acceptance

So, there remains possibly minimal chance that I should ever get to do something revolutionary, seminal, or remotely significant in the field of literature, such that I might ever have the faintest chance at a manifest destiny - to replay my imagination live in front of 500 people, at least, all those who had received the experimental Nobel/XXXX committee invitation: elegantly embroidered with silver, a white colored card, to attend the event where black tie or evening gown is compulsory dress code. Such a place, time and event, when intuitively you wouldn't consider your khakis or spaghetti tops.
But now that I am embarking the idea of going to Law school, over these carefully woven childish fancies are sprouting wings of flight. I am speckled at the horizon, over-brooding for a future that shall perhaps never come to pass but which I had lived so well, so many times, in a hope filled past.
I indulge myself here. I shall write down my perpetually revising speech, which I will only get to say it once in public: Now. To you.
So shake your booty, and be completely unsolemn and inappropriate. and do me a happy dance. you can wear a hat with a tinker bell, and a wobbly, motley costume. heehaw


"I would be lying if I said that this is unexpected and I am speechless. I have been practicing this speech in my toilet and living this moment since when I was perhaps 10 years old, dreaming what I will say on stage the day I accept the [Nobel/ Pulitzer/ Bookers/ Man Booker/ XXXX] prize. Only today, this moment seems a dream: yet another rehearsal in my toilet. And with all of you sitting here, this could easily be my most embarrassing moment. [laughter and giggle expected].
I cannot get away without thanking a few people.
My mom, I am sure this is her doing. It is because of her constant prayers and utmost confidence that only the best things can happen to me, even during times when nothing went right, that god finally had to give in.
My father, who has made everything possible in my life. Whatever, Whoever, and wherever I am today, it is because of him.
My brother, who has been the constant source of inspiration and motivation, even if he has looked very engaged with video games and x-box. But he had known always to tell me exactly what I needed to hear, when I needed to hear it most.
My aunt, who filled every gap, and every void, and made everyday a little more bearable and a little less cynical. I might have shaved my head had she not been around.
My friend Inam. If it was not for him, poetry would have been missing in my life.
And finally, my husband. The one I love best."

[Applause. A standing ovation wouldn't hurt :P ]



I had a sudden revelation. Perhaps the only reason why I dreamed about receiving this recognition was to be able to acknowledge the presence of some people in my life, who made the difference.

aah well, now I can happily leave the stage.

a haircut

I got myself a horrid haircut. And usually when I am this angry I tear out my hair to express overwhelming frustration. But not this time. Go figure!

This brings to mind a funny incident from the old days. My family used to be friends with this other family, wherein the lady of the house, M, was not always very ladylike. And I adored her for that. She had the power to become a foil of Batman, she could instill fear in your heart- instantly! If she wanted to have you pee in your pants, she would just go ahead and do the needful to bring about that effect. If she wanted to steal all your clothes, and leave you naked on the middle of a highway, and wanted to make you believe that what she did to you was actually a good thing and really a favor, then she would and could do that. She could effortlessly be the dragon queen, and might even manage to produce fire through her mouth had it not been physiologically impossible. So, given that you now know how she is, imagine that some unfortunate hairdresser gave her a bad haircut. What do you think shall be the consequences? O you have no idea! After taking a thorough look at herself, more precisely at her hair, in the salon-mirror, and curdling in rage within, she reacts. Looking squarely at the hairdresser, M snatches the giant scissor from the hairdresser's hands, and with her other hand she clumps up a fat bunch of the hairdresser's hair and THREATENS to chop it off! Making an obscene facial expression, with her sharp canines gnawing at the lightheaded hairdresser, M yells in rhetoric, "haan?!!! haan?!!!! haan??!!! kaat dun kya!!!!???" The only thing missing in this scene is the boisterous vibrations of MU HA HA HA, perhaps muted somewhere in the background of her head!

Eulogy

Early in the morning, I received a text message from ma. Runu mashi passed away. Beloved person to all who knew her. Dada and I had first known her primarily as "Tapash kaku's wife," some twenty years back. [X's wife, a&b's mom, Y's daughter- The ever changing and subservient role of women, no matter how great she might be in her own right! Anyway, some other day on THAT subject.]

My entire childhood, until very recently, is strewn with the memory of me harassing my parents to take me to their home. Of course, back then it meant cascading down with laughter from the fountainhead of Reshmi didi's chest of witty anecdotes. Reshmi and Rupsha being her daughters, and not too far apart in age from us- dada and me. And etched in this indelible slate of my mind is Runu mashi's angelic smile. As if nothing in this world ever went wrong.

And then there was a time when our much beloved Tapas kaku, baba's best friend since his school days, was suffering from clinical depression for almost 5 years. The man who was the copier of humor, stopped talking, entirely, and remained silent (in the most unmetaphorical way you can imagine) for everyday of the first few years of those 5 years. Runu mashi, like an angel of mercy, cured him. We witnessed it all. Life, gradually, resurrected back in Tapash kaku. Gently, tenderly, softly, she nursed him with love, back to life as he knew it. I bow down to her unwavering patience. She was the quintessential wife; the living epitome of a woman who wouldn't forsake her husband, who would take care of him each day, in sickness or health. And she never made a show about it. Never complained how hard it is. Never once appeared to be frustrated, tired, or even scared. Perhaps, nothing simmered within her, or perhaps something always did, but who would have known? She loved in her quiet way.


While I think of her, I think of other women including me, who as wives have so many complains about their husbands, of the things they didn't do, the things that make us mad about our husbands, all the many ways they hurt us or humor us. But I cannot recall any such day when Runu mashi might have said anything, which even remotely expressed disappointment.

We have all, our disappointments, our broken hearts, our defeated expectations, our bitter tears. She had her's too, I am sure. But the difference lies in the dignity with which she graced across life, never having to do without a smile. And always somehow reassuring others in her quiet conviction that nothing in the world ever went wrong. Nothing. And perhaps, indeed, we can always afford a smile. So, even though today my heart breaks into a million pieces at the news of her death, yet, here is a smile for you Runu mashi: To you, who gave them away in plenty.

:)

for you

i want to bury myself in laundry clothes... smelling you..




it is good to be drunk. and forgetful. and not remember how things really were...

the Yoricks

Every time I have a conversation, I feel strained, vague, and distant. Approaching vanishing point.

[You must have noticed that this blog no more caters to the promise of laughter. It is much defeated. You are no more in my mind. I am.]

And sometimes I just leap out of myself and watch me master the inconsequential profiteering of idle time. I never monopolize a conversation. I hardly listen anyway. You would never know. I can repeat what you say, I am sure. And I will throw in flattery betwixt these recollectory words. You would never notice what went amiss. When you shall retrieve, you will think of me, and think of you, have a small smile to your lips, and pat your shoulder a little for having had emerged as victorious this last moment. with me. And in the meanwhile, secretly, you are preparing for your next moment. A secret unto you. We don't realize but we are always prepared for our next moment. whatever, however, wherever it be. Magic.

Life is a series of performances. Each moment you willingly, unselfishly, unconsciously, dedicate to the other. You give your best performance each time.


We are always quite, playing the Shakespearean fool. Where be our gibes?

V.W.

what a shame it is to finally start looking and feeling like Virginia Woolf, to have two suicide attempts in your resume, the same psychological conditions in your repertoire, to become half-lesbian, and THEN to leave writing... and literature.

Though there was never a Leonard.

work

I didn't get admissions to a doctoral program this year. And amazingly I wasn't exactly sad. I was disappointed, yes. The only time I cried was when I didn't get accepted in Cornell. That's because Cornell was my last hope, my ticket to get the hell out of NY. I can't tell you how important it is/was that it happened. NY with all its colors, all the vibrancy, all the Empire State of minds couldn't fool me. Wish it could. Anyway, so every grad school I applied to for a PhD program this Fall, rejected me. And all of them regretted. "We regret to inform..." Don't regret. Just take me. But of course, they let me go. Kind of like a sad end to a love story.
Anyway, so I am applying to some places for a job in case I might fish one out from this market. I need a job to keep me company for just a year, after which I shall repeat the whole process of applying to a grad school. So a contract job for a year, that's what I need. No strings attached. A par-time lover? The fuckbuddy of jobs.
The other day I came across a copy writing job. I officially have never worked as a copywriter before. But I have a very strong intuition that I will master it. I have had done some freelance work twice before. Not much to include in a resume or a cover letter. But enough to feel safe and protected by. I can handle it, I tell myself. So, I was applying for a job completely out of my league- a Senior Copywriter, which offered quite a fat lump of compensation. I thought to myself, why not take a shot at it. Just for the humor. I mean no harm sending a resume and cover letter. And in my cover letter, I decided to be super cocky and aggressive. It was a misdirected attempt to stand out in the crowd. Holler a lot! Just grab the attention, and trap them into offering you an interview. And after that be fascinating if not convincing. Or else, be a delightful confusion. Of course, all this applies only if you know nothing about what the job demands. Since, I had no copies to impress them by, I decided to be the cockiest, inexperienced, unemployed copy writer out there. Anyway, I haven't heard from the company yet. In the meanwhile I called up my professional copy writer friend back in India, and did what I can only think as a crash-call to know "everything about copy writing but was afraid to ask".
Hope no prospective boss of mine ever reads this post. That's the upside to having an unpopular blog :)