The Parting Glass

Of all the money e'er I had,
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm I've ever done,
Alas! it was to none but me.
And all I've done for want of wit
To mem'ry now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all


But since it falls unto my lot,
That I should go and you should not,
I gently rise and softly call,
Good night and joy be with you all.

Victim's Rights

I watched a piece of news today (on the interwebs, I no longer own a television) about a young girl, 11, who was raped on a train in India. While reporting the news the channel, owned by a prominent Indian newspaper, repeatedly showed the young girl, her face covered with a piece of cloth, being led away by some adults while news cameras chased after her. Let me mention again that this girl was only 11 years old.

This isn't the first time I have witnessed this particular phenomenon. News channels in India, desperate for news to fill their wall-to-wall coverage of every single thing that goes on in India, have no qualms about hounding victims and showing their pictures on TV, or even giving out their name and personal details. Unfortunately, very often in this country, those victims happen to be minors.

How come there is no regulation on who gets to disclose the names of victims, or for that matter criminals, who are under the age of 18? In countries in the west, the US, the UK, France, etc. press services and legitimate news organizations do not, DO NOT, give out the names of any members of a story, if they are under the age of 18. This is done to protect the privacy of the minor child. What is more, in most places in the world, they are legally prohibited from revealing sensitive information about the minor, such as their name and location to prevent any further trouble from befalling them.

Does this not seem like a useful measure for the Indian government to implement to keep rabid journalists with little regard for the future of the child, at bay? It is not the duty of the media to protect the privacy of the child, it is the job of the government and the police. You can not expect the media to be judicious and take into account what is best for a child that has just been raped or assaulted, it is the job of the government to do so.

So, here's the thing, I am not very fond of children, I think that has been repeated ad nauseam on this blog, and as such, can now be counted as fact. However, I am unflinchingly right-wing on the matter of protection for minors. And this seems to me a big and glaring shortcoming on the part of news organizations and the Government of India, which no one seems in any particular hurry to fix.

Dancing Baby Visions

I wonder how you overcome neuroses. Not the kind of neuroses that you see in Ally McBeal or Grey's Anatomy, rich, entitled young people acting up because they believe themselves to be 'outsiders' or 'different'. No, when I say neuroses I'm not thinking about Calista Flockhart's dancing baby visions. When I say neuroses, I am thinking of the deeply entrenched quality of 'fucked-upness' that comes with never ever really having been a whole, happy human being.

Is it merely a condition that you overcome? A disease that you fight? Or is a simply an affect that you put on to make yourself feel more special than your neighbour, to make your pain have greater meaning, to make your sorrow out to have a reason above the sorrows of all others? Is it a mere luxury the wealthy and privileged have, a sense of melancholy that permeates your being, because you do not have to wake up every morning and worry about 'roti, kapda, aur makaan'?

How do you explain to all the people who call you weird and laugh at your "quaint little eccentricities", that you aren't putting on a show for their benefit or for their attention? How do you paint a picture of the world you live in, the people and places that inhabit your memories? And finally, most importantly, is it such a terrible thing to be so completely different from your peers? Not the kind of different that people celebrate, but the kind of different that invites confusion and bemusement from all others, is that kind of different such a terrible thing?

I find that I am so entrenched in my differentness, in my neuroses, that I can not even reach for the things that I seem to want despite myself. My motto has always been:life sucks, then you die. It is a motto that is born from deep consideration and 25 years of experience. It is my truth, life sucks, then you die. So how do I overcome all that baggage, to live comfortably in a world where people can not understand why I am still single, or why I don't drink, or why I can't sleep. Perhaps that is the crux of the matter, inhabiting this world, with its rules and norms on other people's terms. Why is that necessary to a secure life?

Mostly, it seems to me that conformity to other people's version of happiness is the key to 'fitting in', to being 'one with the world', to being 'a whole human being', to being all that malarkey that books and magazines and movies convince you is vital. You must want the husband and the 2.67 children and the house with the dogs and the servants and the cars. You must want all of those things. If it turns out that you don't want all of that, then you are merely adopting a pose to get attention, you are pretending to rebel for the benefit of theatrics. It can NOT possibly be that there is an entire person out there that does not believe these many items to be the key to the universe.

So, here's the thing, my neuroses has gotten in my way, and apparently the way of all the people who interact with me, only to walk away shaking their heads wondering, "Huh?" Maybe I am not the expert on what will make me happy, but maybe, just maybe, the world isn't either.

It's been a while

It has indeed been a while since I have written coherently about my life on this space. Instead, I have taken to posting lyrics as a way of expressing myself. While the lyrics themselves are beautiful, at least according to me, I can't help but feel that I have cheated by using someone else's words as opposed to my own.

The last week has found me bursting with nervous energy, for some wholly unfathomable reason. Music seems to have the power to calm me down, and extract the nervousness from my body.

That is all. I don't know what else. Also, this is post 100. Yay me, right?

Sonnet 116 - William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds.
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be an error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

You Belong To Me - The 88

I treat it like a high school dance,
Waiting in the wings for my big chance.
But I would only stare at my shoes
You belong to me, I belong to you.

I could tell an antique lie,
Full of all the things I want to hide.
But that would only lead to the truth,
You belong to me, I belong to you

But I'm lazy and I'll pull you down
Where you won't want to be
And I'm tasting what's pouring out of you
What am I supposed to do?

I could play a trick so strange
Cover up my ears and pray for rain.
But that would only give you the blues
You belong to me, I belong to you

Happy New Year

Once again, the day is upon us all, the birth of a new year. I want to say that this year, I found myself. Or i want to say that this year, I lost myself so completely in something or someone that I simply can not account for the passage of time. Sadly, neither statement is true, I can not say either of those things about my 2009. It has been a filler year, the year I turned 25, but did not celebrate. The year i started out with so much promise that was ultimately not fulfilled. I sit here, alone in my room, far from the few people I love, the very very very few, and I pretend I am happy to be away from the hustle and bustle of real life being lived, I pretend I am content to just sit back and watch another year pass me by without having ever been truly joyful. I am not happy, nor am I content. And next year I must do better. I hope I will, for this is the truth, I am not getting any younger.

And as a postscript, this year I said goodbye to one of my true loves. He is gone, but shall never be forgotten.

Quae nocent, saepe docent.

Happy Birthday

You've been gone ten birthdays now. You are missed. And you are loved. Happy Birthday, Dadush.

Her Best Friend

If the movies and TV shows and books are to be believed, then everyone should have a best friend. Everyone should have a 'person'. What I am about to write is an ode to my best friend, my 'person'. Why? Well, because I want to, and because the world seems to be collapsing around us, and we are at least together as it happens, if only to cackle like mad witches at our own misfortune.

It is strange for me, because I don't remember a time before I met my best friend. Not because my life started the day I met her, (really?? who would that be true for?) but because my memory is terrible, absolutely so. So, by the time my memory does seem to start to become more focussed, I was already about 10 or 11, and she was already my best friend. I don't know how that happened. It is likely that I walked into my new school on my first day, and walked out with a best friend for life.

What most movies and TV shows and books do not tell you, is that having a 'person' is not a guarantee to a perfect life. What is sure to happen though, is that the bad times suck a little less and the good times are a little bit fuller, life is all the better for the company. So for 16 years now, we have kept each other, 16 birthdays and new years and Christmases. 16 years of boys who love us and boys who don't, of tree climbing clubs and shared crushes, of birdwatching trips and nature walks. For 16 years we have jumped in rain puddles and made fake margaritas, dancing around the table. For 16 years, we have sat side by side on the most desperate and dark days of our lives, quietly relaying stories of grief that would end most people. And for all these years, we have fought and screamed and made rude jokes about life.

I have no enduring wisdom about best friends, for she is the clever one of us, but I can only tell you one thing, a few things in life are better than making your own family, than choosing the person that you hope will be around forever. And I hope your life is enriched, as mine has been, by being her best friend.

She wrote the following for me, and in the middle of what is a difficult time, it made me smile and tear up just a bit.

Friday, December 04, 2009
her lovely garden


a few days ago, caught in myself, i stumbled into your garden. a year has gone by since i last went there. and i couldn't leave. bladder aching, sleep deprived, i moved backwards through you. caught in reverse. swing forward. re-read.

the cacti and the flowers.

i'm proud. sad. happy. proud still. who are you?

so many colors stain us. above all things you are beautiful.

on bewilderment and pain at the crookedness of life i will say to my girl these things:

from the infinite monkey theorem: " The probability of a monkey exactly typing a complete work such as Shakespeare's Hamlet is so tiny that the chance of it occurring during a period of time of the order of the age of the universe is minuscule, but not zero."

minuscule but not zero. our chances are better than that.

besides, we have our:

eyes (to see with and read!)
mouths (foooooddddd)
limbs (to walk and beat people with)
minds (well some semblance of)

at the end of the day, there's much to be done, a lot of which i know i don't much care for, but some of which i do, and plenty. then there are good times and bad times. there are times when they bleed into one another and you know the whole how feeble is man's power thingummabob... so dont join it to your strength or teach it art and length, my bean.

remember, every morning, we can sing with great abandon: here comes the sun.



i'm happy and grateful that i know you.

it's 2:34 PM

1 comments:

Chelsea Dagger said...

Perhaps it is not enough to just say that I love you, but it is true that I do. And just so I can, I will add that you mean the world to me. Thank you. What's the song, about you being my sunshine?
2:22 PM

The Election Obama

It has been well over a year since Barack Obama was elected President of the United States, and it appears that the new car smell has definitely worn off. His approval numbers are slipping daily and he is no closer to pulling off all that he promised he would, than he was on November 4th, 2008.

I just got through a documentary called By The People that tracks the Obama campaign from before the Iowa Caucus all the way to election night. Although the film makers appear to have had unprecedented access to the candidate and the campaign, as we get closer to election night, we see less of the principal players, the candidate, his family and chief political strategist, and more of the interesting campaign workers who propelled Obama to victory. If you haven't seen it yet, please do watch, it makes for very interesting viewing.

What really struck me was Obama himself. Early on in the film, we see him tracking mid term elections in 2006, checking up on colleagues in the Congress and Senate on whose behalf he has campaigned. He turns to the camera, and with a big smile, declares that he loves elections, even when he is not running. Through the film, we see a relaxed candidate, even when exhausted and sleep deprived. We see someone who obviously thrives on the minutiae of a political campaign, greeting people, preparing and delivering stump speeches, tracking news, making sense out of numerous polls, giving interviews. Senior advisers David Axelrod, David Plouffe, Jon Favreau, Tommy Vietor all appear excited and clear eyed even when the campaign is in trouble, like when Reverend Wright's explosive remarks made their way onto the national stage or when after a monumental victory at Iowa, the candidate failed to win the New Hampshire primary. When the crushing news of his grandmother's death arrives a mere day before the presidential election, Obama seems somber but carries on, delivering a powerful speech in North Carolina that many still remember.

A year later, the least insulting thing that has been said about Obama's performance in the job has been Dick Cheney's characterization of him as 'dithering'. In an extreme attempt to bypass partisan politics, Obama has spent much of the year wringing his hands and spouting meaningless platitudes about the 'American dream' and the 'hardworking average Americans'. He has angered the left for inaction and refusal to take firm stands on crucial issues like abortion and gay marriage, he has angered pro-choice women and prominent gay leaders for the same reasons, he has managed to alienate large numbers of the general populace that were so enchanted with just a year ago due to rising unemployment rates and most amusing of all, he seems to still upset the right wing of America that will simply not let go of the notion that he is a radical terrorist bent on unleashing communism in America. None of his campaign promises have been realized, not the shutting down of Guantanamo Bay, not the repeal of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell', not the passage of a historic health care bill, and certainly not the complete reversal of Washington 'politics as usual'.

A once decisive and vigorous candidate now seems conflicted, torn and dare I say, dithering. All of this has led me to the question, is Barack Obama better suited to the politics of elections rather than the politics of governing? The 'Election Obama' was all that an entire country, and with it millions of others from all over the world, aspired to be. He represented their best hopes and wishes. And today, President Obama stands in his stead and he seems as dull and listless as any other inept politician in the world. And all over America, people seem to be wondering the same thing, what the hell happened to 'Election Obama'?

Parent

"I think sometimes that had I known she would not survive her illness, I might have written a different book-less a meditation on the absent parent, more a celebration of the one who was the single constant in my life."

In his book, "Dreams From My Father", Barack Obama writes this about his mother. And I can empathise. I have spent much of my life contemplating the influence and effect of the absent parent. Perhaps I have not spent nearly enough time on the one who has always been there, who has been the single constant thing in MY life. But then I think, that's not true. My whole life, it would seem, has consisted of me looking back at them that spawned me, and struggling with the immense hold they have had over me, he that wasn't there at all, and she that was always there.

Which is why the last 2 years have felt alien. The looking back has begun to be tempered with the looking forward, which has less to do with them, and more to do with my own possibilities, with what I might do, without the weight of their lives hanging around my already weary shoulders. I must confess, it is not easy, especially for my brother and I. We are caught between being all that's left of a egregiously flawed but brilliant man, and the entirety of hope/dream/aspiration/ life's work of the most courageous woman. Wherever we go, we will always be a sum of these two characters and their own missteps and triumphs. We can not escape that duty as hard as we try.

Numerous

Normally, my posts are pretty well focussed on a single thing. I have a point and I make it in one of many ways. Today, I am going to ramble a bit. First, Climate Change and Water are following me. Just because I have to do something at work does NOT mean that I want to hear about it at traffic stops, at the movies, in plays, in books, on the news, on television shows, from random people on the road, from students who seem to be inspired by vague facts in their textbooks, from Blogger.com that has decided its next Blog Action Day should be about.... wait for it... Climate Change!! Leave me alone!!

Second, I've been thinking of something recently. With regard to a specific relationship in my life. I didn't realize until recently, that I have made one humongous mistake after another in this relationship. All of those mistakes, have been due to one single assumption, one single pretence that both this other person and I have perpetuated now for a few years. The blame falls on me for this though, for I assumed far more than the other did. When you have held onto a belief for a really long time, like a decade or so, then it isn't all that easy to let it go. It's like asking people to refute gravity. Something that has been there for more than half your life is more a fabric of your being that it is a mere conviction. But, people say, the first step to recovery is the admission of your problem. So that is what I am saying here, I have a problem. And I find, that I am closer to letting go than I ever thought was possible.

Small Change

www.smallchange.in

Clicking on the above link will take you to a PIL floated by Vishal Dadlani against a new proposed statue of Chattrapati Shivaji in Bombay costing about 350 crores. Even if you aren't from around here, you should go sign it to prevent the excesses of politicians all over this country. You are allowed to write a short note to put in your two cents. Here is mine.

"Dear Politicians,
Every time you think to yourselves, I think another big fat statue of a dead person will do this country some good, think of the hundreds of million of our country men and women who still live below the poverty line, of the tens of millions of students who are unable to attend school or college and the nearly half a billion women in this country who still receive second class citizen treatment, regardless of what station of society they belong to. And then think to yourself, how big of a JACKASS do I have to be do what I am thinking of doing."

Love Among The Ruins - Robert Browning

I.
Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,
Miles and miles
On the solitary pastures where our sheep
Half-asleep
Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop
As they crop--
Was the site once of a city great and gay,
(So they say)
Of our country's very capital, its prince
Ages since
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
Peace or war.

II.
Now,--the country does not even boast a tree,
As you see,
To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
From the hills
Intersect and give a name to, (else they run
Into one)
Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires
Up like fires
O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall
Bounding all,
Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed,
Twelve abreast.

III.
And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
Never was!
Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads
And embeds
Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,
Stock or stone--
Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe
Long ago;
Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame
Struck them tame;
And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
Bought and sold.

IV.
Now,--the single little turret that remains
On the plains,
By the caper overrooted, by the gourd
Overscored,
While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks
Through the chinks--
Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time
Sprang sublime,
And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced
As they raced,
And the monarch and his minions and his dames
Viewed the games.

V.
And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve
Smiles to leave
To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece
In such peace,
And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey
Melt away--
That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair
Waits me there
In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul
For the goal,
When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb
Till I come.

VI.
But he looked upon the city, every side,
Far and wide,
All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'
Colonnades,
All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,--and then,
All the men!
When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,
Either hand
On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace
Of my face,
Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech
Each on each.

VII.
In one year they sent a million fighters forth
South and North,
And they built their gods a brazen pillar high
As the sky,
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force--
Gold, of course.
Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!
Earth's returns
For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!
Shut them in,
With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!
Love is best.

I Want You

I am in love with Kings of Leon. They are my new favourite band. I mean just the lead singer's voice, all that yearning squeezed into every syllable that leaves his gravelly throat. Just that alone. And the lyrics. Sample:

Get back on track, pick me up some bottles of booze
Fickle freshman, probably thinks he's cooler than you
A hay ride ,a fire, everybody's coming around
So go press your skirt, word is there's a new girl in town

I call shotgun, you can play your RnB tunes
The fellowship time, it always comes a little too soon
The land of the creeps, freshened up and babyfaced shame
Put your eyes on me, and I know a place where we can get away

Just say I want you, just 'zactly like I used to
'Cause baby this is only bringing me down

Homeboy's so proud, he finally got the video proof
The night vision shows she was only ducking the truth
It's heavy I know, the black guy with the gift down below
A choke and a gag, she spit up and came back for more

And said I want you, just exactly like i used to
And baby this is only bringing me down
She said I want you
I want you, just exactly like i used to
And baby this is only bringing me down
I said I want you, just exactly like i used to
And baby this is only bringing me down

Legacy

Legacies are a complicated thing to resolve. Actually, that's not always true. The legacy that I am left with is a complicated thing to resolve. It is the most disconcerting feeling to be the only thing left of someone, to be somebody's legacy in this world. My friend writes about half lives and I can't quite relate. He is right, time does have a way with wounds. The world's worst thing that happened to you, doesn't simply disappear in 9 years, but it does fade into your skin, becoming just another part of what makes you, you. Much like your childhood scars that you felt would never ever lessen in the intensity of pain they caused, you can look at this pock mark on your soul and think, almost wistfully, ha! Because you did bear it out, you did survive, you did reach adulthood, and graduate and fall in love and marry and have children of your own. You didn't, as planned, throw yourself off the top of the tallest building you could find. All of that makes you the victor, and the pock mark a mere bystander that only diminished with time.

And yet, I am no closer to the reason why. Why me? Why then? How exactly? I don't know the answer and I am certain I never will. But mostly, I am reconciled to that, it does not frustrate me nearly as much as it used to. What does compound my anger and confusion brings me back to the legacy I am left with. The 15 years that came before the 9 years were not simple straight forward, happy years. They weren't candy and roses and rainbows. They were not even of this world. So I am left with the unresolved question of "How the fuck am I supposed to feel now?"

And therein, lies the rub. How the fuck am I supposed to feel now?

Falling Slowly

I don't know you, but I want you

All the more for that

Words fall through me and always fool me

And I can't react

And games that never amount

To more than they're meant

Will play themselves out

Take this sinking boat and point it home

We've still got time,

Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice

You make it known

Falling slowly, eyes that know me

And I can't go back

The moods that take me, and erase me

And I'm painted black

Well, you have suffered enough

And warred with yourself

It's time that you won

Take this sinking boat and point it home

We've still got time,

Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice

You make it known

Falling slowly, sing your melody

I'll sing along

I've paid the cost too late

Now you're gone

-Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova, Once Soundtrack

Viva Iran

I have, with bated breath, been witness to the brouhaha (I do love that word) over the Iranian elections in the last few days. With my own knowledge of the situation, which is admittedly limited, there did not seem to be a scenario that would find the reformist Moussavi victorious. I had wished for his victory, but not hoped for it. A reformist former president who supports broader freedoms for women versus a sitting president who possesses infallible Islamist credentials and enjoys massive popular support in rural Iran. It is not a contest one would enjoy betting on, especially with regard to who would enjoy the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khamenei's favour.

And then, about a fortnight before the election, the tide began to turn, in increments, just a little bit here, and then a little more there. And suddenly, there it was, that elusive thing, hope. Perhaps there was a chance after all that the next president of Iran would not be a Jew-hating, Israel-bashing, Holocaust-denying fundamentalist. The election day came and went, with nary a story of violence or criminal conduct. The Iranians, it would seem, enjoy a civilized and robust exercise of their franchise. Polls were extended for hours as people came out to vote in numbers that startled the government. And then, inevitably, the results. Which is when circumstances began to more closely resemble a Chaplin comedy than real life in the 21st century.

Here we are now, less than week after the results were announced(more than 65% in favour of Ahmadinejad, in case you're interested). Anger, so much a part of my own personal being, is radiating outwards from Iran; from Tehran, where thousands gather in crushing mobs, to London, Paris and New York, where former Iranian nationals watch spellbound as their once-home is now awash in green. Iran has all but been shut down, no one in or out. But that has not stopped the velvet revolution from fervently and vociferously announcing its intentions. They are protesting out in the streets of Tehran today and through the internet, through Facebook and Twitter, even as they are arrested in hordes and beaten and killed in the dozens. And I, a mere voyeur and participant in their collective anguish, am with them, if only in cyber-spirit.

My heart is broken

all over again. C'est la vie, right?

Death and All His Friends

I have been possessed with questions of death in recent times. Honestly, it is that time of the year, and I am naturally drawn to questions of that nature. This year, I feel different. I am not, as I have been in the past, consumed by my own impending demise, be it sooner or later. Instead, I find I am confronting the death of a relationship. Is it harder still for someone you love to die, or is it harder to lose someone who is still very much alive. My experience of both has not offered me clarity on the subject. They who I have loved and lost are just as missed as him that I love and the relationship that no longer is. Both are unfathomable. The only difference is that I chose for one to happen. So maybe then I am not allowed to mourn? If it was indeed my own doing, then can I claim sorrow over the passing? And when is it that I stop mourning? When do I stop wearing black and looking baleful, when the one I have lost is well and alive somewhere?

As usual, I have more questions than answers. There are days I wish that the earth would simply swallow me whole rather than allowing me to suffer in this manner. On other days however, the visceral nature of existence feels more attractive and immediate, and keeps me from myself. I am wishing for the latter.