This is a song that literally sent a chill down my spine the first time I heard it through a friend. It continues to stay with me after all these days and seems to be able to draw me from the heights of ecstasy or from the depths of anguish to bring me to a state of peace and quiet... It is certainly helping me keep my balance right now...

Be it the sounds of the violin or the music itself, this song has been playing over and over in my head for a long time now... I thought it was time it found its spot here as well. 

The passionate embrace...

In a room full of people, they stood in deep embrace.
Passionately held in each other's arms, they swayed to a rhythm and as they did, they were creating music.
Music, that was heart-breakingly beautiful and rapturous. Music that was making me go weak in the knees and sending chills down my spine.

They stood there in a crowd, cloaked with an intimacy that made me feel like an intruder. Their passion and oblivion from the rest of the world made me long for the same.
To lose oneself in trying to discover oneself anew.

They swayed with each other, neck to neck and hand in hand. They were aware of no one but themselves. They rose and fell, moved and stopped, laughed and smiled - all in perfect synchrony. They were two people with a single heart beat, a single life line. I could almost feel a pulse of electricity coursing through them both - joining them with an invisible bond. They swayed and twirled, they lurched and rolled, they cavorted and pranced - all in perfect unison as I stood there feeling nothing but awe and envy. Their eyes twinkled as they danced with joyous abandon.
They smiled to each other when they hit the perfect chord. They nodded, they whispered, they mumbled and they smiled through it all. They were two people in one passionate embrace. And they created music that had a life of its own.

For that one hour, I couldn't tell where one began and the other ended.
For that one hour, the man and his violin were creating magic and I felt lucky to have been there.

Even as my love affair with the notes of a violin continues for more than a decade now; today, I felt inspired into becoming more actively involved than just being a passive bystander. To stop waiting for that magical day when everything will fall in place but to find something now! To find something to do for the pure joy of it...
To find something to lose myself in...
And hopefully rediscover myself in the process..

Battling homogeneity...

The world is shrinking and there is no denying that.

But the world is also becoming more homogeneous and averse to differences. People are becoming the same the world over and we are becoming less and less able to talk of differences. Differences of gender, race, culture are nationality are being trivialized and even being ignored. Even talking of them seems to make one a racist or a chauvinist these days. No! I am not espousing the millions of racist or chauvinist people living all around us. I am not saying that people should be discriminated against one way or another. No!

But this post is meant for the rest of the world. The world that is so determined to be impartial, fair and politically correct - that they deny the very existence of differences. Differences between races, people, genders and social strata. 

This is a theme that has been recurrent in my thoughts, ever since a popular science writer once told us in class that when writing about women scientists one must avoid reference to their gender and simply focus on their work. But even today - almost two years since then - when I read of the Finkbeiner rule that is espoused by many science writers, I can't help but disagree. I am not saying that writers should focus on merely the gender and judge people or their work in that one dimension.

No!

But I do think, we should learn to write the whole story without any prejudice and at the same time give due respect to the person, his/her origins, character, gender and his/her story. After all, it is these things that make us who we are. Every individual is a sum of these and many other parts and these factors play a role in shaping our thought processes and formulating our decisions. Then why should we deny these differences? 

People are different.
Just because we are flooded with genomic scale data that tells us that we are 99% similar to chimps, we should not develop this perception that all men and women are similar. No. In fact, science today is grappling with the understanding of how the diversity is generated.
People are different.
Caucasians, Asians, Africans - we are all different - genetically, culturally, socially. And these are important differences. People's attitudes, priorities, choices, interests and thought processes are a summation of these and many other factors.
They are different in obvious ways - in ways that are imprinted in our genes. And these differences don't mean inferiority or superiority.
But then, instead of accepting and respecting these differences, I find it strange that the world is promoting homogenization of the world and its people. And by limiting the perception of an individual to any one dimension - we only limit our understanding of them.

I do not advocate trivializing a woman scientist to just a woman. Certainly not!
But at the same time, the "woman" part of that "woman-scientist" is not excess baggage. It tells you a lot about the journey and the story.
Women today are caught in this time-warp of sorts where they have been unable to completely break away from their traditional roles and at the same time they have successfully taken on newer roles at home and in the society. In many ways they have moved a lot faster and the rest of the world just couldn't keep up with them.

The challenges that people face in the world, because of their race, gender or background should not be brushed under the carpet. Coming from a developing country. Coming without any training in english. Being a woman. Being a man. Having a family. These are all factors that affect you and there is no reason to emphasize one versus the other.
What is needed however, is to develop an attitude in the people where such details are taken for what they are, in a non-prejudicial, perhaps even an inspirational way. What is needed is not the nullification of individuality but the open acceptance of individuality and the differences that come with it! We need to make people embrace differences again - without innately associating any value with them!!

Equality does not come from homogeneity.

It comes from appreciating the differences and from learning to value them. After  all, the best things in life are like the rainbow and they arise from the differences built into them.

Soul restoration...

There are some truths that come easily to you. The tragedy is that they are also lost easily in the daily madness of life. 

One of them is that - "Walking is good for the soul." 

Did anyone ever tell you that? Do you remember it often enough? 

I often lose track of this wonderful, inexpensive, easy past-time in the midst of that thing - rightly called the 'daily grind', because, it does leave you a little less and a little broken. Working 12 and 13 hours shifts staring at the computer screen or running between instruments is not likely to be refreshing especially with deadlines right around the corner. And they do take a toll. 

Finally, even when I decided to take a day off and abandon the world for a day - I expected a lot but that didn't do much. It sure left me feeling better physically, but it did nothing to restore the mind. The world seemed to spin faster and faster with each passing day as the hours kept shrinking and the work kept increasing - or so it seemed. 

But a walk with the wind in my face was all that was needed to make the world seem a better place. Sipping on the hot coffee with the words of PGW talking of "Jeeves' oddly shaped head" were immensely helpful but nothing is more restorative to the soul than the walk. 

The walk and the gentle wind during the wind poke these tiny holes into the cocoon that surrounds you with each passing day and somehow the heaviness that builds up with the days just falls through - gradually - seeping through the holes, like the sand slips through from that hole in the pocket that you never knew existed. And the mind feels quieter, clearer, still-er and ready to think and look beyond the obvious. A walk does that to me - each and every time without fail. It is almost as if the monotony of the task, frees up the mind to look beyond. It is almost as if your moving at a slower pace, slows the world down too. Walking, to me, is restoring the soul - just one step at a time. 

And so, Irrespective of everything else he ever said, I know Nietzsche had gotten something right when he said that “All truly great thoughts are conceived while walking.”

The circle of life...

Sometimes, its a very short road from being strangers to being acquaintances and then to become friends. Some people just fit - they talk in a way that one understands, without having to make an effort.

I have met a lot of people over the past two years but in this strange land, very few of them have left a mark. Very few of them have stayed on with me. Some of them are the people at work. Some people - I meet every day as they go about their chores and despite having seen them for months on end - our conversations would begin and end with the daily greetings. But then there were others like Ernie, who within a week of meeting him for the first time, had asked me all about my life and what a girl like me was doing single.

Ernie. :) He was big and black, punctual and talkative. But more than that he was big hearted - I could tell from the way he gave me a giant hug in the corridors when I saw him after long. That was almost two years ago because then suddenly, I just didn't see him anymore. I searched for that booming voice of his for months after that - but then I slowly resigned my hopes. I wish he had told me when he was leaving. I wish I knew where he is now, or more importantly, how he is now. Because, given a free reign, the mind only seems to conjure the worst possibilities in the realm of infinite.

And then there was Coffee... Coffee the man, not just the drink, which I can never say no to. He was from Georgia - my first southern acquaintance really.
He was a man of the kitchen - and not just because of the name - but because he was a chef. We met while I walked to the mailbox one evening to collect my mail and somehow ended up talking of life and people and the mistakes we all make. Unlike most friendships that begin on common ground, this one began from a disagreement. I disagreed with him and said so (and now I can't even remember what the whole thing was all about) but Coffee saw my point and respected that. It was a strange relationship - meeting every now and then in the parking lot on my way home only to talk of his family, wine and food. It was the first few months of my stay here and I was still trying to find my way from loneliness to solitude but when Coffee cooked a delicious meal for me in his kitchen - I was touched beyond words. And even as I debated and procrastinated having him over for a spicy Indian meal - he had gone. Gone - without a parting word but leaving behind that bottle of wine. It was the wine that I used in my first risotto. The wine, whose bottle still stands on my kitchen counter, as I hope to meet Coffee one day, and to thank him for his generosity.

And now there is Bob. As I park the car and head to the lab each morning, I search for that tall, slightly slumped, grey haired, grey-eyed figure walking around the parking lot in his blue jacket. We chat for a couple of minutes and talk of old age, memories, families, loans and life's ugly truths. He reminisces about his life as a soldier and I listen to the stories trying to find small pieces of his story, that I put together in my head.

Some times, I think these relationships mean nothing to them, but at others, I know that I care for these people and maybe they care a little too. And so when Bob says that seeing my smiling face in the morning makes his day - it makes my day better. Not just because no one has said that to me in a long time but because I am glad to make a difference to someone's life.
Because, it is nice to know that you are making a difference in the lives of some people, like someone else once did for you. I am happy to know that in that circle of life, I am doing more than just taking solace from the likes of Ernie and Coffee - that sometimes, I spread some joy too.

Stop for a day...

It has been a long time since I've even considered writing something here.
Not that life wasn't eventful - because I ended up meeting and traveling with friends after a really long time. Life was good with the holidays, the break, the meeting people, the travel and the likes.
Not that I wasn't writing - because my life was filled with words - words for work, leisure, learning and then some work... :)
I admit that time was never in plenty but then there was never even an urge to write. Somehow, my mind was too busy running and chasing its own tail... too busy to think, to slow down, to sit down and search for some different words. Words others than stem cells, therapy, brain, neurons, mouse models and the likes.
But then, after a long time, I slept well and dreamed of finding words again. Words that were lost in my race against time to do more things than I can. Words that I had hidden behind or hidden from. Words that urged me to sit down, contemplate and think.
As I look back at the past few months, all I see is the frantic flapping to try and fit in as many things as I can into my 24 hour schedule, to do as much as I can, to learn as much as I can and suddenly, I see myself reduced to a list of projects and to-do lists. Sometimes, there is so much going on that I lose track of how much is done and how much needs to be done; how much I have gained and how much I have lost.
And then yesterday, I had to stop. I let myself be tired and over whelmed and let the day fly by me. After all, the running was only warping my perspective. It took a good book and a brilliant narration of it to somehow make me find my old self - the quiet self who would smile and cry with a narrative, who would only need a book and a coffee to lose herself. It took me a whole day to rise above the concerns of experiments, tickets, deadlines and bookings and to see life for what it was and what it can be - bigger than the sum of it all.
Every now and then, one must stop and do nothing - because it is then that the mind finds its own voice which is otherwise drowning in that bustle of activity, that never-ending anxiety and that frantic attempt at doing everything.