Hello Dear Reader,
It’s me. You might remember me – at one time, I used to post regularly about what was going on in my life, and other random things. That was a long time ago… I have since degenerated into being an occasional blog poster – posting mainly boring updates and nothing else of consequence. You might have all but forgotten about me. Well, I deserve it. :-(
I celebrated my 31st birthday this month. I can no longer kid myself that I am still in my 3rd decade. I have my feet firmly planted in the 4th decade of my life (goodness – that makes it sound like I am pushing forty). Anyway, I made a bunch of birthday resolutions, not the least of which concerns this blog. I have resolved to make myself sit down and post at least one post each month. Maybe I will gain momentum along the way and rediscover my 28-year old erstwhile blog-post-glory. In the meantime boring (and exciting) updates…
After six years of Master’s and PhD study, thesis, prelims, dissertation and internship (my experience through all these things are recounted on this blog in past entries), I have finally finished. I got an email from the graduate college at Iowa State letting me know that I had completed all my degree requirements. And they addressed the email to: Dr. Stephen. My professor had called me that right after I defended my dissertation, but the email was the first time anyone has really addressed me as Dr. Stephen in earnest. This is apart from my wonderful father, who last May booked me in with a dentist under the name: Dr. Stephen. My dad, as expected, is far more proud of the “Dr.” in my name than I.
But the most exciting of the lot is that I now have a JOB!!!! I am finally ready to move on into my first real job. I started the job search in March (ridiculously late and procrastinating as usual). I don’t want to post the details of the job search here, save to say that I had a bit of a roller coaster ride. I had some wonderful experiences, went to a whole bunch of places, met a lot of wonderful psychologists, and finally four months later ended up at the place that I wanted to go to all along – the University of Oregon. I accepted the position on 7/12/10, and will start as soon as my OPT authorization comes through. In the meantime, I am wrapping up the internship, and moving back to Ames for about a month. I leave my apartment at the end of the month, and am packing and getting ready to say goodbye to MN.
Leaving MN is going to be bittersweet. I have loved my time here. I knew when I moved here that the move would be temporary. That makes it easier, I suppose. I have been genuinely happy here, and met some people who have changed my life in wonderful ways. I will miss them dearly (R, if you ever read this, I will miss you most of all). Halfway along the year, A&A left, and like I mentioned in a previous post, their leaving has made my move out easier. Above all, the excitement of starting a new job blunts any pain that I might otherwise have felt. As is always the case with me, despite all that may be less than ideal, life is beautiful.
That’s it for now dear reader. The next time it shall be more than mere updates, I promise!
Monday, July 26, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Updates Time and some Poetry
Despite the very best of intentions, it has been a while since I have posted an update. I have been busy – busy with the everyday business of life. But transitions are on the horizon. I am in the process of searching for a new job. After almost three decades as a student, I am set to finally start working at a “job”. I have been travelling quite a bit for interviews at various places. I like travelling. Let me catalogue the reasons:
I would love to write at length about all my travels, but perhaps that will be a post for another day. Let me just say this - most beautiful college campus: Michigan – Ann Arbor. The beauty of this campus took my breath away. I think it also helped that it was the start of the summer break, and most students were away. Throngs of people have a way of diluting the effect of a beautiful vista. The ivy-laden buildings of the law quadrangle of the Ann Arbor campus might almost have been what Mathew Arnold had in mind when he wrote:
Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep:
And air-swept lindens yield
Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers
Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid,
And bower me from the August sun with shade;
And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers...
He did not, of course. As the poem points out, he had Oxford in mind. I have never been to Oxford, and until I do, Ann Arbor must be my definition of the epitome of beauty amongst college campuses.
In other news, my friends A&A have left Minneapolis. I feel happy for them, and somewhat sad for me. A&A have been my friends since our Kansas City days, and after a few years of living in different cities, when I got matched with the internship in Minneapolis, we were in the same city again. A&A made the move to Minneapolis easier and infinitely more fun. There is nothing quite as nice about moving to a new city as having good friends already in place. Oh well… all good things end, and so A&A have moved to a different city. This is very exciting for them, since they have probably done everything that there is to do in the Twin Cities and surrounding areas. A&A now live in an apartment with the most gorgeous view of snow-capped mountains that I have ever seen, and I have already received the first installment of photographs of their many new adventures. As for me, the transition out of this lovely city will be much easier by their absence.
- This will take me a step closer to a potential future job.
- I get to visit new places as part of my travel. I already have visited two states that I have never been to before as well as revisited some that I have been to.
- I get to catch up on my reading in the flight and in my hotel rooms (VERY BIG PERK)
- It is free. I’ve never travelled without having to pay for it myself, so this is a good change.
- I get to eat at wonderful restaurants. Most prospective employers have tried to give me a genuine taste of the city and taken me to delightful places with delectable fare. One never completely experiences a place until one has sampled its cuisine, and I certainly am getting a generous dose of this.
- I get to meet all kinds of wonderful psychologists, and talk about what they do for their students – it gives me all kinds of inspiration for what I eventually want to do.
- I rake up a ton of frequent flier miles.
- I get to watch cable TV at the hotel. Ever since I gave up cable at home, I have not had the chance to watch trashy TV. I get my fix the night before the interview. Guilty pleasure. Hee hee. :-)
I would love to write at length about all my travels, but perhaps that will be a post for another day. Let me just say this - most beautiful college campus: Michigan – Ann Arbor. The beauty of this campus took my breath away. I think it also helped that it was the start of the summer break, and most students were away. Throngs of people have a way of diluting the effect of a beautiful vista. The ivy-laden buildings of the law quadrangle of the Ann Arbor campus might almost have been what Mathew Arnold had in mind when he wrote:
Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep:
And air-swept lindens yield
Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers
Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid,
And bower me from the August sun with shade;
And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers...
He did not, of course. As the poem points out, he had Oxford in mind. I have never been to Oxford, and until I do, Ann Arbor must be my definition of the epitome of beauty amongst college campuses.
In other news, my friends A&A have left Minneapolis. I feel happy for them, and somewhat sad for me. A&A have been my friends since our Kansas City days, and after a few years of living in different cities, when I got matched with the internship in Minneapolis, we were in the same city again. A&A made the move to Minneapolis easier and infinitely more fun. There is nothing quite as nice about moving to a new city as having good friends already in place. Oh well… all good things end, and so A&A have moved to a different city. This is very exciting for them, since they have probably done everything that there is to do in the Twin Cities and surrounding areas. A&A now live in an apartment with the most gorgeous view of snow-capped mountains that I have ever seen, and I have already received the first installment of photographs of their many new adventures. As for me, the transition out of this lovely city will be much easier by their absence.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
A Century?
I just noticed something curious. It appears that quite unwittingly, in my last three posts, I referenced in chronological order: months, years, and a decade. I can't think of anything to write about a century, but here's the obligatory mini-post anyway.
Updates on eating new species of plants: since my last post I have eaten a lot of other familiar plants, but the exciting new one is: Quinoa. More to come...
Updates on eating new species of plants: since my last post I have eaten a lot of other familiar plants, but the exciting new one is: Quinoa. More to come...
Friday, March 12, 2010
Farewell to the Naughties
In the millennial episode of Gimme Gimme Gimme, James Dreyfus’ character wonders what the next decade is going to be called. We had the 80’s and the 90’s. What’s next? The zeroes? With a fair measure of glee, he concludes that the first decade after the millennium ought to be called the “naught-ies”. The dawn of this year marked the end of the naughties. I first came to the US in 2001. I was fresh-eyed and eager to finally be an adult. Having lived all my life until then under the protective shadow of my parents, I for the first time was making really important decisions. What I really was doing was navigating my way through a new and unfamiliar culture by a process of trial and error – a fact that I did not realize until many years later. In many areas of my life, a considerable amount of “naughtiness” took place as a result of this naiveté – most notably in the areas of finances and health.
Being a graduate student for an entire decade took its toll on my bank balance which was constantly shrinking, and on my credit card debts which grew increasingly large. Also, having easy access to highly processed and cheap food, gave me a ready excuse to desert the kitchen and abandon my culinary skills. At the end of last year, I had a considerably larger girth and was much unhealthier than I was at the beginning of my life in the US. Any number of financial advisors or doctors would have shaken their heads at me in stern and somber disapproval. The naughtiness was complete.
While at the start of the year I had vaguely resolved to abandon the “naughtiness”, I have over the past two and a half months gained a much more clear idea of what I need to do to improve the quality of my life, pocketbook, and health. While I have little control over my financial life, I am doing what I can. My health on the other hand is another matter – I have complete control over this (almost). I have been scouting for health philosophies that work for me for the past year, and I think I have finally found it in Michael Pollan’s "In Defense of Food". I recommend it and Pollan’s other book, "The Omnivore’s Dilemma" unreservedly to anyone who has an interest in learning about what they eat. Consequently, I have abandoned nutritionism, and am reverting to a diet which consists of whole foods (Pollan’s definition of whole foods does not correspond with what is popularly considered whole food), and as much of it as possible organic and GMO-free. This will of course put a substantial dent in my finances, but for the moment, I think I will try and balance that out with other expenditure.
I will not bore you all with my progress on these counts. But one of the guidelines that Pollan suggests is that people diversify their diet as much as possible in order to include as many micronutrients as possible. For example, rather than eat blueberries to get one type of antioxidant, eat a variety of different fruits and vegetables to get a number of different types of antioxidants. Pollan suggests that a good diet consists of as many species as possible. Since I don’t eat meant, this means that I will have to eat as many species of flora as possible. So, I have resolved to include half as many different species of plants in my diet as there are days in the year. I don’t know if I will be able to find 183 different kinds of fruits, vegetables, nuts and seeds, but I will keep you updated on my progress on what I think is a rather interesting resolution. I did not start counting species in January, so I will attempt to reach my goal between now and December 31st 2010. Right now (since March 1st), the count stands at 22 species, which I think is a good start. However, these twenty-two species include the basic elements of most of my cooking, so it probably will be slow going from here on. If you can think of novel fruits or veggies that I could experiment with, please let me know.
It finally is: Farewell to the Naughties!
Being a graduate student for an entire decade took its toll on my bank balance which was constantly shrinking, and on my credit card debts which grew increasingly large. Also, having easy access to highly processed and cheap food, gave me a ready excuse to desert the kitchen and abandon my culinary skills. At the end of last year, I had a considerably larger girth and was much unhealthier than I was at the beginning of my life in the US. Any number of financial advisors or doctors would have shaken their heads at me in stern and somber disapproval. The naughtiness was complete.
While at the start of the year I had vaguely resolved to abandon the “naughtiness”, I have over the past two and a half months gained a much more clear idea of what I need to do to improve the quality of my life, pocketbook, and health. While I have little control over my financial life, I am doing what I can. My health on the other hand is another matter – I have complete control over this (almost). I have been scouting for health philosophies that work for me for the past year, and I think I have finally found it in Michael Pollan’s "In Defense of Food". I recommend it and Pollan’s other book, "The Omnivore’s Dilemma" unreservedly to anyone who has an interest in learning about what they eat. Consequently, I have abandoned nutritionism, and am reverting to a diet which consists of whole foods (Pollan’s definition of whole foods does not correspond with what is popularly considered whole food), and as much of it as possible organic and GMO-free. This will of course put a substantial dent in my finances, but for the moment, I think I will try and balance that out with other expenditure.
I will not bore you all with my progress on these counts. But one of the guidelines that Pollan suggests is that people diversify their diet as much as possible in order to include as many micronutrients as possible. For example, rather than eat blueberries to get one type of antioxidant, eat a variety of different fruits and vegetables to get a number of different types of antioxidants. Pollan suggests that a good diet consists of as many species as possible. Since I don’t eat meant, this means that I will have to eat as many species of flora as possible. So, I have resolved to include half as many different species of plants in my diet as there are days in the year. I don’t know if I will be able to find 183 different kinds of fruits, vegetables, nuts and seeds, but I will keep you updated on my progress on what I think is a rather interesting resolution. I did not start counting species in January, so I will attempt to reach my goal between now and December 31st 2010. Right now (since March 1st), the count stands at 22 species, which I think is a good start. However, these twenty-two species include the basic elements of most of my cooking, so it probably will be slow going from here on. If you can think of novel fruits or veggies that I could experiment with, please let me know.
It finally is: Farewell to the Naughties!
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Three Years
Happy Valentine's Day to you all!
Although I don't have much to say today, I wanted to make a quick post noting that today is the third anniversary of my blog. The last half-year has been rather slow in terms of updates and posts, but I anticipate writing some more soon.
I marked this Valentine's day by watching "The Hurt Locker", reading a few chapters of the first Lord Peter Wimsey novel, and eating vadas with tea while it snowed outside my window. Delightful Sunday afternoon, don't you think?
Although I don't have much to say today, I wanted to make a quick post noting that today is the third anniversary of my blog. The last half-year has been rather slow in terms of updates and posts, but I anticipate writing some more soon.
I marked this Valentine's day by watching "The Hurt Locker", reading a few chapters of the first Lord Peter Wimsey novel, and eating vadas with tea while it snowed outside my window. Delightful Sunday afternoon, don't you think?
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Five Months Later...
Hello All,
I have been neglecting my dear old blog for such a long time. There has been so much to write about, and so much that happened - none of which has had a chance to get posted. Over the past five months, I have settled in at my internship in the Twin Cities, completed nearly half of said internship, made some new friends, missed my old friends, had some interesting new experiences including an intimate acquaintance with the “Minnesota nice” which has shaken me up a bit, and have in general been far too busy to be able to make sense enough of my life to post it here. My friend Aarti pitches for a new post every time I see her, and here it finally is - five months later.
Life in Minnesota has been interesting to say the very least. Professionally, I have grown tremendously. Personally, I have grown a lot too. Life keeps casting fascinating things onto my path. Dealing with all of this has been rewarding, but draining too. I do want to talk about everything that I had hoped my time here would be, which it has not been; and of all the unexpected delights that have found their way into my life. My sister has given me various pointers about what I should write, but just thinking about all of that exhausts me. I’m going to do a yearly roundup of books and an update of what I am up to now. But other than that, I think I shall just hope that my wish to write does not dry up, and that I will continue to post about what happens from now on.
I read twenty-eight books this year. That’s one more than last year. I started with the lovely Villette, and it certainly has been a most wonderful year of reading. I don’t think that I had set a reading goal for last year, so I don’t feel disappointed about not meeting it. These are the books I read in 2009:
* The Evil Genius - Collins
* A Few Quick Ones - Wodehouse
* Mystery Mile - Allingham
* The Big Four - Christie
* The Professor - Bronte
* Young Men in Spats - Wodehouse
* Eggs, Beans and Crumpets - Wodehouse
* Service with a Smile - Wodehouse
* Sense and Sensibility - Austen
* The Clocks - Christie
* The Absentee - Edgeworth
* Castle Rackrent - Edgeworth
* The Thin Man - Hammett
* Passenger to Frankfurt - Christie
* The Vicar of Wakefield - Goldsmith
* Unexpected Guest - Christie
* Men Behaving Badly - Nye
* Murder on the Orient Express - Christie
* Thank You Jeeves - Wodehouse
* Rumpole and the Primrose Path - Mortimer
* Right Ho, Jeeves! - Wodehouse
* Carry On, Jeeves - Wodehouse
* How Right You Are Jeeves! - Wodehouse
* A Baker Street Dozen - Doyle
* Love Over Scotland - Smith
* Cranford – Gaskell
* Rumpole Misbehaves – Mortimer
* Villette – Brontë
I also read half of “Roald Dahl's Book of Ghost Stories”, but ended up tossing the book out when I moved to Minneapolis. My goal for this year: thirty books.
I am looking forward to this year. It will probably mark quite a few landmarks for me. I will graduate after a quarter of a century in school. My parents will breathe a sigh of relief – I think they are rather tired of telling people I am still a student. I will have my first “real job”. I will move to some place where I will not live in the anticipation of moving. I have also resolved that I will do several other things that I have always wanted to do, but never got around to. My life is beautiful and only hope dawns on the horizon.
“Thus times do shift; each thing his turn does hold;
New things succeed, as former things grow old.” ~Robert Herrick (Ceremonies upon Candlemas)
Today is Candlemas day. But for my blog and my life in general - quite apt, isn’t it?
I have been neglecting my dear old blog for such a long time. There has been so much to write about, and so much that happened - none of which has had a chance to get posted. Over the past five months, I have settled in at my internship in the Twin Cities, completed nearly half of said internship, made some new friends, missed my old friends, had some interesting new experiences including an intimate acquaintance with the “Minnesota nice” which has shaken me up a bit, and have in general been far too busy to be able to make sense enough of my life to post it here. My friend Aarti pitches for a new post every time I see her, and here it finally is - five months later.
Life in Minnesota has been interesting to say the very least. Professionally, I have grown tremendously. Personally, I have grown a lot too. Life keeps casting fascinating things onto my path. Dealing with all of this has been rewarding, but draining too. I do want to talk about everything that I had hoped my time here would be, which it has not been; and of all the unexpected delights that have found their way into my life. My sister has given me various pointers about what I should write, but just thinking about all of that exhausts me. I’m going to do a yearly roundup of books and an update of what I am up to now. But other than that, I think I shall just hope that my wish to write does not dry up, and that I will continue to post about what happens from now on.
I read twenty-eight books this year. That’s one more than last year. I started with the lovely Villette, and it certainly has been a most wonderful year of reading. I don’t think that I had set a reading goal for last year, so I don’t feel disappointed about not meeting it. These are the books I read in 2009:
* The Evil Genius - Collins
* A Few Quick Ones - Wodehouse
* Mystery Mile - Allingham
* The Big Four - Christie
* The Professor - Bronte
* Young Men in Spats - Wodehouse
* Eggs, Beans and Crumpets - Wodehouse
* Service with a Smile - Wodehouse
* Sense and Sensibility - Austen
* The Clocks - Christie
* The Absentee - Edgeworth
* Castle Rackrent - Edgeworth
* The Thin Man - Hammett
* Passenger to Frankfurt - Christie
* The Vicar of Wakefield - Goldsmith
* Unexpected Guest - Christie
* Men Behaving Badly - Nye
* Murder on the Orient Express - Christie
* Thank You Jeeves - Wodehouse
* Rumpole and the Primrose Path - Mortimer
* Right Ho, Jeeves! - Wodehouse
* Carry On, Jeeves - Wodehouse
* How Right You Are Jeeves! - Wodehouse
* A Baker Street Dozen - Doyle
* Love Over Scotland - Smith
* Cranford – Gaskell
* Rumpole Misbehaves – Mortimer
* Villette – Brontë
I also read half of “Roald Dahl's Book of Ghost Stories”, but ended up tossing the book out when I moved to Minneapolis. My goal for this year: thirty books.
I am looking forward to this year. It will probably mark quite a few landmarks for me. I will graduate after a quarter of a century in school. My parents will breathe a sigh of relief – I think they are rather tired of telling people I am still a student. I will have my first “real job”. I will move to some place where I will not live in the anticipation of moving. I have also resolved that I will do several other things that I have always wanted to do, but never got around to. My life is beautiful and only hope dawns on the horizon.
“Thus times do shift; each thing his turn does hold;
New things succeed, as former things grow old.” ~Robert Herrick (Ceremonies upon Candlemas)
Today is Candlemas day. But for my blog and my life in general - quite apt, isn’t it?
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
The Big Move
Despite having a month filled to the brim with things I could write about, I have not had the chance to make a post about said things. Over the past month, I have pulled out every single thing, hidden or otherwise, and decided if it would make the journey with me to Minneapolis. I donated or discarded several things – mostly clothes and furniture, and lovingly packed several other things – mostly mementos and other stuff that I don’t really need, but am too soppy to let go of.
“Arranging long-locked drawers and shelves
Of cabinets, shut up for years,
What a strange task we’ve set ourselves!
How still the lonely room appears!
How strange this mass of ancient treasures,
Mementos of past pains and pleasures;
These volumes, clasped with costly stone,
With print all faded, gilding gone;
These fans of leaves from Indian trees--
These crimson shells, from Indian seas--
These tiny portraits, set in rings--
Once, doubtless, deemed such precious things…”
While I was busy packing the evidence of my entire existence into the contents of one large cupboard, I also wrapped up other business in town and got ready to move into a quaint little studio flat that I found almost a month and a half ago. I had gone to Minneapolis to look for apartments, and stayed with my friends A & A. Almost as eager to find me a new place as I myself was, they joined me in scouting the internet for ads, and touring a few places with me. Thankfully, they also managed to keep cool heads about it unlike me, and rescued me from rashly engaging apartments that I liked on the spot. Anyhow, on my third day there, I walked into the apartment that was “the one”. I bunged in an application and the necessary holding fee the next day; and the month following this has been one of impatient and eager anticipation.
And when the day of moving (yesterday) finally came, I teamed with a friend A on this end and friends A & A on that end (I seem to have lots of friends whose names begin with A), to complete the move. While leaving a place I called home for the last five years was a bit upsetting, it was coupled with the excitement about being in a new, and well-loved city. Sadly, as I had to return the rental moving truck the very next day, the most I could enjoy of my new place was the view of a spanking clean room with old and familiar stuff dumped all over the floor. I return in three days time to piece my space back together again. Updates re: the new place shall hopefully not be as tardy as this one.
P.S. Poetry courtesy Charlotte Bronte (published as Currer Bell)
“Arranging long-locked drawers and shelves
Of cabinets, shut up for years,
What a strange task we’ve set ourselves!
How still the lonely room appears!
How strange this mass of ancient treasures,
Mementos of past pains and pleasures;
These volumes, clasped with costly stone,
With print all faded, gilding gone;
These fans of leaves from Indian trees--
These crimson shells, from Indian seas--
These tiny portraits, set in rings--
Once, doubtless, deemed such precious things…”
While I was busy packing the evidence of my entire existence into the contents of one large cupboard, I also wrapped up other business in town and got ready to move into a quaint little studio flat that I found almost a month and a half ago. I had gone to Minneapolis to look for apartments, and stayed with my friends A & A. Almost as eager to find me a new place as I myself was, they joined me in scouting the internet for ads, and touring a few places with me. Thankfully, they also managed to keep cool heads about it unlike me, and rescued me from rashly engaging apartments that I liked on the spot. Anyhow, on my third day there, I walked into the apartment that was “the one”. I bunged in an application and the necessary holding fee the next day; and the month following this has been one of impatient and eager anticipation.
And when the day of moving (yesterday) finally came, I teamed with a friend A on this end and friends A & A on that end (I seem to have lots of friends whose names begin with A), to complete the move. While leaving a place I called home for the last five years was a bit upsetting, it was coupled with the excitement about being in a new, and well-loved city. Sadly, as I had to return the rental moving truck the very next day, the most I could enjoy of my new place was the view of a spanking clean room with old and familiar stuff dumped all over the floor. I return in three days time to piece my space back together again. Updates re: the new place shall hopefully not be as tardy as this one.
P.S. Poetry courtesy Charlotte Bronte (published as Currer Bell)
Friday, July 3, 2009
Thirty Years
I turned thirty today. I ought to be depressed – that is what thirty-year-olds are supposed to feel. But, I feel no different than I did on my twenty-nine-year-old yesterday. I expected to feel numb, but if anything I feel a sense of elation. All creation makes itself agreeable to me – the weather in Kansas City is dark, overcast, windy and wet. Some call it depressing, but it is the perfect mix of the elements in my opinion. I ushered my thirtieth year in by singing Happy Birthday to myself in unison with my sister who gave me a chocolate cake and several quaint gifts. Friends and family called and wished me, and I went to bed as happy and contented as I did the first night I came into the world.
As I reflect on my thirty years, I notice just the same mix of the beautiful and the beastly as everyone else. I have had my share of the laughter, adventure, disappointment and heartbreak that is due me. I have met and been influenced for better or for worse by the most interesting kinds of people. Sadly not one amongst them was a perfect saint, and thankfully none of them was an Iago. I am right now at a point in my life which I could scarcely have imagined ten years ago. And yet, I revel in my achievements and am satisfied and happy. And if the next thirty years of my life could leave me as contented as these past thirty have, then I shall count myself blessed.
"Here at my feet what wonders pass,
What endless, active life is here!
What blowing daisies, fragrant grass!
An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear." ~ Matthew Arnold
As I reflect on my thirty years, I notice just the same mix of the beautiful and the beastly as everyone else. I have had my share of the laughter, adventure, disappointment and heartbreak that is due me. I have met and been influenced for better or for worse by the most interesting kinds of people. Sadly not one amongst them was a perfect saint, and thankfully none of them was an Iago. I am right now at a point in my life which I could scarcely have imagined ten years ago. And yet, I revel in my achievements and am satisfied and happy. And if the next thirty years of my life could leave me as contented as these past thirty have, then I shall count myself blessed.
"Here at my feet what wonders pass,
What endless, active life is here!
What blowing daisies, fragrant grass!
An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear." ~ Matthew Arnold
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Stupid Indian Soaps
Each evening after the day’s labors, I used to get back home and indulge in my daily dose of crap reality shows where absolutely idiotic men and women get drunk and go about competing for money, the love of dubious B-grade celebrities and so on. I was thoroughly embarrassed by my guilty hour of mindless entertainment, but since coming to India and watching Indian TV for five days, I have developed a strange sense of pride in my enjoyment of American reality TV. Indian television, which I used to love for the quality of its televised serials, has lost all its erstwhile glory. Most shows on Indian TV these days appear to be soap operas or melodrama-filled game shows.
The soap operas are so insufferably stupid, that I feel sick. In addition to having absolutely no plot whatsoever, they are infuriatingly sexist and unashamedly promote ridiculously conventional ideals. Ironically most of the characters are women, but each one of them is either diabolically evil and malicious, or unbearably conventional and good. All of them wear several kilograms of bangles that sheath their hands from wrist to elbow in a sickeningly gaudy display. Every other part of their bodies that can possibly be, is adorned with other similarly outlandish jewelry. And the ‘good’ women are defined entirely in terms of the men in their lives – as daughters, wives, sisters and mothers – not a single independent personality amongst the lot of them. None of them have an occupation – none of the wives anyway. The sisters might be something completely gender-biased such as a fashion-designer or a school teacher. The men on the other hand are mostly businesspersons and keep out of the way of the women’s machinations – is it any wonder that many Indian men think that women are not to be trusted and are underhand and devious? Furthermore, all these ‘good’ women are painstakingly devout – every second sentence that they speak is either a prayer or an affirmation of faith. At least one segment of each half-hour episode is devoted to a melodramatic prayer with the woman beseeching her deity that her mentally challenged husband (a fact she did not know when she was tricked into marrying him, but now she believes that taking care of him and lovingly feeding him his food and so on is her supreme duty) be spared the pain of losing a cricket match to his brother who is married to the wicked and scheming sister-in-law. I bet Indian television would never dare to portray an atheist spinster scientist as a good woman, or a man subscribing to feminist principles as an ideal man. I am so angry I want to punch a hole through the television screen. At least in the idiotic reality television, women are afforded the choice to be able to make utter fools of themselves. I am told that these soap operas are highly celebrated television serials. To each his own, and those that watch them are welcome to them. As for me, I would much rather watch drunken degradation than have conventionality stuffed down my throat.
P.S. Disillusioned with television, I have turned to my ever faithful entertainers – books. When mummy and daddy are off at work, knowing nothing of this strange new city, I find that I have nothing else to do but read. I’m polishing them off at the wonderful rate of one book every couple of days. I’m done with two Agatha Christie-s (one of which – “Passenger to Frankfurt” – surprisingly reads less like Christie and more like John le Carre), have finally finished “The Thin Man” (which despite Sinclair Lewis’ assertion that it is a book you cannot possibly put down once begun, I have been inching through for almost a whole year now), and am almost done with the “Vicar of Wakefield” which I am finding enormously entertaining. I hope to be done with at least five more before I return to the US.
The soap operas are so insufferably stupid, that I feel sick. In addition to having absolutely no plot whatsoever, they are infuriatingly sexist and unashamedly promote ridiculously conventional ideals. Ironically most of the characters are women, but each one of them is either diabolically evil and malicious, or unbearably conventional and good. All of them wear several kilograms of bangles that sheath their hands from wrist to elbow in a sickeningly gaudy display. Every other part of their bodies that can possibly be, is adorned with other similarly outlandish jewelry. And the ‘good’ women are defined entirely in terms of the men in their lives – as daughters, wives, sisters and mothers – not a single independent personality amongst the lot of them. None of them have an occupation – none of the wives anyway. The sisters might be something completely gender-biased such as a fashion-designer or a school teacher. The men on the other hand are mostly businesspersons and keep out of the way of the women’s machinations – is it any wonder that many Indian men think that women are not to be trusted and are underhand and devious? Furthermore, all these ‘good’ women are painstakingly devout – every second sentence that they speak is either a prayer or an affirmation of faith. At least one segment of each half-hour episode is devoted to a melodramatic prayer with the woman beseeching her deity that her mentally challenged husband (a fact she did not know when she was tricked into marrying him, but now she believes that taking care of him and lovingly feeding him his food and so on is her supreme duty) be spared the pain of losing a cricket match to his brother who is married to the wicked and scheming sister-in-law. I bet Indian television would never dare to portray an atheist spinster scientist as a good woman, or a man subscribing to feminist principles as an ideal man. I am so angry I want to punch a hole through the television screen. At least in the idiotic reality television, women are afforded the choice to be able to make utter fools of themselves. I am told that these soap operas are highly celebrated television serials. To each his own, and those that watch them are welcome to them. As for me, I would much rather watch drunken degradation than have conventionality stuffed down my throat.
P.S. Disillusioned with television, I have turned to my ever faithful entertainers – books. When mummy and daddy are off at work, knowing nothing of this strange new city, I find that I have nothing else to do but read. I’m polishing them off at the wonderful rate of one book every couple of days. I’m done with two Agatha Christie-s (one of which – “Passenger to Frankfurt” – surprisingly reads less like Christie and more like John le Carre), have finally finished “The Thin Man” (which despite Sinclair Lewis’ assertion that it is a book you cannot possibly put down once begun, I have been inching through for almost a whole year now), and am almost done with the “Vicar of Wakefield” which I am finding enormously entertaining. I hope to be done with at least five more before I return to the US.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Dr. Me
This afternoon, I got all dressed up and dolled up, went to school, and shut myself up in a room with six professors for two hours. At the end of that time, I emerged alone and paced around in the hallway while the posse of profs debated about what I had said in there. Ten minutes later, my advisor popped out smiling a big smile. She then threw her arms around me in a warm hug and said:
"CONGRATULATIONS DR. ME"
Yes, after months of crazy preperation, I successfully defended my dissertation this afternoon. I can't stop grinning, want to pat little children on their heads, blow kisses to strangers in the street, and am generally in love with everything and everybody. Coming at the end of the most productive year of my life (getting my second masters, passing the Ph.D. qualifiers, proposing my dissertation, and applying and matching to an excellent internship), this is the pinnacle of my educational career. I've done it - I've got my Ph.D!!! (Actually, I technically won't until I finish my internship. But without today's victory, I would not get the degree).
I called my sister, my parents and a few friends. Then I had a quiet celebratory dinner with three of my closest friends in Ames. I shall never again have to spend sleepless nights at school, and can now enjoy my weekends without feeling guilty about not having completed research or assignments. I feel rejuvenated. Once again: Amat victoria curam!
Monday, April 20, 2009
The Auto-complete List
Ha Ha Ha!!! I feel so stupid and yet so gleeful saying this: I am now on the autocomplete function on google. This is hilarious. When I googled myself and saw my name on the auto-complete list, I was astonished. At first I thought that it must be because there are lots of people with my name. But it turns out that the majority of hits (those that do not have a comma between my first and last names) are indeed related to me. Presumably, this is either because there is a lot of information about me out on the internet, or there have been a lot of people looking me up - I am not sure which of these google uses as a auto-complete list criteria. And I am not convinced that either of these is a very good thing, but am nevertheless flattered.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
What Has Happened To Me?
I don't know the answer to the above question. My life has suddenly become more banal than ever. I go from home to school and back home again in a sort of daze, and nothing seems important enough to report. Although that sounds very much like a bout of depression, I can safely say that I am actually quite happy. I have a dissertation defense date set for the 15th of May, and I am looking forward to the summer holiday. I am also beginning to wrap up things in Ames in anticipation of my big move in August. Things are looking cheery, hopeful and very busy. But nothing seems important enough to post on here. I do wish something exciting would happen to me!!!
However, having come to the terrible, but inevitable conclusion that nothing exciting or new is going to happen to me unless I make it happen, I make the following resolutions for the coming month (and hopefully will follow through on them):
ONE:
Will buy a nice variety of alcohol and mix myself a fancy cocktail every other night. (This one is inspired by an envious admiration of my friends A & A's choice collection of booze bottles).
TWO:
Will watch ABSOLUTELY NO cable television - especially crap reality shows (news shall be excepted); and go for an hour-long walk each night instead in order to enjoy the wonderful weather that Iowa is getting these days. This will also be time to muse and think up things I want to post on here.
THREE:
Will call one of my friends each night. Maybe the reason for the dried up imagination is the unwitting isolation I've let myself into during this busy month.
FOUR:
Will eat at one (or two) restaurant(s) each week which I have not been to during my stay in Ames. For Lent, I gave up eating out when I was not travelling. While this did vastly improve my home-cooking and bank balance, it did rather take a lot of fun out of the eating. Now, I intend to savor every single non-chain restaurant in Ames between now and August.
Let's hope that makes life more interesting and gives me more to write about. Stay tuned...
However, having come to the terrible, but inevitable conclusion that nothing exciting or new is going to happen to me unless I make it happen, I make the following resolutions for the coming month (and hopefully will follow through on them):
ONE:
Will buy a nice variety of alcohol and mix myself a fancy cocktail every other night. (This one is inspired by an envious admiration of my friends A & A's choice collection of booze bottles).
TWO:
Will watch ABSOLUTELY NO cable television - especially crap reality shows (news shall be excepted); and go for an hour-long walk each night instead in order to enjoy the wonderful weather that Iowa is getting these days. This will also be time to muse and think up things I want to post on here.
THREE:
Will call one of my friends each night. Maybe the reason for the dried up imagination is the unwitting isolation I've let myself into during this busy month.
FOUR:
Will eat at one (or two) restaurant(s) each week which I have not been to during my stay in Ames. For Lent, I gave up eating out when I was not travelling. While this did vastly improve my home-cooking and bank balance, it did rather take a lot of fun out of the eating. Now, I intend to savor every single non-chain restaurant in Ames between now and August.
Let's hope that makes life more interesting and gives me more to write about. Stay tuned...
I've Been Busy - In Verse
I have been busy all month, and these lines from Anne Bronte's "The Student's Serenade" capture what the past few weeks have been like.
"I have slept upon my couch,
But my spirit did not rest,
For the labours of the day
Yet my weary soul opprest;
And, before my dreaming eyes
Still the learned volumes lay,
And I could not close their leaves,
And I could not turn away." ~ Anne Bronte (published as Acton Bell)
I'm writing an update that I'll post in a little bit...
"I have slept upon my couch,
But my spirit did not rest,
For the labours of the day
Yet my weary soul opprest;
And, before my dreaming eyes
Still the learned volumes lay,
And I could not close their leaves,
And I could not turn away." ~ Anne Bronte (published as Acton Bell)
I'm writing an update that I'll post in a little bit...
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The Fourth State
Today, Vermont has become the fourth U.S. state to legalize gay marriage — and the first to do so with a legislature's vote. This happy news comes at the heels of the April 3rd legalization of same-sex unions in Iowa, the state I live in. On Friday, the Iowa Supreme Court legalized gay marriage by a unanimous decision. And today, Vermont did so by the legislature's vote. Of course, there is widespread uproar and unrest at these decisions. Already, opponents of the same-sex marriages are seeking constitutional amendments that will reverse these controversial laws.
I simply do not understand people who oppose same-sex marriage. I get that many people, for primarily religious reasons do not think that same-sex relations are right. And I am okay with religious institutions not accepting such unions. But why some people think that the non-religious state should discriminate against gay individuals (or indeed side with a religion on any issue) is beyond me! Homosexual individuals and their allies have yet to go a far way in their struggle. Congratulations to them on their second victory in the same week!
I simply do not understand people who oppose same-sex marriage. I get that many people, for primarily religious reasons do not think that same-sex relations are right. And I am okay with religious institutions not accepting such unions. But why some people think that the non-religious state should discriminate against gay individuals (or indeed side with a religion on any issue) is beyond me! Homosexual individuals and their allies have yet to go a far way in their struggle. Congratulations to them on their second victory in the same week!
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Beaded Lace
Those of you who know me, know that no matter how liberal I might be in terms of my attitudes and beliefs, I tend to be pretty old-fashioned when it comes to my tastes in design, décor, architecture, and lifestyle. My furniture is well-worn and cozy, I rarely hang abstract pictures on my walls, my surroundings in general tend to veer away from minimalism or cold straight lines, and anything that is old or antique finds a warm reception in my environment. Of course, this makes me less fashionable. But I don’t care too much about that sort of thing.
In my quest to obtain quaint little knick-knacks for my home, I comb thrift stores, garage sales, antique malls, and so on. However, I rarely make anything old-world myself. Since it would seem that most of my creativity in writing seems to have dried up over the past few months, I decided to craft something. I was looking for inspiration, when I found it in the old britcoms that I watch. First in “Jeeves and Wooster”, and in quick succession later that night in “Rumpole of the Bailey”, I chanced to see two very delightful beaded lace jug covers. I was captivated and wanted one.
Following some preliminary research, I found that lace covers used to be used in pre-refrigerator days to keep the flies out of drinks. The lace was usually weighed down with beads so it stayed in place and did now blow away easily. I briefly considered making my own lace, but discarded the thought quickly – I can’t tat very well, and I wanted this jug cover quick! So, off it was to Hobby Lobby where I purchased several glass beads, and a lace doily. Then, I beaded round and drop beads together and sewed the loop to the ends of the doily. The result is magnificent – not quite as authentic as a real lace jug cover, but close enough. I’ve been using it all the time ever since. Mostly to cover a jug of lemonade, but I also have started using a creamer for my tea – which I have never done before – just so that I may be able to use the lace. This fascination won’t last of course, but it’s fun while it does.
P.S. I could not help clicking lots of pictures… enjoy!
Beaded lace on the lemonade jug…
…on a glass of lemonade…
…on the creamer that I usually don’t use…
In my quest to obtain quaint little knick-knacks for my home, I comb thrift stores, garage sales, antique malls, and so on. However, I rarely make anything old-world myself. Since it would seem that most of my creativity in writing seems to have dried up over the past few months, I decided to craft something. I was looking for inspiration, when I found it in the old britcoms that I watch. First in “Jeeves and Wooster”, and in quick succession later that night in “Rumpole of the Bailey”, I chanced to see two very delightful beaded lace jug covers. I was captivated and wanted one.
Following some preliminary research, I found that lace covers used to be used in pre-refrigerator days to keep the flies out of drinks. The lace was usually weighed down with beads so it stayed in place and did now blow away easily. I briefly considered making my own lace, but discarded the thought quickly – I can’t tat very well, and I wanted this jug cover quick! So, off it was to Hobby Lobby where I purchased several glass beads, and a lace doily. Then, I beaded round and drop beads together and sewed the loop to the ends of the doily. The result is magnificent – not quite as authentic as a real lace jug cover, but close enough. I’ve been using it all the time ever since. Mostly to cover a jug of lemonade, but I also have started using a creamer for my tea – which I have never done before – just so that I may be able to use the lace. This fascination won’t last of course, but it’s fun while it does.
P.S. I could not help clicking lots of pictures… enjoy!
Beaded lace on the lemonade jug…
…on a glass of lemonade…
…on the creamer that I usually don’t use…
Monday, February 23, 2009
Match Day News...
I just heard about my internship for next year... I got matched to the University of Minnesota - Minneapolis! Yahoo!
Laissez les bon temps rouler!!!
Laissez les bon temps rouler!!!
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The Green Fountain Pen
As Valentine’s day came and passed, I began thinking about all the different loves of my life. I am not talking about the various things I am passionate about, and these are numerous. No, I am talking about the men I have been infatuated with. These have been numerous too. By now, you all know that it takes me absolutely no time to build up a fantasy land, replete with fantasy situations and fantasy romances. Throughout my life, I have built fantasies around many things – places, objects, music, animals… the list is endless. Individuals of the opposite sex occupy no small part on this list. Talking about all of them is going to take too long. Maybe I’ll start a series on them. But today is devoted to the charming W. who gave me a beautiful green fountain pen.
On the street that we lived on when I was growing up, there were no other children my age. Everyone who was not an adult was either an infant, or belonged to that delightful section of teenage where one firmly believes that one is an adult, and is always shocked to see that one’s parents don’t think so. In any case, once I returned home from school, other than my sister I had no one else to play with. The infants were boring and played ridiculously childish games that I thought were shockingly stupid and completely beneath my level of maturity. And those in their late adolescence treated me with a sort of benign pity, as if to sympathize with how young I was while also thanking the heavens that they were not that young and they never again had to be. Interestingly enough, all of these arrogant youngsters happened to be boys. The girls of such an age seemed to be secreted in the inner chambers of their houses. Hyderabad in those days used to be a much more conservative city than it is today. We lived close to the Old City, and it was not at all unusual to see burqa-clad women walk the streets, and for less-than opulent houses to have inner chambers that functioned as the women’s quarters. In any case, this was where the young women were – shielded from the eyes of the young men. But this is beside the point – it is the boys, or rather a boy that is of interest to this story.
Two doors down from my house, was the home of a large family. There was a grandfather, and a grandmother, and numerous uncles and aunts, and an absolute army of children – whose ages ranged from the early twenties to a few months, though still none in my age group. I always wondered as a child how they all fit into that one small house. As I grew older, I noticed that the presence or absence of the members of this clan seemed to rotate with the seasons. January and February belonged to Uncle X and his family, May and June to Auntie Y, and so on. It turns out that only the grandparents actually lived in the house, their numerous offspring - most of whom lived abroad - turned up about once a year to visit them.
One summer holiday, when I was about 12 years old, a new kid whom I had never noticed before surfaced within this clan. I call him a kid, but in reality he was about 7 years older than I was. He was cheerful and charming, but ever so intrusive. I was used to regarding this family (and indeed the inhabitants of my entire street), as interesting subjects from an anthropological viewpoint, and observed everybody closely. For the most part, they never noticed, and if they did, they all ignored me. That is, all except one. The new kid started back – as though I provided him with as much amusement as he did me. He would even go a bit further – he’d follow me around and stare at me. It’s not quite creepy as it sounds because I think he did it as a way of putting me in my place. And like all the other young men his age, he regarded me with a sort of benevolent pity. And he always had a smile playing at the corners of his mouth – an open and ready smile. He seemed to find my embarrassment, and my discomfort enormously entertaining. I hated him. At times I had an advantage over him – the vantage point from which I did most of my ‘anthropological observing’ was a section of my house which had a sort of screen one could look through without being seen. From this vantage point, set higher up than the single-story house he lived in, I observed him go about his day. It was sheer delight to be able to watch him – he had the other children devotedly following him about, and he seemed to be a favorite amongst those older than him. He was charming and delightful. I never could hear what he was saying, but he had everyone in bits and pieces. And watching him made me smile. Two months later, he disappeared.
Two years later, he miraculously appeared again. This time, I was older and wiser, and did not spend too much time perched behind the screen wall on my roof. I had my tenth class board examinations to study for – they were a year away, but my mother made sure I was at my books each day in preparation. Every once in a while, I’d see him in the street and he’d smile at me with the same kind of benevolent sympathy that he had done two years before. But this time, it infuriated me. What was his problem, I’d mutter to myself, fuming! I was fourteen, and practically and adult! What did he mean by smiling at me in such a pathetic fashion? How dare he? Did he not see that I no longer had time for this? He might be here to enjoy his summer holidays, but I had no time to waste. I would seethe with anger at him. But anyone who has been fourteen, and has professed hatred for someone who once fascinated them, knows that beneath the burning passion of fourteen year-old hatred, beats the heart of a much more tender feeling – fully blown infatuation. I was smitten by him. The more he treated me like a child, the more I wanted him to feel I was his equal. The more benevolently he smiled at me, the harder I fought back the tears. The more good-natured he was, the more violently I sobbed at night. He haunted my thoughts day and night. I experienced a rare and beautiful heartache, all summer long.
Two weeks before he left Hyderabad, one balmy summer evening found us both on our terraces. I was reading an old and battered book. He was playing with one of the numerous infants who inhabited his house. I would look coyly at him, and he would smile. It took me all my courage to stay put and not disappear indoors. Surprisingly, it seemed that he was finding it difficult to say something to me. This was not lost on me, and it made my heart ache even harder for him. Finally he spoke, and I heard his voice for the first time. There was nothing spectacular in his voice or what he asked me, but it was sweet relief to hear it. He asked me what I was reading. I told him, he asked me if he could see the book, and he scaled the terrace that separated our homes. As I passed the book to him, he smiled, and I saw that he was shy too. It was the closest I had ever been to him, and I was weak at the knees. He flipped through the pages of the book and then asked to borrow it. I nodded assent – I would give anything to talk with him again. He asked me my name. At the time, I had been reading another book in which the child-heroine was called “Susanna”. I told him that was my name. I knew instantly that he did not believe it – he knew my name already. But he said nothing, and told me it was a beautiful name. In that moment, knowing that he went along with my little falsehood to humor me, I loved him more than ever. His name, he said, was W.
All week long, I repeated his name to myself countless times. I built beautiful fantasies of a shared life together. It was the most delightful week of my fourteenth year. A week later, he returned my book to me. On one of the pages, he had written his name and his address in a faraway land. He also seemed to have scented the page – because it smelt wonderfully like him. He wanted me to write to him, he said. And he gave me a slim box wrapped in festive foil. He bade me open it, and I did. In the box was a green Parker fountain pen. It was beautiful. I promised to write. A week later when he left, I sobbed myself to sleep for a fortnight. We exchanged two letters. In the letters, he called me Susanna. But the intensity of my feelings for him was lost in them, and I looked forward to his return two years later.
When he did, we were both older. He tried to talk to me once, but out of fear of something unknown, I was unkind to him. He left again, only to return a year later. This time around, we got an invitation to his wedding. I felt empty when I saw the invitation, and although I knew that I did not love him, I was jealous of his new bride. At the end of that summer, I left to go to college in Kerala. The next time I saw him was four years later. I was twenty-one, and he was twenty-eight. He had always been handsome, but now he was radiantly so. He had lost none of the charming and impish smile, but it was tempered with an easy and mature air that became him well. One evening, as I was walking along a different street of the colony, a motorbike pulled up beside me. I looked around sharply, and there he was. He had a small child on the bike with him, whom he introduced to me as his son. The child had his father’s good looks, and good nature. ‘Can we not be friends?’ W. asked, and I said that we could. This exchange was neither bursting with supressed passion like our first had been, nor bitter like our later meeting had been. It was easy, and light. It was also our last. I have not seen him since. As long as my sister lived in India, each summer I’d ask her if he had come home for the holidays. I don’t love him anymore, maybe I never actually did love him. But I dearly cherish my childish infatuation.
The green Parker fountain-pen was stolen from me at my college-hostel. It was well-loved and well-used, and I never wrote in my diary with any other pen until it disappeared one day from my desk. I still have the diary in which I wrote of my childish fantasies about W. And on my bookshelf in Ames, sits a book whose inner pages hold a long-faded scent, and a slightly smudgy name and address that remind me each time I read them of balmy summer evenings, and beautiful heartache.
On the street that we lived on when I was growing up, there were no other children my age. Everyone who was not an adult was either an infant, or belonged to that delightful section of teenage where one firmly believes that one is an adult, and is always shocked to see that one’s parents don’t think so. In any case, once I returned home from school, other than my sister I had no one else to play with. The infants were boring and played ridiculously childish games that I thought were shockingly stupid and completely beneath my level of maturity. And those in their late adolescence treated me with a sort of benign pity, as if to sympathize with how young I was while also thanking the heavens that they were not that young and they never again had to be. Interestingly enough, all of these arrogant youngsters happened to be boys. The girls of such an age seemed to be secreted in the inner chambers of their houses. Hyderabad in those days used to be a much more conservative city than it is today. We lived close to the Old City, and it was not at all unusual to see burqa-clad women walk the streets, and for less-than opulent houses to have inner chambers that functioned as the women’s quarters. In any case, this was where the young women were – shielded from the eyes of the young men. But this is beside the point – it is the boys, or rather a boy that is of interest to this story.
Two doors down from my house, was the home of a large family. There was a grandfather, and a grandmother, and numerous uncles and aunts, and an absolute army of children – whose ages ranged from the early twenties to a few months, though still none in my age group. I always wondered as a child how they all fit into that one small house. As I grew older, I noticed that the presence or absence of the members of this clan seemed to rotate with the seasons. January and February belonged to Uncle X and his family, May and June to Auntie Y, and so on. It turns out that only the grandparents actually lived in the house, their numerous offspring - most of whom lived abroad - turned up about once a year to visit them.
One summer holiday, when I was about 12 years old, a new kid whom I had never noticed before surfaced within this clan. I call him a kid, but in reality he was about 7 years older than I was. He was cheerful and charming, but ever so intrusive. I was used to regarding this family (and indeed the inhabitants of my entire street), as interesting subjects from an anthropological viewpoint, and observed everybody closely. For the most part, they never noticed, and if they did, they all ignored me. That is, all except one. The new kid started back – as though I provided him with as much amusement as he did me. He would even go a bit further – he’d follow me around and stare at me. It’s not quite creepy as it sounds because I think he did it as a way of putting me in my place. And like all the other young men his age, he regarded me with a sort of benevolent pity. And he always had a smile playing at the corners of his mouth – an open and ready smile. He seemed to find my embarrassment, and my discomfort enormously entertaining. I hated him. At times I had an advantage over him – the vantage point from which I did most of my ‘anthropological observing’ was a section of my house which had a sort of screen one could look through without being seen. From this vantage point, set higher up than the single-story house he lived in, I observed him go about his day. It was sheer delight to be able to watch him – he had the other children devotedly following him about, and he seemed to be a favorite amongst those older than him. He was charming and delightful. I never could hear what he was saying, but he had everyone in bits and pieces. And watching him made me smile. Two months later, he disappeared.
Two years later, he miraculously appeared again. This time, I was older and wiser, and did not spend too much time perched behind the screen wall on my roof. I had my tenth class board examinations to study for – they were a year away, but my mother made sure I was at my books each day in preparation. Every once in a while, I’d see him in the street and he’d smile at me with the same kind of benevolent sympathy that he had done two years before. But this time, it infuriated me. What was his problem, I’d mutter to myself, fuming! I was fourteen, and practically and adult! What did he mean by smiling at me in such a pathetic fashion? How dare he? Did he not see that I no longer had time for this? He might be here to enjoy his summer holidays, but I had no time to waste. I would seethe with anger at him. But anyone who has been fourteen, and has professed hatred for someone who once fascinated them, knows that beneath the burning passion of fourteen year-old hatred, beats the heart of a much more tender feeling – fully blown infatuation. I was smitten by him. The more he treated me like a child, the more I wanted him to feel I was his equal. The more benevolently he smiled at me, the harder I fought back the tears. The more good-natured he was, the more violently I sobbed at night. He haunted my thoughts day and night. I experienced a rare and beautiful heartache, all summer long.
Two weeks before he left Hyderabad, one balmy summer evening found us both on our terraces. I was reading an old and battered book. He was playing with one of the numerous infants who inhabited his house. I would look coyly at him, and he would smile. It took me all my courage to stay put and not disappear indoors. Surprisingly, it seemed that he was finding it difficult to say something to me. This was not lost on me, and it made my heart ache even harder for him. Finally he spoke, and I heard his voice for the first time. There was nothing spectacular in his voice or what he asked me, but it was sweet relief to hear it. He asked me what I was reading. I told him, he asked me if he could see the book, and he scaled the terrace that separated our homes. As I passed the book to him, he smiled, and I saw that he was shy too. It was the closest I had ever been to him, and I was weak at the knees. He flipped through the pages of the book and then asked to borrow it. I nodded assent – I would give anything to talk with him again. He asked me my name. At the time, I had been reading another book in which the child-heroine was called “Susanna”. I told him that was my name. I knew instantly that he did not believe it – he knew my name already. But he said nothing, and told me it was a beautiful name. In that moment, knowing that he went along with my little falsehood to humor me, I loved him more than ever. His name, he said, was W.
All week long, I repeated his name to myself countless times. I built beautiful fantasies of a shared life together. It was the most delightful week of my fourteenth year. A week later, he returned my book to me. On one of the pages, he had written his name and his address in a faraway land. He also seemed to have scented the page – because it smelt wonderfully like him. He wanted me to write to him, he said. And he gave me a slim box wrapped in festive foil. He bade me open it, and I did. In the box was a green Parker fountain pen. It was beautiful. I promised to write. A week later when he left, I sobbed myself to sleep for a fortnight. We exchanged two letters. In the letters, he called me Susanna. But the intensity of my feelings for him was lost in them, and I looked forward to his return two years later.
When he did, we were both older. He tried to talk to me once, but out of fear of something unknown, I was unkind to him. He left again, only to return a year later. This time around, we got an invitation to his wedding. I felt empty when I saw the invitation, and although I knew that I did not love him, I was jealous of his new bride. At the end of that summer, I left to go to college in Kerala. The next time I saw him was four years later. I was twenty-one, and he was twenty-eight. He had always been handsome, but now he was radiantly so. He had lost none of the charming and impish smile, but it was tempered with an easy and mature air that became him well. One evening, as I was walking along a different street of the colony, a motorbike pulled up beside me. I looked around sharply, and there he was. He had a small child on the bike with him, whom he introduced to me as his son. The child had his father’s good looks, and good nature. ‘Can we not be friends?’ W. asked, and I said that we could. This exchange was neither bursting with supressed passion like our first had been, nor bitter like our later meeting had been. It was easy, and light. It was also our last. I have not seen him since. As long as my sister lived in India, each summer I’d ask her if he had come home for the holidays. I don’t love him anymore, maybe I never actually did love him. But I dearly cherish my childish infatuation.
The green Parker fountain-pen was stolen from me at my college-hostel. It was well-loved and well-used, and I never wrote in my diary with any other pen until it disappeared one day from my desk. I still have the diary in which I wrote of my childish fantasies about W. And on my bookshelf in Ames, sits a book whose inner pages hold a long-faded scent, and a slightly smudgy name and address that remind me each time I read them of balmy summer evenings, and beautiful heartache.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Two Years
It's my blog's second anniversary! Two years and counting...
Also, HAPPY VALENTINE's DAY to all my readers!
Also, HAPPY VALENTINE's DAY to all my readers!
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Paulina
On Sunday afternoon, I was feeling bored. It was beautiful outside, and I decided to walk to the grocery store instead of driving. Right next to my local Hy-Vee is a Goodwill store, and I often stop in here to see if I can spot a good item at a bargain price. I usually don’t. But this Sunday, between the framed pictures, and the furniture, I found a gem! It was a black wrought iron clock – beautifully built. It was also a Howard Miller clock. I don’t know very much about clocks, but I knew enough to know that this was a clock of a rather good make. I grabbed it up and looked for any tell-tale signs about why it might have been given away to Goodwill. None presented itself. It was in perfect condition - not a scratch or dent. So, I walked to the sorting room and asked an attendant if he had a couple of batteries so I could see if the thing worked. It did. I was still skeptical – maybe it did not keep very good time. It was marked at $3.99, so I thought I’d give it a shot. I could always re-donate it later if I found it faulty.
So, holding it in my hand and went to browse the second-hand books. As I was looking at the books, a voice behind me said, “That’s missing a piece.” I turned around. An elderly gentleman was smiling at me and pointing at my clock. I was surprised. It looked okay to me. He must have sensed the confusion in my face. “The pendulum”, he said. “That clock used to have a pendulum.” I turned the clock over and looked at it. The man pointed at the spot for the second battery. “It only takes one battery to run the clock. The second one is for the pendulum. Maybe you could buy one and replace it.” I smiled and thanked him, and asked if he was the one who donated the clock – how did he know all this? “I used to be a clock-maker”, he said. It sounded sad. I thought clocks were dished out my automated machines. “That was long ago” he added, “We went out of business years ago. I am retired now.” Where could I get a pendulum, I asked. He told me I could find one at a clock-store, or online. “That is a good clock. A great bargain.” I thanked him, and bought the clock.
Then, I did some research online. I was looking for a pendulum, and it is surprising how few clock parts are available online. Anyway, I typed in “wrought iron pendulum” into Google Images, and there it was – my clock, plus pendulum. It turns out, this Howard Miller clock is called “Paulina”, and retails at $61 on sale. I called Howard Miller today, and it turns out each Howard Miller clock has a serial number. I gave them mine, and asked for a pendulum. And they are sending me one – no charge, and no shipping fee. I was astonished. What an amazing chain of events! My Paulina has to be the best Goodwill bargain I have ever got. She also keeps perfect time. :-)
So, holding it in my hand and went to browse the second-hand books. As I was looking at the books, a voice behind me said, “That’s missing a piece.” I turned around. An elderly gentleman was smiling at me and pointing at my clock. I was surprised. It looked okay to me. He must have sensed the confusion in my face. “The pendulum”, he said. “That clock used to have a pendulum.” I turned the clock over and looked at it. The man pointed at the spot for the second battery. “It only takes one battery to run the clock. The second one is for the pendulum. Maybe you could buy one and replace it.” I smiled and thanked him, and asked if he was the one who donated the clock – how did he know all this? “I used to be a clock-maker”, he said. It sounded sad. I thought clocks were dished out my automated machines. “That was long ago” he added, “We went out of business years ago. I am retired now.” Where could I get a pendulum, I asked. He told me I could find one at a clock-store, or online. “That is a good clock. A great bargain.” I thanked him, and bought the clock.
Then, I did some research online. I was looking for a pendulum, and it is surprising how few clock parts are available online. Anyway, I typed in “wrought iron pendulum” into Google Images, and there it was – my clock, plus pendulum. It turns out, this Howard Miller clock is called “Paulina”, and retails at $61 on sale. I called Howard Miller today, and it turns out each Howard Miller clock has a serial number. I gave them mine, and asked for a pendulum. And they are sending me one – no charge, and no shipping fee. I was astonished. What an amazing chain of events! My Paulina has to be the best Goodwill bargain I have ever got. She also keeps perfect time. :-)
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