2017's heavyweight welcome.

I ended 2016 on a bittersweet note here on Blogger but my trials from last year fade into embarrasing insignificance when I look at what 2017 has brought me so far. 

Two injuries in two months, both incapacitating me for extended periods of time. Spring is here and I feel mild cheer. I coax myself into counting my blessings and remembering that no problem is bigger than the biggest problem there is.

Leg injuries are terrible. Back injuries...well, they are even worse. Pardon the arrogance if you can. It is quite a blow to one's self confidence and independence when movements and activities that you took for granted turn into fierce challenges and impossible tasks. On the flip side, when life has forced me into slowing down, I'm appreciating the small things that I never noticed before. This new experience of being aware, observing how every activity in life is achievable by being mindful, and moving forward with gritted teeth is really keeping me engaged. 

I now travel with my constant companion- a back support. I no longer carry a million things in my hands everywhere I go, purely because the terror of having to ask someone to pick something off the floor for me is far greater than the inability to read while walking. 

So while I'm juggling a full time job and stopping and smelling the flowers, I have pearls of wisdom to strew on my page. Epiphanies make for great blog posts. For the person writing, of course. I hope you never have to use what I'm voicing here. That would mean more blog posts that I can't be bothered with reading through. 

:-)

Winter jingle 2016

Tingling legs, aching head

sneezing all the way

Oh what pain it is to wait

forever in the cold bus bay

 

hey

 

Tingling legs, aching head

wheezing all the way

Oh what pain it is to wait

for three quarters of my day

 

Dashing through the snow*

on an overcrowded day

o'er the pavements we go

tumbling all the way

 

Clutching the yellow poles

shutting our eyes tight

oh, how much we whine and cringe

and hope to get home tonight

 

Tingling legs, aching head

gazing all the way

Oh what pain it is to wait

for the morning's very first ray

 

hey

 

Tingling legs, aching head

snoozing all the way

Oh what pain it is to wake

and find that I have no say.

 

 

 

 

*Plagiarised from the original, thereby sacrificing factual accuracy that I am yet to experience my first commute on a snowy day.

 

P.S: I wrote this at work this morning after what proved to be my most challenging winter commute yet (90 minutes of frost). I'm sure I have had equally bad, if not worse, experiences before, but my brain seems to be adept at erasing even recent memories fairly quickly. I suppose that lets me move on to silly things (proof above) that will distract me from the looming horror of this evening's bus ride back home. But who cares... it is the season to be merry! And so, looking at the bright side of life, I wish you all better bus rides in 2017!

 

:-)

 

P.P.S: Punctuation was thrown out of the window for this post.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Juvenile poetry 101

I spotted this really old post in my drafts today and fancied giving you a few chuckles, if you like.


Autumn has lasted long,
the leaves rustle in the breeze;
they are blown away into the distance beyond,
flowers lift their heads.
The brook breaks into a song,
the trees whisper to each other simple nothings;
the birds chirp and take flight,
the sun smiles at me from behind the mountains.
I feel the grass in my hands,
the breeze now caresses my hair;
I open my eyes...
this is no winter;
spring has just begun,
it looks like it is here to stay
for a long time now.

Hello from the other side.

Dear one,

 

Yes, you and I are dear to each other, just the way it ought to be for Us to live in peace. Fractious walls between us will come to no good. The day you separate Me from You is the day you lose Yourself. I fear that day is not too far away.

 

Subconsciously, you have begun placing the foundation for this divide. In your heart, you yearn for love and recognition. You have never asked for it. You have never wanted it. The luxury of validation has always been present in your comfortable existence and you have basked in the warmth of that wonderful feeling. That perfect blend of confidence and pride when ego is largely absent defines you. I know You and that's how I know all this.

 

But now, you face ridicule. Even in your perceived self-perfection, there are cracks from a hammer chipping away at your exterior. The hammer serves to destroy you from outside and then will you to build imperfect walls within. Malice is barely concealed and derision works hard to break your soul. In your heart you fear living a barren life- devoid of love (unconditional or otherwise) and appreciation.

 

But do you really think it is that easy to lose love? And do you really believe that a lack of appreciation will kill you? What is this deep-seated insecurity that you are adamant in making your own? That taunts, jibes and general contempt serve to shake your very foundation? When did you find it so easy to lose trust in people and their inherent general goodness? Why would you want to let your ability to love vanish? It saddens me to think that one day, the meaning of the word 'unconditional' will become irrelevant in your psyche. I grieve more to see you go down the road of hopelessness and crushing apathy.

 

You live in a glass house and you lend your help to the hands that throw stones at you. And in those ruins, you seek to build meaningless walls because you fear that you will be naked to the world outside. One day these towering walls will christen themselves 'Ego' and intimidate my quiet voice with their loud rumble. But, you know what they say... "The meek shall inherit the Earth". These walls will, one day, crumble at your feet. And I will be around to see that triumph, just as I am here with you now witnessing the beginning of your downfall.

 

Yours.

 

 

Hi there,

Thanks for stopping by for a fresh bout of introspective gargle on this blog page. It's rather sad that I'm prone to more introspective spurts than most other people. Or maybe not.

 

On yet another WiFi-less long commute to/from work, I got my head going about a letter from my past self. If I had written myself a letter in the past, warning my future self about potentially destructive tendencies that I would acquire, would my life have been for the better now? Will I have been prescient enough to be able to transfer pre-emptive wisdom to an older me? I like to think in the affirmative.

 

 

 

"After all, to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure."

Dear Joanne Kathleen Rowling,

 

Thank you.

 

For your wise words.

 

When the mind is too stubborn to immerse itself in obscure philosophies spanning our planetary surface, you give us characters that offer counsel to the picky mind.

 

You give us people going through the pain of grief and separation and loneliness. And you let us know that it is universal. Suffering does not make you special. Coming through it out on the other side unscathed by the fire of sorrow does. Giving up on life is an insult to the memory of those that placed their own dreams and hopes in us.

 

You also let us know that our loved ones are never far away from us. Death may do us part on the physical plane but they blaze on in the fire of our hearts. Showing us that they have given us our life, and our life its purpose. And without purpose, we are nothing.

 

You give us heroes that live around us and in us. The heroes that lead us on our way, when we lose our direction. Like a Patronus offering a glimmer of hope in the dark.

 

Thank you.

 

For letting a young mind see the importance of it all ten years later.

 

We have courageous people- in life and in the pages of a book- to look up to. You may not be the only one lending a helping hand. But you certainly mean a good deal to those that grew up reading your work.

 

With love to you and the pillars of strength that hold everything in my world together.

Resolutions 2016

I'm terrible at mainstream new year resolutions but do fairly well at this.

Happy 2016!

For the love of literature...please!

I've read my fair share of bad books (I'm tired of repeating this line to people and online entries alike). Unlike bad movies and bad TV shows, my tolerance for bad writing is rather poor. I have acquired a taste for unwinding with movies and shows that can proudly claim that the sky is the limit for their stupidity. Unfortunately, I am still incapable of extending this courtesy to terribly written pages bound together to masquerade as a book.

The father unwittingly gifted a copy of "Scion of Ikshvaku" by Amish (of the 'Shiva trilogy' 'fame'. The second set of quotes is a pair of air quotes. Feel free to imagine my eyes rolling as you picture me saying that) the last time that I was home, thinking I'd enjoy some reimagined mythology. Clearly, he had heard words of praise from the self-proclaimed bibliophiles that seem to exist everywhere in India these days and bought the book by this celebrated writer.

Now I do not mean to sound judgemental or arrogant, but I've a few words of general wisdom to say to these folks:
1. Chetan Bhagat is NOT a writer. Please do not put him on the pedestal of India's favourite writer. At least, if you still value the sanctity of the language and the art of story-telling.
2. "You can win" by Shiv Khera is NOT a classic.
3. Reading Dan Brown DOES NOT mean that you have taste in international literature.
4. I'd rate 'Tinkle' ABOVE all of the aforementioned names.

My system slows down considerably every time I see a 'Book Bucket' challenge on social media. Listing down four Chetan Bhagat books out of the ten top works that have changed your life is NOT cool. Ever. At least, to us literary snobs. I did not have to think twice before typing that out. It helps that we are from a country where intolerance is rife (so say some actors who are surrounded by security personnel and are out of the country for a large part of the year). But more on that some other time.

Imagine my consternation then, when I see Amish being called 'India's first literary popstar' every time I pick this book up. Now I know what many people will say. Defend these books all you like. Cry out about freedom of taste to your heart's content. But speaking on behalf of people who value certain standards even in their leisurely pursuits, I can tell you that you can do so much better if you really care.

Before I started typing the angriest rant yet on my blog, I was wondering if I should submit my usual book review on GoodReads, followed by my other blog on book reviews. But it struck me that this is nowhere close to being a book review. This is a scream that has managed to escape my cranial enclosure. This is a written account of my having to tolerate something that I really do not wish to endure. It doesn't help when you have an obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD for the lazy 'uns) to finish something that you dislike very much. That said, I HAVE abandoned a few books because I cared for my mental well-being. I still have a few pages to go on this one to still take that route.

Amish is nowhere near as bad as Chetan Bhagat in his writing. I haven't read his Meluha series but speaking purely from this particular reading experience, I can vouch for this claim. Why did I even read Chetan Bhagat, you may ask. In the hope that he would have learned from his mistakes and improved his art of story telling. But I do not believe in giving chances to people who do not take them or even worse, deserve them. Sure, Bhagat's life is not going to take a slump because of the annoyance of a few readers like me. But, we do hope that he will listen to people like us if he cares about expanding his audience base and raising the quality in his work. Chetan Bhagat gets away with every book by saying that his reach is far. Yes, I did buy into that one for a while. But, now I wish to opine that writing for the 'common man' does not make you a saint. The 'common man' is actually more intelligent than you give her/him credit for. It is when you dumb their intelligence down by stunting their intellectual exposure that you make money out of rubbish. Like bad books, or bad movies. You set terrible examples and corrupt impressionable young minds.

Now that I've expressed my anger (primarily towards Chetan Bhagat it would seem), it is time to move on to my thoughts about the book. (You are probably already feeling the emotion that is being discussed in this post just by reading my verbal spillage.)

"Scion of Ikshvaku" is not a mindless piece of work. It is printed propaganda. Albeit, a poorly written one. It is in no way negative propaganda, though. The premise, as we all know by now, is the Ramayana. There is nothing left to say there, so it appears that Amish has focussed all his energy in introducing changes to the basic plot and adding some flavour of his own. Which is where my anger found its first vent. This isn't a book. It is a script for a bad Bollywood movie. You can almost picture a scene with Sita's saree (or 'angvastram', as Amish prefers a unisexual style of clothing in this reimagined world) brushing against Ram's face while he smiles contentedly in love. Which almost happens in the book. Except Sita is angrily brushing past Ram in her quest to deliver justice. A woman who values justice more than anything else. Score!

The most gaping lapse in the book? The fact that Amish has tried to lend a contemporary tone to a setting in 3500 BC. Sadly, it falls flat. He has his timelines mixed up awfully and brings in elements that do not tie up together, thus delivering a messy puddle of confusion that has transfigured into a book. We see copters with rotor blades whump-whumping in the air. Biological warfare is already in vogue. Bharat is a serial dater and Dasharatha has serious anger management issues. Characters swear in English, speak in French ("Touché!") and also deliver dialogues in Sanskrit. It is pompously labelled 'High Archaic Sanskrit' but it sounds very suspiciously like the Sanskrit that I was taught in school. Ooh mama, am I a high Aryan or what!

The most bizarre inclusion in the book is an incident that shamelessly mirrors the infamous 2012 Delhi gang rape, in which one of the prime accused was a minor at the time of the crime. The version in the book involves Manthara's daughter who is gang raped and killed on her way back from a medical camp. Perhaps, Amish wanted to deliver a moral science lesson while using the righteous Ram as a venerable addition. Sadly, it ends up falling flat. The poor depiction and unbelievable setting of characters so loved and well known from one of India's oldest and most revered epics is perhaps the cause of its downfall. Amish would have done well to take the Ramayana to a futuristic setting where his imagination will have been free to take flight. 'Ramayan 3392 AD'  by Virgin Comics was a similar rehash but it had brilliant artwork to back its daring futuristic reimagining of the epic.

To cut the long story (errr...rant) short, Amish has tried his best to give us a book that blends mythology with contemporary social messages, redresses shortcomings of the Indian society over the course of time- such as, the caste system and racism, to name a few-, attempts to portray a romantic side to the stoic and righteous Ram (I can hear a sniggering voice in my head saying 'Rules Ramanujam' as I am typing this sentence), lends its solidarity to the cause of gender equality bordering on feminism and includes courses such as 'Archery 101' and 'Architecture 101' in its narrative. A very ambitious attempt, but sorry mate. Better luck with the next book!

The most scarring takeaway from my reading experience? Everytime I glance at the traditional painting of Ram, Lakshman, Sita and Hanuman on our wall, I remember Lakshman screaming to his older brother, "Dammit, Dada!"

Dammit!