The dilemma of the written word

There was a time in the history of human kind, a handshake was confirmation of a contract. There was direct conversation, direct confrontation and lo and behold problem solved or it played on for generations. And then humans learnt to write and read and it was a boon, still is, but with changing times it comes with its own pitfalls especially where informal contracts or lets just say relationships of love and friendship are concerned.

In today’s texting times or should I say, testing times, the written word can sometimes because of immense anguish.

You may mean one thing and your reader at the other end may take out an entirely different meaning of your text. So, harmless banter may lead to discord and disharmony.

When we interact with people face to face or even on a phone call we have the advantage of gauging their feelings from their expressions or body stance or even how their voice sounds.

But when we are texting we are going in blind. So you don’t know if the other person is cheerful or sad or angry or frustrated and what you meant in good humour could mean sarcasm for them or a straight out insult.

Some of us have become so accustomed to texting that we have made it the primary function of our phones. We wait and wait for replies, overthink mundane texts, blow life into pandemonium and go through unnecessary drama. What we don’t do is pick the phone up and call the person instead of fretting and fuming and raising tempers and hurting oneself.

Patience, fast becoming a lost virtue, is needed in such situations. We don’t even give the person a couple of hours to respond. We put ourselves in their minds and think of every possible scenario which would involve imaginary intentions and breakups and false misunderstandings.

My only suggestion is limit texting to greetings or important communication which has less chance of being misinterpreted. Write short meaningful texts. Think before responding, give yourself a breath before quickly replying and then regretting it. Of course now delete options are available but that creates a conundrum of its own ” what has been deleted?” Human curiosity at its worst . Why don’t we just bury that thought by saying to ourselves” It was not meant for me hence it was deleted”.

How simple life would be…. On a lighter note I have just been made aware by my daughter that you can use tone indicators to express your emotion or mood behind the text. Eg: /lh means light hearted../lh

Who am I

I am a person
Who loves to read old and new books cuddled in my bed with no sense of time or space.

I am a person
Who loves the dark night sky,
A rainy night when the rain drops down the shingles to a tune of its own.

I am a person
Who loves her cuppa
In solitude of her choice

I am a person
Who loves to walk endlessly on stolen paths and muddy trails.

I am a person
Who sings and hums old songs
The whole day long.

I am a person who
Revels in the aroma of masalas and curries and goodies in the oven

I am a person who

gets comfort from
Hot soups and Dal rice.

I am a person who
Can make funny faces and dance funny and talk funny
Only to make her child smile.

I am a person
Who is content
With all she has.

I am a person
Who seeks no more
Except for thoughts and friends and books and wisdom that ll help her grow.

I am a person
Who finds solace in prayer
When surrounded by mounds of despair.

I am a person
Who loves whole
No hold barred

I am a person
Who is not identified by her relations or work.
They are a part of me but they do not define me.

Live in the moment

All my adult life, I have believed in saving things for the right moment to use or wear or display. Strangely enough that right moment never arrived. So perfumes have vanished in thin air, exotic creams have crossed their expiry dates, clothes kept in closets have lost there sheen or worse do not fit anymore. The regret is not for the cost of these things or money wasted . It’s of all the moments lost, all the thrill escaped by not using them.

So many of us suffer from this very affliction of being ” waiters”.

We just wait for a bigger, better occasion to use what we value. We follow the same principle in our relationships too.

We wait for the perfect moment, the perfect time to tell people how important they are to us. How much we value their friendship, their advice, how much we care for them or adore them. We wait to express our hurt and anguish too for fear of opening a Pandora’s box.

Sometimes it takes the earth to shake for one to realise the importance of living in the moment for the moment and by the moment.

To call that school friend you haven’t spoken to in ages, to send a text asking an old aunt how she’s doing, ,to tell someone how much you love them, to start using that shea butter creme you have been saving, to wear that hot dress you bought ages ago for when you go for a holiday,to feel grateful to be alive and breathing and able to do all this stuff, since that moment, that feeling will not be available to all the bravehearts who fell victim to this disaster. It has irrevocably been snatched from them and who knows what the next moment will bring for us.

If ever there has been a time to stop waiting for future happiness, joy, fun ,gratitude it is now.

Tomorrow is a dream, good or bad I don’t know. This moment is mine and I intend to own it.. Walk in my high heels and seek the skies with gratitude and humility and hoping and wishing, that inspite of all the sorrow, the misery, the pain, the devastation, every single human being can find a moment to live, to breathe, to smile and to hope.

Fender in embers

Wobbly camping chairs,

A burning fire slowly dying, gasping for its last few breaths.

Broken green bottles,reminescent of a night gone by,

When the lost soul picked up his fender,

And strummed old songs,country songs of long lost loves and deep brown eyes,

of long walks under the starry skies

Forgotten in eons.

The cackle of easy laughter,

Of friends from bygone times

Not wanting the night to end,

The music to fade.

A shoulder to lean on ,

A blanket with musky smell,

Wrapped around

As she stares at the stars ,

Lost in the words

Of a song she knew from a long time ago….

Self

Unravelling the layers

Peeling off the masks

Unveiling the self

Slowly, with lots of pauses and retreats

To discover

To grow

To learn

To forget

To forgive

All I find is a weak stream of water meandering through a broken hill, where rocks abound and wildflowers bloom

A stream of pure pristine thoughts

Elixir of life

Somehow lost its way

Regaining the paths

Slowly but steadily

Finding the verdant in the dust of brown thrown by storms and slides

Finding the white of the chrysalis in a hidden place

Where one meets the self, the hidden self ,the known self..

Alone

Dipping my pen in the ink of nostalgia

Words creep out like crickets on a starry night

Words that bring calm to the unsettled mind

To the lost traveller on a path where memories were built

A path made of old rocks and gravel and smiles and tears and used symbols of passion and gluttony

Surrounded by verdant abundance

Seeking who knows what

A fear has permeated

everthing it touches.

Yet has taught a lot

will we remember the lessons when the masks will come off

Will the heart’s desires be fulfilled

The weakness lies within

The inaction lies within

How does one stop the thread of thoughts from weaving a yarn of unrequited desires

And then it appears

The words on paper

Bringing calm

A sudden calm surrounds

And i know

The path that beckons ahead will be a better one for all i have learnt today

The lessons will stay

And the pain will go away

Iam learning…

I am learning the joy of washing dishes. The calming sound of the water flowing, the lather of the soap, the scent of detergent that permeates through, the sparkle in the dish once its rinsed.


I am learning the joy in patiently brooming the floor, sweeping the dust, the footprints, cleaning every nook and cranny, a complete exercise of body and mind.


I am learning how to live without any rush,waking up without the jarring notes of an alarm, with my mind not wandering in a thousand places,not being overwhelmed by what the day has in store for me.


I am learning the joy of slow cooking, of just standing and stirring,of kneading and rolling, to the sounds of some old songs, a glass of wine, the aroma of chillies and garlic, and sprinkling every spice with all my heart and soul in it.


I am learning to not fear absence of help anymore,to not worry if the help takes leave, to know that I can and will manage.


I am learning my importance for myself and for others in my life, how precious Iam, how much Iam needed. Iam relevant.


I am learning the joy of reading a book as slowly as possible,not to reach a challenge but to understand and imbibe. To taste and to savour, to let the words sink deep in me.


I am learning how much joy my work brings me and how badly I want to get back to it. How much joy and fulfillment it gave me, how lonely my days are without it.


I am learning to face tough times with perseverance and patience,with grit and humour.


I am learning gratitude for all that I have been blessed with,could have been so much worse off.


I am learning, finally, to love with no expectations in return,to be able to fill my heart with all the love and yet not demand. To be able to accept limitations and yet feel an overwhelming sense of togetherness.


I am learning how to live everyday without knowing the day date or time,finding immeasurable satisfaction of not being bound by clocks and calendars.


I am learning the truth of my being,my self, my needs, what matters to me, where I go from here, where I want to be.

.
I am learning that my learning should never end. Like the birds who have claimed their space back, I am learning to discover my place and my space and never to give it up.

Educated

There are books that insist you do not shut them till they are finished. There are books that cause you so so much grief you are just not able to move forward another page because they are going to take away something from you. Some books grant solace, some joy and some make you part with something of yourself.

Tara Westover’s “Educated” is all of these and then more. For want of a better word, this is one of the most unbelievable books I have read in a long time.

Its a memoir of a young girl and her struggle to get an education inspite and because of her circumstances. Its story of Tara Westover, who was raised on the mountains of Idaho by parents entrenched in mormonism. A father who spent his life stocking food and ammunition for the ends of the days, scared of the Illuminati, who would corrupt his children if he sent them to school and trying to stay away as much as possible from the government scanners,to not even have birth certificates issued for three of his youngest children.

Its story of unshakeable belief in “Gods pharmacy”where everything from chopped fingers to third degree burns to minor injuries are treated at home by Tara’s mother, who is a reluctant midwife but cures people with her herbs and salves and later proclaims to diagnose diseases by the click of her fingers.

This story breaks your heart with the violence both physical and mental, of a broken family on the edge of lunacy and mania. A mother who turns a blind eye on her son beating and abusing his sisters.
A father who forces his children to take unimaginable risks with their lives and limbs in his junkyard ,with his hare brained schemes.

One is appalled at the way this family functions where car crashes and burns are taken lightly. Pain is accepted as punishmemt for wrong doing.

After every such episode I wanted to drop the book because it made me livid and amazed at how this is possible in a so called developed nation like America. But the curiosity to know how Tara gets out of that world got the better of me.
She does manage to get an education on her own gumption and hard work inspite of have never seen the inside of a school.
This story is about a girl conflicted by her faith, her love for her family and her desire to move out of the shackles of that same family and faith without breaking her bond with both.
Her inability to trust anyone, her naivete and her fear of her brother has been portrayed in complete honesty to the point of self degradation.

It is one of the most brutally honest books that I have read.
The beauty of words, the poetic flow of language, the interplay of guilt, loyalty, love and shame juxtaposed with her desire to get an education make this memoir, although a story of an exceptionally different and difficult upbringing may resonate with every reader in some way. Its not really different, a young girls gift of education to herself inspite of the odds.

Tara Westover’s book is for people who love words, who seek new stories and who are courageous.

Morning musings

Its early morn
there’s a nip in the air,
Something has changed,
The arms lock themselves in an embrace to keep the chill away.

The leaves have turned brown
Like parchment of some long forgotten ancient text,
Whose wisdom is now spewed forth by a new age guru.

These dry,golden leaves waiting to be stepped on,
To be dusted from the path of eager humans
Who have goals to achieve,places to be.

By rough, callused hands of weary men,
Who have seen it all.

The birds have come out
The francolins, the barbets,the bar headed geese
All showing their presence through the lens of a keen eye.

Experience walks slowly alongside vigour and vitality
Some slow steps some ruthless crushing of whats beneath

The sun takes its time
To step out from behind the clouds

Slowly it peeps in through the dense foliage

In bits and shards
Streaming its warmth
On faces turned pale.

The glow enlivens the soul
Its going to be a good day

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