Knowing Me

Today, my friend Lynn tore a few pages of a writing pad and gave them to me. Each page had this image.

A few lines that meant so much Lynn. Thank you.

:)

Release

When I was 5, my dad was given the special opportunity to go and do a 6-month program at the University of Cardiff. I didn't realize the prestige of being invited to something like that until recently. Back then, in my eyes he had "fair-skinned friends" and it felt fascinating. I distinctly remember one professor at the university. He took a liking to my ever-so studious father and when he made a visit to India, he came over for dinner one night. I remember my mother opening the doors of the balcony as he stood and stared at the view. I remember his words "Murdy, you have a millionaire's view, you have a millionaire's view."

That line somehow remained in my head for the longest time. I took a picture I had of the "millionaire's view" and put it on my desktop at work. A colleague passed by and gasped "Where is thatt!". Would you believe if I said Mumbai? The non-slum, snake charmers and elephants, part.

The millionaire's view had tiny boats filled with fresh fish. Every morning these boats would come into the harbor after spending three days at sea. Every morning at 6am people would throng to the water’s edge and stand on a protruding stretch of land that over-looked the boats. I always thought that they would fall down into them and then I would hear the sirens going off declaring a state of emergency. But it never happened. The fishermen would take baskets of fish and fling them upwards to the keen, standing buyers. I always thought those baskets would suddenly burst open and the fish would fall all over the place instead of making their way into the hands of their master. But that never happened either. The movements were made with precision and incredible timing. If they played sports, the fishermen would make incredible bowlers or pitchers ;) As the day went by, while the masters enjoyed their seafood meals, the fishermen began their journey into the sea again. It would be nice to one day talk "emotions" with the Mumbai fisherman. Like Bach did about flying, did he enjoy the waters, the adventure of fishing, did he find passion in his profession, was it beautiful? Isolating and lonely?

Beyond this precision, timing and fun activity was a very old mill. It just lay, aging and groany. Once in a way it was all spruced up when some big-wig producer in the Bollywood film-industry wanted a place near the water to film a low-budget song. We would spend months on end listening to same lines repeating and repeating, like a stuck record. It didn't help that some of the actors were terrible dancers. And then suddenly, after 4-5 months you would see it on television. And say "of my god, that's my house there at the back!". And then you would hear it in the rickshaws and think the same thought. The song held little meaning without "my house there at the back!"

The millionaire's view also held the breathtaking backwaters of the Arabian sea. We faced the east, the sun rose and the waters glistened like gold. Kind-off like the Grand Canyon in McKenna’s Gold. Always reminded me of that. The few times I woke up really early to witness this miracle of the sunrise, my mother would come into the balcony and do a quick prayer to the sun god, and even if she didn't, I knew she was praying in her mind. I would smell tea with ginger, yes, morning had arrived. On full moon night's, the water's had a different kind-off glisten. Calming, like a smooth black velvetty calm. The fisherman would have enjoyed this night I used to think. And the lighthouse would hum light, dark, light, dark.

There was a giant old tree to the far right, a magnificent, majestic creature. It bowed gracefully and let the wind pass through. It always seemed perfectly harmonious with its surroundings. I sometimes wish I was like that tree. At the foot of the tree was an old heritage home, built by the British when they were seriously messed up and thought they could rule the world forever. I meant to ask the Cardiff professor that, what were you thinking, really. Outside the house was a small seating area under the tree, which had a small glass cupboard and an idol of a god. I always thought someone would break that glass down one day while playing cricket in front of the house. It never happened. Or maybe someone one day would steal the idol. That didn't happen either.

It's all coming back to me today. Just a simple minimizing the screen on the work laptop and I am transported into another time, another place. A picture is worth a thousand words, but a single memory...that's an unending story.

Twenty Ten

And a new year beckons. Just like that, in a moment of wonder, and endless planning, task, milestone and goal setting. What have I achieved, what have I yet to achieve, resolutions, promises and all that.

Life needs to be more simple. Someday I will break down these walls that I built around me, systematically, step by step, brick by brick. Or maybe one day when I wake up the wall will cease to exist. My mind will destroy it simply, by the click of a button. Or even better, I will acquire supernatural powers to just walk through it without feeling any hurt or pain, without feeling anything at all, very numbly, in a centered way.

Life needs to be more balanced. Someday I will multitask to perfection, have everything complete well in time. Beautifully and satisfactorily. Lists will cease to exist momentarily. Someday I will rest after my tasks are complete and not feel the angst to begin creating new tasks for myself as the old ones draw to an end. Or maybe I will learn quickly to oscillate perfectly between routine and rest, between escaping and facing, between running and living.

Someday things will change for the better on new year's day.

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.