Prologue

We are not prolific writers, we blog now and then.
The now and then happens when some strange realization or an apparently bright idea crosses our mind and is strong enough to justify the effort to type. The "apparently bright idea" is generally a questionable thing, I see it as a flicker somewhere in the deep corner of my mind, but it is never enough to light up.
Eventually it boils down to strange realizations or obvious realizations that have seemed very strange since they never occurred to you.
I blog for selfish reasons. My life, my realizations. Someone will have to be curious about me to read it, how many are there...two or three?

Self conscious, once again. Self conscious of my selfishness, of my self-centerednss. How ironic.

Walk-in Closets and me

An eventful week, and this time the event was very physical. It was not the happiness of a news, or the stress of a deadline, nor was it a departure of a close friend or the accomplishment of a task. And yet it was all of that.
I moved. And it meant moving things to a new apartment, that was not mine. It meant leaving my only home in this country to a temporary accommodation before I could figure out my future lodgings or homes as the case may be. Funny, that the ticking clock that moved towards the realtor's taking over makes you numb as you try to finish ticking off the check list for vacating the apartment that was once your home. You are busy wiping the glass, emptying the closets, filling the holes in the wall. You don't remember the trees outside, the small trinkets you collected with your meager daily wages, the pictures that you hung. The pain in your arms is far too strong to let nostalgia settle in. And somewhere you are thankful for that.
In the midst of all this cleaning and emptying I entered the walk in closet of my apartment-mate's room. There were a few bits of paper lying here and there and I was determined to show each one of them their rightful place in the dustbin. This room had been mine for the first two semesters of my graduate life. It bore the same look when I had first entered it on the fateful first evening in Blacksburg, two years ago. The closet was as empty as it had been back then. It was my first walk in closet and my first experience of being in one. A small world that you could phantom so well, with all the things that belong to you, and only you. No one would knock or demand to share it. It was my perfect idea of privacy and in a strange way, a six square feet floor area that I grew very attached to.
As I bent to pick up the errant pieces of paper, the strong smell of the carpet hit me hard. (Carpet smell is something that I have associated very strongly with houses in USA. Indian houses generally smell only of food.)It sent me back two long years ago. It brought back all my dreams, my hopes and my fears that I had come with to this place. And now in perspective, so much had changed and so little had gone according to plan A. Life has been so full with plan Bs and plan Cs, that it makes me wonder why did I think of the Plan A in the first place. That walk in closet had seen a very different girl two years ago and today it saw a changed woman (whoa!). I took a different path than I had envisaged, but there I was: more individual, more mellowed and, more realistic towards life. And while I write this in first person, I know that it is a story we all share, a walk in closet made me realize mine, for some it has been the statue of liberty, a old photograph, their first car, the cap and gown, a bottle of wine or something as random as a manhole cover in USA that says "made in India'.
The vacuum cleaner in the adjoining room brings me back to life in 2008. I get along moving and saying good bye to my walk in closet. I will never see it again, but remember it for the rest of life. My grandchildren will most probably laugh at their crazy grand mom who claims attachment to a closet, but then they will have their own bizarre experiences to hold on to, and I shall in turn laugh at them.
One last thing. A few days ago a wave of patriotism gushed over me and my friends as we heard the sad plight of bombarded Indian cities. And there we were making silent promises to ourselves that we shall keep in times to come, to serve our motherland and our home. India is my first home, but if ever there will be a place close to my heart after that, it will be US of A. It gave me my second home, and some of the most moving experiences in life. It made me realize how much I love India, and I shall always be thankful for that. Cheers to 882 Claytor Square and cheers to United States!

Patterns

I want to live a pattern, not be a Brownian motion. I want to outlive my body. They might remember my pattern when I am gone. Not just any pattern, a pattern someone might like to wear. I need to set my boundary conditions, some rules and live by them. At least I can try.

I can’t expect everybody (for that matter anybody) to like my pattern theory. And I can’t expect anyone to follow it. Probably by not following it they are making their own pattern. “Not being” is after all also being. But I choose to like people who think the way I do. I might like others too. Depends.

So far Away from Me

Something that I wrote a long time ago:

Do you think that through some slow propaganda, some invisible clever people broke all our opportunities to bond? The cell phones have removed all need and desire to meet and see things together. Urban sprawl has increased the radii of our personal spaces so much that it defies all gravitational forces that might have existed between you and me. My ideas of “independence”, work-from-home culture, don’t talk to strangers, fast cars and meager public transport. Overtime fetches more daily wages, don’t wait for me for dinner. My idea of good architecture is probably huge expanses of plazas and piazzas, empty boulevards, massive scales to defy anything even remotely human. I am so individual.

Probably had you and I met and sat for a cup of tea, I would have known how many spoons of sugar you like. Probably we would have discussed recipes; probably I would have learned some words of your language. We could have shared a joke and forgotten our bosses for sometime. But tea never happened and now when I see you in the parking lot, I avoid eye contact, because I am not really sure. Are you then same lady who sits two cubicles across?

The Family Hair-loom

Well, we had our own hair fixations at childhood. My mother liked to split her split ends further till she got two out of one single follicle. My brother would twirl his hair strand with a passion that would put any perm treatment at a hair salon to shame. As for me, I did the most embarrassing thing. Childhood winters brought the dandruff to my hair and I had the habit of brushing it off onto dark surfaces to see the stars shine in a black sky. For the record, I don’t suffer from dandruff anymore (I had this urge to clarify that, female readers will understand)

Well, we don’t know what our dad did during childhood…whether he had any peculiar habits with hair…but it seemed that his detached perspective towards hair back then reflects in his bald head now. Mom does tell stories when he, a thirty three year old, in the monsoon wilderness of Madras had caught leeches to extract a hair rejuvenating oil from them. What happened to the leeches or the oil or the hair still remains a mystery.

Our strong association with hair issues continues. My mom worries about her salt and pepper hair which she skillfully masks in exotic L’Oreal shades. My brother worries about a receding hair line. I am concerned with random hair-fall seasons and count my small blessings that probably being a woman I will not have to confront classic baldness. In the meantime, my dad maintains his nonchalance about his hair and head. To make situations more complex, we worry about each other’s health of hair so that no head feels the lack of attention.

The only one to be blessed with the healthiest, shiny and thick and black hair, fur rather was our dog- Jimmy. His cousin (as we humans understand relations) Roger, boasts of an equally impressive black coat. They have made heads turn and hearts swoon in a heady mix of delight and awe. And they have solely carried the family’s name forward, when it comes to hair. If we average the hair density per capita for my family I am sure we surpass the averages.

Never undermine the importance of the black sheep (read dog) in your family. He might be your saving grace.

Here I am with my list...continuing the legacy started by a few of my friends

Eight things I am passionate about: ( not in order as they appear though)

1.) Someone! or many ones!!!!

2.) Shopping and then feeling guilty about it!

3.) Amateur Psycho-social analysis of every possible thing in the world

4.) Mocha with whipped cream

5.) day dreaming

6) having a different opinion on everything

7) anything that makes me curious

8) Life!



Eight things I want to do before I die:



1) Get a bachelors in maths and physics!

2) Farming- full time

3) Inspire a few people along the way ;)

4) Sky Dive

5) Own a Hummer!

6) build my own house, my way

7) travel as much as I can

8) have the last laugh :)



Eight things I say often:

1) What's up?

2) Oh My God!

3) Yeah, right!

4) I am hungry

5) I am sleepy

6)

7) ****

8) **** ****



Eight books I've read recently:

1) Spatial Point Pattern Analysis ( how interesting!!!)

2) Of Human Bondage- William Somerset Maugham

3) Namesake- Jhumpa Lahiri

4) Interpreter of Maladies- Jhumpa Lahiri

5) The World without Us- Alan Weisman (present pursuit)

6) Another classic Jeeves novel by P.G. Wodehouse

and I wish to read

7) Shantaram- Gregory David Roberts

8) Maximum City- Suketu Mehta


Eight things that attract me to my best friends:

1) Accepting me as I am

2) Uniqueness of character

3) eccentricity

4) Patience

5) Capacity to talk random stuff

6) Promised allegiance to me ;)

7) Bold dreams

8) Assertiveness


Eight things that I can't live without:

1) Laptop

2) Glasses or contact lenses, as the case may be

3) Some background music...all the time

4) Laughing

5) My special people

6) My watch

7) A few questions unanswered

8) Elaborate plans for the next day and the day after it

Remembering

A score and a half of memories,
That I try so hard to cage in stone.
But they keep spilling into weary eyes.
And are just not willing to leave me alone.

16-04-2007 and a year later. And several years later.