The Man In The Arena

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

- Theodore Roosevelt, April 23, 1910.

The Crush

I was walking today, two steps behind you
And you wore my favorite shirt
Did you know
The checks on it spelt out the world
And I felt a little at home

And then you stood by the door
Let it open
You gave me my escape
And let me breathe, hoping
I could breathe in a smile and poem

And someday these moments
Will turn to memories
And someday you wont
Have that swagger in your stride
And someday you won't
Give me that slight smile
From that beautiful corner of your eye.
And it's alright, it's alright

The sky, like my heart is
Shamelessly naked and genuine
Someday maybe we could
Mend these piece by piece
Over coffee?

The One Who Left

I often wonder if you think of me. I know it is insane to even think it though. That would make you a loser which you never were.

I happened to stumble, on an old conversation. How smoothly the words swayed too and fro like leaves floating in the breeze. There was a certain simplicity, enveloped in the complex relationship that we were.

And if we were together, we would have been half dead, the glass half empty and our facebook relationship status "It's complicated". Because that is what "we" symbolized. The complete death of our individual spirits. Only to experience one-ness. The complete anarchy of thoughts which was our only order.

Then may be those words were not smooth afterall. They were placed strategically and moves were made with tact, always rationally. Like in a game of chess. Maybe those conversations were trials given the garb of smoothness and our escape from unpleasant realities or pleasant ones that were temporary. Those smiles, efforts, that went to waste.

Whatever it was, it remains a distant, but familiar memory. Neither a happy nor a sad one. It just exists and has stopped trying to find meaning. Like most things in life.

One Art

One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

One Giant Leap

I graduated.
From strawberry to chocolate
From blue to red
From flats to heels
From frocks to skirts
From fast food to gourmet meals
From foolhardy to brave
From take to give
From dumbbells to long walks
From raincoats to umbrellas
From Nsync to Dylan
From pre-paid to billin'
From pubs to plays
From nights to days
From deo’s to perfumes
From tapes to itunes
From sad to philosophical
From happy to happier
I graduated.

Why I Sing The Blues

He took his cane. And tried to climb uphill. His tired legs searched for a stop. His leather jacket had many stories to tell. His army boots had made many stops. And aged much like him.

With incredible grace. His long hair looked like it kept, Braided in it, several verse and song

He looked like an old Vedder...

I was getting back from work, late this evening, with a million things on my mind. And as I hurried along the sidewalk, I was forced to slow down because of this man. He looked like a former rock n roller :) He would stop every few steps, to catch his breath. I slowed down my pace behind him, thinking it would be too rude to pass him and didn't want to get too close or he may have felt pressurized to walk faster. So here I am, with my psycho-analysis, when he just stopped all of a sudden. And exclaimed, "God I just want to get home, please let me get home."

Frightened by how frail and faint he sounded I ran up to him and asked if he was ok. I was amazed at how strong and frail this man looked, all at once. He said, "My dear, could you walk with me till my house? I just want to get home. I was downtown, shootin' some pool, you know...with some old buddies o' mine. I didn't realise how difficult this climb uphill was"

I accompanied him to his house and he held my hand by the door. He said "You're a sweetheart. I have something for you."

A million eerie * shudder * thoughts ran through my head, and I thought "oh my god, why did I do this, mom was right I should never talk to strangers, oh my god, is he going to do something terribly disturbing to me, like maybe kill me? I think I can take him on, he seems frail", blah blah blah. And I could hear his voice in constant conversation with me "You know, I was born in this house? I came back here, after 6 decades..."

He came back to the door (where I ACTUALLY waited diligently) and gave me a Cd. He said "This man, this man changed my life...and we share the same name. His music will teach you several lessons for life. This is for you, take this...listen. I think you will love it."

I thanked him profusely, and strode back home, much happier than I was when I left work. Doped, dazed, or just old, I have a feeling Mr. B. B. King is going to be my friend :D

Home, that imaginary place...

A lot has happened since I wrote my last post. It is hard to summarize, put on display, the emotions, feelings and moments experienced. But I will try.

I found a home for Christmas.

On Christmas Eve, my neighbours invited me home. We had a wonderful Indian dinner. 7 Americans, to 2 Indians. But the meal was enjoyed by all. I always imagined Christmas Eve like this. There was a light flurry of snow. And at one point I stood outside, and watched my new found 'family' through the bay windows. The lights from the tree kept the house warm, along with the love that filled the atmosphere. And it touched my heart that I didn't have to pass by that very scene and walk in to an empty house as I had done on the past two Christmas's. I spent the night there, on their couch. Books, gifts and DVDs were spread on the floor right before bed time. 'Gifts from Santa' for their 2 year old son. I spent almost the entire night staring at the tree and the angel that looked down on me.

When I awoke the next morning, I could feel the 2 year olds excitement from the upstairs floor, I could hear his voice 'is Santa here?' and when he came down the stairs, the joy in his eyes was beautiful. He ran toward the gifts and one the first ones he opened was a cute little saxophone. His father was a former jazz artist. And being the wonderful sax player he is, it was a moment of sheer amazement to see father watch son play his first little note on the saxophone.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I felt so grateful to be included in a moment as intimate as this.

India

I remember sitting in a pub with Jo, a good colleague of mine. Constantly abused, and mentally traumatized by her dad since the age of 3. And I had a verbal diarrhea of 'family' and 'home' and 'relationships'. And she had a blank expression on her face and she said, 'I don't get it when people say, I am going 'home', I miss my family'.'I am my family. I AM home'.

And here we were, two women with completely contrasting concepts on relationships. But having a perfectly harmonious conversation.

When I packed my bags, there as a lot of anticipation, a lot of nervous tension and excitement. It took me two months to plan, order, buy each person’s gift. But every moment was precious.

And as the plane flew over India, I felt my heart racing. I kept checking the map in my little screen. Ok, now we are over Pakistan, ok now Ahmedabad. And now here, here is my first glimpse of Mumbai...the precious jewels scattered on the ground, lit up homes of family and friends. Heart racing still faster...Touchdown.

You know how when you wait for something that long, and something you really want so very badly, that you can feel your insides tearing and soul screaming. Like when you’re about to fall in love. And you're at that crucial moment, where you don't know if you should give in, or be your skeptical, cautious self. And then you fall, like the red carpet was pulled off, from under your feet. It felt like that. Coming home, felt like that.

When I awoke in the morning, to children screaming in the school opposite my apartment, a marriage procession on the streets, I felt like I had never left. And I was ok with never going back...

Meeting family and friends felt like swallowing sunshine, after years of cold, dreary winter. My trip has made me think a lot about relationships these days. How some blossomed, how some were beautiful while they lasted, how some were painful, full of work and effort, some you couldn't do without, how some slowly died, how some were nipped in the bud and others with the 'what if' questions, that never have answers...I wouldn't change a thing, I wouldn't change a single thing :)

Back Home

The flight back flew through Amsterdam, and I saw the sun rise over France, and then Prague, and then I saw it rise in Amsterdam...three sunrises.

There is so much more to do, so much more to see and experience. I am not done. I need to wander some more. I don't have hopes of 'finding myself' anymore. I want to lose myself. And take a diversion from the trodden path.

Home is now the view from my window. The white picket fence, and the first signs of grass, with spring waiting to be found, a light breeze blowing and the grass tops dipping their heads lightly, enjoying being pampered after long. This is the United States I had imagined I would experience. This very view, from this very window.

I can hear Dylan playing in the background as I crawl back under my cozy sheets.

The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind, The answer is blowin' in the wind.