Letter to my Grandfather

As some of you already know, I lost my grandfather this morning. He had been battling with illness for many years now, and he passed away today, peacefully and without pain. He was an incredible man-- a fighter to the last moment-- and a huge part of my childhood. I shared a very close relationship with him, and today, even as I grieve his passing, I also appreciate his life and the 24 years we had together.

Sitting here in New York, there wasn't much I could do, so I did what I do to make sense of the world-- I wrote. And I want to share this "letter" with you all because I want to share this incredible human being who I was lucky to know and love, and who will always remain an important part of me.


Dear Nanu

As we all sit around, thinking of you, I wonder what you have said to us right now. One thing I know—you would not have wanted us to mourn your death. You would have wanted us to celebrate your life. You might even have made some silly joke that would, despite everything, have made us smile. And so, I choose to remember your life more than I mourn your passing.

I remember how, many years ago, we used to have morning tea by the pond. You wanted to build so much surrounding that pond—a water fall, a canal connecting to the other pond that had frogs, a whole landscape. I remember how your eyes would light up when you described it, how I too could see the landscape through your vision. You taught me about beauty and dreams and possibility.

I remember how, in second grade, my teacher asked each of us to clip the name of the newspaper we received at home because we were doing a survey of which newspapers were read the most. I remember you giving me clippings of each of the 6-7 newspapers you subscribed to (and read each morning), so much so that my teacher thought I had gone around collecting clippings from all my neighbors. You taught me about a love of learning and of different perspectives.

I remember your excitement about birthdays, the lists you would help me make of the eats, the games, the guests, and the decorations for every childhood birthday party. I remember going to the cake shop with you to choose a special cake—a princess or a bird or a superhero. I remember how much you enjoyed the planning and the party. You taught me about celebration.

I remember your stories about the Indian independence movement—remember watching it unfold through the eyes of the teenager you used to be. I remember your staunch idealism, which you never lost through the long days working in the London factory that you described. I remember your zeal for the causes you cared about, remember you going for a protest march in 2002, when you already had knee trouble and could barely walk. You taught me about fighting for one’s beliefs.

I remember how, when I was little, you would introduce me to people as your “favorite granddaughter,” and I would shoot back “how many granddaughters do you have?” and you would respond, “only one, but you are still my favorite.” It was the same conversation every time. You taught me about a love so strong that it had no room for comparisons.

I remember how often, as a lawyer, you took on cases for free when your clients could not afford to pay. I remember how, for a long time, I wanted to be a lawyer because I respected what you did so much. You taught me about justice.

I remember, many years ago, walking with you and feeding the fish in the pond and in the aquarium, feeding the birds in the garden, walking amongst the plants as you pruned and nipped. I remember you explaining the name of each plant, telling me which trees were planted when and what they were good for, plucking narangis for that sour taste that shook my whole body early in the morning. And I remember how, when Karun and I were little and one of your birds died, you helped us bury it so it could be safe. You taught me about life and about death.

I remember how you and I would debate about all kinds of things, ever since I was four or five, in ways that the rest of the family wrote off as our special arguments—haazir-javabi. You taught me about thinking through and voicing my points of view.

I remember how, when I sat with you in the intensive care unit after your stroke last year, you apologized to me for the “trouble.” And I remember one day a few months ago when I was visiting you at home and I had a slight headache… you forgot your own pain and discomfort in your concern that I be able to rest. You already couldn’t get up from bed, but you made sure you didn’t once ask me for anything because I fell asleep near you and you didn’t want to wake me up. You taught me about unselfishness.

I remember how, through all your years of pain, you never complained and you always responded to the question “How are you doing?” with a decisive “I’m okay.” I remember how even in those last months, you were never short of silly jokes and puns on words like “bas” and “kaafi.” You taught me about strength and a sense of humor.

I remember how, even after my 24th birthday, you continued to call me TM, short for “teeny meeny.” And I remember you explaining to my friend and me that I was still “teeny meeny” as far you were concerned. You taught me about the way grandparents’ love.

You taught me so much that you are inextricably a part of me, of the best in me. Anyone who looks deeply into my strength, my love of beauty, my passion for justice, my desire to learn, my starry-eyed dreams, my insistence on speaking my mind, my understanding of life or my acceptance of your passing—anyone who looks there will see you hidden inside it. You can never be far from me because you are a part of me.

When they told me that your heart kept beating for almost 10 hours after everything else in your body gave up—that your heart outlived your body—I couldn’t help smiling through my grief. Of course your heart would be stronger than anyone believed, of course it would be larger than life (larger even than death)... and of course your heart would be the last to give up.

I love you,

TM

Random thoughts on remembering

Today's entry began as a personal email to a close friend-- a writer friend, to whom i can get away with writing long letters about nothing in particular. It left me thinking, then got me to pull out a book I haven't looked at in a while, and write a little more. So, here they are, some thoughts in nothingness

If you have read a large part of this blog, you'll know that memories and remembrance are themes very close to my heart. Not just that I like writing about specific moments I remember, but also that I am fascinated by the act of remembrance and what it does. Almost 5 years ago (wow) I had prepared a "program of poetry" on remembrance as part of the Speech Team at SUA. Found lots of lovely poetry on the theme, but the one line that has stayed with me is from Sylvia Curbelo: "Snapshots are shields/ What we remember in some way protects us."

Today, as I re-read parts of that book ("Spinning Gold out of Straw" by Diane Rooks), i found an image that struck me. She read the the word "remember" as "re-member" i.e. to put something back together. Perhaps the most graphic and powerful explanation fo that interpretation of the word is in this West African tale she tells:

The Gift of a Cow Tail Switch

A West African Tale

A great warrior did not return from the hunt. His family gave him up for dead, all except his youngest child who each day would ask, "Where is my father? Where is my father?"

The child's older brothers, who were magicians, finally went forth to find him. They came upon his broken spear and a pile of bones. The first son assembled the bones into a skeleton; the second son put flesh upon the bones; the third son breathed life into the flesh.

The warrior arose and walked into the village where there was great celebration. He said, "I will give a fine gift to the one who has brought me back to life."

Each one of his sons cried out, "Give it to me, for I have done the most."

"I will give the gift to my youngest child," said the warrior. "For it is this child who saved my life. A man is never truly dead until he is forgotten!"

(http://www.storyarts.org/library/nutshell/stories/gift.html)

What a powerful story. Yes, that youngest child was the most important in the search.

In less dramatic ways, remembering isn't just about life and death; remembering is also about the little things, which are no less important.

Today I was thinking not only of what it means to look back much later but also of what it means to look back right now. We often tell each other to "forget it" when we are upset or angry, to "move on" when we are hurt... and I do it too, believe we have to be able to move on. Yet, does that "moving on" have to imply looking away? I think not. I think it possible to look something in the eye, embrace it, and then move on.

Indigenous Mexican culture taught me a lot about endings-- most importantly that they are just as much a part of a process as the beginnings. I learned that i didn't have to mourn the end of something beautiful and special-- or, i could, if i chose to, but i could also celebrate it, or I could do both. I remember my program coordinator's constant refrain "hay que cerrar ciclos" ("one has to close cycles" but I prefer reading it as "circles"), and he was usually talking about internal, emotional circles. In that culture, initiation ceremonies and closing ceremonies were equally important... if you began a project, you had to take out a little time and energy to close the project, not just abandon it and "move on." It felt a little forced at first, but I quickly learned to appreciate the importance of that moment, and I found my own little rituals with which to close important circles.

My last essay at SUA was called "On leaving college: a conversation with Ralph Waldo Emerson," and it explored Emerson's essays "circles" and "experience." A quote from my essay:

Why circles? Circles have a completeness to them: lines can extend infinitely in either direction, but circles cover all the points in the universe that could ever be a part of this particular circumference. When you tie the two ends together, the circle is finished; although its energy may radiate out into surrounding circles, that particular circle is closed and encapsulates everything that happened within it.
I feel this way about my undergraduate career now: it’s been an incredible process, but I have by now gone over all the points in this circle. It is time to close the circle and move on to the next process. Emerson reminds me, “there is no end in nature, but every end is a beginning; that there is always another dawn risen on mid-noon, and under every deep a lower deep opens” (179). The end of this process is only the beginning of the next one. And there is no outer limit to how far these circles will expand or how many of them there will be.

I don't know if this makes sense in isolation, but that's what I meant-- needing to tie those tow ends together as a way of having gone over all the points in one circle... so i know it's time to move on to the next one. The image accompanying this essay was one of concentric circles that touch at one common point (I hope you cn envision that!), and it's become how I look at life.

Especially now, as I close one more circle, arrive back at the common point, and start drawing a new, larger circle that encapsulates all the ones up until now. Over the last few weeks, i find myself making gifts and cards for many people at work (I wish i could do it for more than I can, in fact!), and I'm realizing that, although I do believe that the recipients of those cards and gifts appreciate them, I am doing this as much for myself. Saying "thank you" helps me realize in my heart that this one, beautiful chapter is over, without letting its "over-ness" be a sad experience. I guess that's what I learned in Mexico-- I learned to celebrate endings just as much as I celebrate beginnings (look at their Day of the Dead! If a culture can celebrate death just as much
as they celebrate life, what greater example can there be?).

That's all. If you were expecting this to come to some satisfying conclusion, it won't. Not yet at least. It's a thought in process, nothing more, so add your two cents please!

Back, and hopefully here to stay

Finally, I get down to blogging again! i tried more than once in this last week-- honestly, I did-- but i just couldn't write a coherent entry without getting distracted by something or the other.But today I am in more of a writerly mood again, proven by a 3 page diary entry almost first thing in the morning. A good time to get the blog restarted.

So, quick update for those of you who are completely out of touch with me (which you would be if your primary source of information is this blog!). I'm moving to New York in a month, all set for a Masters in Creative Writing at Sarah Lawrence College. I quit work at the beginning of this month to take a break and have been spending my days between the pottery wheel and dates with friends i haven't seen in a while. And, a little bit, the notebook (electronic and otherwise). I haven't noticed how these two weeks have gone by, which is quite something because i cannot usually be home for more than a few days without getting restless... oh well, I'm not complaining!

It's been lovely to spend so much time at the pottery wheel again... I really need to find a way of keeping this up at grad school. It's such a different art form than writing that it becomes the perfect balance between the head and the hands, the verbal and the tactile. And it's one of those art forms that forces you into a patience you might otherwise never have had... also forces you to accept the things beyond your control and enjoy the process of making art without getting too worked up about the result (that clay always seems to have a mind of its own!).

That reminds me of something i read yesterday in (I think) Anne Lamott's wonderful book "Bird by Bird" (it's a book on writing, before you ask). She talked about how many of her students want to "have written" something more than they want to "write". That was a powerful observation for me, int eh context of both my writing and my pottery... how much do i want to create art, and how much do i want to have created art? And which is more important to me?

Definitely the process of creating... that's where I find joy and my reason for doing this in the first place. And the more I think about this, the more I realize this is why publication doesn't mean as much to me... I'd much rather write and teach writing all my life, full of the joy of it, than I would publish a few books while rushing through the process. At the end of the day, though, i guess they aren't that separable. Still, my heart is the doing, not in the having done.

Yesterday, i was feeling very disgruntled by how the words weren't coming, by how darn bored i was feeling as i tried to blog. So i was thinking about what words mean, about how my world changes when i write. The reflection didn't get me writing yesterday, but definitely got me writing today, and will hopefully keep me writing over the next few weeks and months (i'm going to commit to 2 blog posts a week until I leave for grad school... although i am promising myself i will write everyday, let's say that twice a week, i will write for a blog audience... if it happens more often, great, but for now, let me hold myself to this!).

So, what i realized through that reflection yesterday is that I am more alive when i am writing continuously than when i am not. And i don't just mean more alive during the physical act of writing; i'm talking about that writerly mood. Because, in order to write, you have to pay attention to life. You have to notice the smells and sights and sounds and little absurdities around you... you have to look for meaning in what is otherwise mundane and everyday. I remember, while I was blogging regularly, i would often see some random thing on the road and think about the blog posts that could be based on it... posts like "New Delhi's traffic lights" or even the entries from Mongolia were born from that wakefulness. These days, since i havent been writing very much, i can afford to ignore the little miracles that take place aorund me everyday. Of course, i can't really afford that, it makes me feel lethargic-- emotionally. So i'm going to now push myself to reconnect, to notice, to oepn up my senses, and to write.

Look for more regualar posts from here onwards, and scold me if i don't write at least twice a week! ;)

Listening

The promised Mumbai essay:

Amidst the bustle of a weekend evening at a Mumbai beach, S. and I sat together, looking out at the ocean, feeling the grittiness of sand between our toes, smelling the salty air that carried scents of different street foods, punctuating our conversation with long moments of silence. Periodically, a child would come and ask us for money, or a vendor would try selling us chanas. We would decline, then lapse into silence. I would remark how much I loved looking at the ocean because of the sense of freedom and vastness it offered me. He would remark that he enjoyed looking at the ocean just because. One of us would point out a certain person on the beach, perhaps someone who stopped her walk every 20 meters to strike a couple of yogic poses, and we would share a laugh. I thought of the absolute comfort this particular friendship affords me: we can talk for hours, or we can be silent together, and neither situation is uncomfortable.

In one of our silent moments, a middle-aged man approached us. I noticed that his clothes looked a little worn but not tattered. His shirt was buttoned wrong, though, and for some reason, that made me uncomfortable. The man looked directly at S. and started talking about something—his family, someone who died on the beach, things I couldn’t understand. He talked in a mix of English, Hindi, and Marathi, rambled for ten minutes or more, periodically bursting into tears. My initial concern slowly turned to confusion, then to impatience. I couldn’t follow a word of the conversation, so I looked helplessly at my friend, but he was looking straight at the stranger and seemed to be listening intently. I began running sand through my fingers and looking out at the ocean again, with a periodic sideways glance at these two men, so different in every way, engaged in the strangest conversation. Later, while the man was sitting at some distance from us and sobbing, I whispered to S. that I didn’t understand a word. ” “Neither do I,” he responded, “but I just wanted to listen.”

The words stunned me. Between S. and me, I'm usually the people person, the relationship builder. But here he was, quietly teaching me the simplest and most important foundation of every relationship. What a beautiful heart, I thought, a heart that knows that words may not matter but the act of being there for someone does.

I’ve often thought back to that moment. It makes me wonder what the act of listening means, what it means to be listened to even by a complete stranger, and why it means so much. It makes me think of the countless conversations that S. I have had over the years, of all the times when I was sad or joyful and he had no words to offer me; he listened even when he didn't understand. And it makes me smile at the memory of a young man I know so well, a young man who often claims not to have a heart but who taught me one of the heart’s most important lessons.

Back again

Wow, almost two months since my last entry... that's LONG even for me. I cannot begin to fill you all in. But, since I mentioned my upcoming (at the time of the last entry) rural sojourn the last time I wrote, i feel I should write a little about it. And soon, I will post an essay (still being written) from another trip (a holiday this time) that I made to Bombay over a long weekend in Feb.

So, the rural trip. Let me take a shortcut and post (parts of) a diary entry from one of those days. Maybe I'll add in more stories and interesting tidbits another time, this one serves as an overall update!


Thursday, February 5
8:20 PM

Dear Diary,

Sorry I disappeared after that last rushed entry. I have had a very FULL two days, much enjoyment, and much EXHAUSTION! In fact, as we speak, there some music and dance happening outside that i would ordinarily have loved to be a part of. But, right now, I am too tired. In fact, I went to the door, then got overwhelmed by the sound of 70 people singing, and came back to my room!

So, i visited 6-7 villages today. i don't know how to sum up my day, really-- talked to many kids and schoolteachers (super inspiring people, most of them!), explored several BEAUTIFUL natural spots, drank too many cups of tea, didn't eat nearly enough but ate too many sweets (but then, i did have 5 full meals yesterday), travelled in a jeep over land- won't call it a road- that should NEVER have seen a jeep, interacted with villagers in 2-3 places, took lots of photos, tasted absolutely fresh honey, expereinced killer exhaustion and dehydratoion... yes, that's just today. Yesterday, I spent 4-5 hours on a motorcylce (the major chunk of them with 3 of us on the bike), met and talked to girls in two schools where S works, talked to their teachers and hostel wardens, sang and danced (yes, even danced) with the girls at the camp here in Bhavangadh, ate five meals, spent a few minutes at a riverside, also took lots of photos... I probably did lots of other stuff too! So yeah, my days here have been very full-- I feel I have lived a week in the last 2 days. On the whole, I have enjoyed myself thoroughly, but I'll admit I am looking forward to being home and sleeping in day-after tomorrow!

Questions that this trip has raised? Most important, do I belong in the village or the city? Or, rather, where do i WANT to belong? Both, I guess. I feel calmer, happier, more myself here than I have felt in a while. But I also miss the... umm... connectedness of city life. Actualy no, I don't miss it yer- it's been good to take a break from phone calls and the internet and all that. But if you ask if I'd be happy like that for months or years, I don't think so. Haha, once again, I belong somewhere in between! (At least, the advantage of being on the border is that both sides give you the benefit of doubt ;)).

Dinner time now, more later,

Love

Aditi

Twenty-Five Things

So, I got sucked into this random game on facebook, where each person writes 25 random facts about their life, tags 25 people, who then write 25 facts about their life and tag another 25 people, and so on. It's turned out to be more fun than I had imagined (especially the part about discovering that one of your professors used to be in a band called "fretful bourgeoisie" :D)

Since I spent that much time writing this, I thought it deserved a space on my blog as well. Here we go:

1)I just finished my last fellowship essay. It was about the meaning of happiness, and I had 3000 characters, including spaces, to write it in. I managed to use every one of those characters; the essay is exactly 3000 characters! In a geeky way, that makes me happy.

2) I think SMSes have taught me a lot about editing. I almost always type messages longer than 160 characters, then read them several times trying to bring it down. And I get weirdly happy when i manage to bring it down to the exact character limit (paisa vasool). Yes, still geeky.

3) i always find my dog cute, but i find her especially cute at moments like what happened a few minutes ago: she wanted to bark at the courier company guy who was here to deliver something, but she was too lazy to get out of bed. So she continued to remain snuggled up under her rug (she manages to do so in a way that not even an inch of her body shows) and continued barking. You could hear disembodied barking, and if you looked carefully, you could tell that the rug was moving a little, but you could not see the dog. I laughed for a long time afterward.

4) I have had 3-4 hour long conversations on the phone. Better yet, I have had such conversations with Saurabh and Sachin, whom most people don't consider big talkers.

5) For most of my growing up years, I wanted to be a lawyer-- by the time I was in eighth I had even picked the law school I wanted to study at! I dropped that dream suddenly in tenth grade, I don't remember why, but I'm glad I came to my senses.

6) I got my first thesaurus when i was seven, long before i knew what a thesaurus was. I first used my thesaurus in fourth grade, when i decided that the peacock in a certain essay of mine wasn't just happy but rhapsodic. And no, i didn't know what rhapsodic meant. I just liked the way it sounds (I still like the way that particular word sounds).

7) When I was six, I used to say that I wanted to be a teacher because, that way, my kids would get into school easily (I was completely scarred by how difficult it was for my brother and me to get admission to school since we had moved to Delhi in the middle of the school year).

8) I think in at least three languages. I also write my diary in all 3 of them.

9) I have had fifteen surgeries in 16 years.

10) I still remember the dream I had the first time i was under anesthesia. I dreamed i was being chased by a bull because i was wearing red... and I can still picture the entire dream.

11) As I was slipping into anesthesia when I had my third corneal transplant, weeks after finishing Study Abroad in Argentina, the doctor asked me to count to 20. I got to around 12, then murmured, "this is really boring! Can I count in Spanish?". I was already too drugged for him to protest so he agreed, and I remember feeling really happy to be counting trece, catorce, quince...

12) The combination of pink and green nauseates me-- literally makes me feel ill. I believe there was a reason nature made green-pink blindness the most common form of color blindness.

13) I have mixed concrete and loved doing it. And I think my proudest moment was watching a family cook on an ecological stove I had constructed.

14) I have seen an opera at the Teatro Colon in Buenos Aires because Chris bought me tickets for my birthday. We followed so little of it that, 30 minutes into the opera, he nudged me and exclaimed "Did you realize it's in English?!" We left in the intermission thinking the opera was over, only to discover the next day from another friend that we missed the second (and, she claims, much better) act.

15) I have ice-skated in an open air rink in -40 degree weather in Mongolia (let's not get into the consequences here, shall we?).

16) I spent my early childhood in the Himalayas and, even today, I think I belong there more than anywhere else. I plan to move back sooner or later.

17) Speaking of which, I don't think any river is anywhere near as beautiful as the Beas. I may be a wee bit biased because I lived literally on the bank of the Beas for a year, but I consider this an objective truth as well. Of course, the Beas also a pretty violent river, and it completely swallowed up my childhood home... the land on which i have the fondest memories is now a riverbed.

18) Throughout 11th and 12th grade, I used to get up at 4:30 AM every morning, so that I could have plenty of me-time before my school bus came at 6:45.

19) When I was three or four, my brother and I ran home from school very excited about an unexpected holiday. When our parents asked us why, we happily told them that our teacher had been murdered (she was found in the school's water tank). If that makes me sound like a horrible person, consider that the teachers at this school rubbed bichhu-buti (posion ivy) on our legs as punishment for not doing HW and forced us four year olds to use the forest as a toilet even though there were toilets in the school.

20) When I was five, I studied in a missionary school that I absolutely loved, even though we could be punished if we spoke in Hindi, and even though our morning assembly started at 9:23 AM (or, for some reason, that's the figure stuck in my mind). In 1st grade, we had to pick a "hobby class" in school, and I chose stamp collection.

21) In 11th and 12 grade I managed to get my 2 closest guy friends to MAKE birthday cards for me. I think I embarrassed the hell out of them, but those are still the most beautiful cards I have ever seen.

22) I consider myself the luckiest person in the world in terms of having good friends and good teachers. I know, I know, many people think they are the luckiest in that regard. But I really am.

23) I once convinced my grandmother I am lesbian in order to get her to STOP bothering me about getting married. Unfortunately, it only worked for about 6 months.

24) I have promised 8 people that I will write to them this weekend, and 3 more that I will call them this weekend. I better get started.

25) When i started this, I had nothing to write; now I feel like there's so much else that I could have written but I've already reached 25! In many ways, that's the story of my life.

Comfort book

I know many people who have comfort foods-- I guess I do too-- but yesterday i discovered (again) that that isn't where I really find comfort. And I found a comfort book. It's a book I have read cover-to-cover once and read snippets of many times. I realized that, whenever i am reall tired or stressed, and i reach out to my bookshelf (filled, BTW, with many books I really want to read and have been meaning to for months), I always end up sitting down with "The Treehouse" by Naomi Wolf. I don't get to the new books, or the books that are still unread but have gotten old sitting on my shelf, but i always come away feeling comforted and at peace... which, i guess, is the reason i reach for that bookshelf anyway.

So, why "The Treehouse"? Is it a brilliant book? I'm not sure... i guess that depends on what you bring to it. The writing isn't flashy, but simple. It's basically a collection of essays about the author's father-- a very interesting man, it seems!-- and about the lessons he taught her. Because he was a poet and a teacher, poetry-- in the broadest sense of the term, poetry not just in the context of writing poems but poetry as an attitude towards life-- is the theme of the whole book. In the author's words he was the kind of man "who spent much of his life convincing othersiwe sensible people to quite their comfortable jobs and follow their heart's passions." the other structure in the book is the process of building a treehouse (in case you are wondering where the name came from)... the author and her now 80-something father are building a treehouse for her daughter at their house in the countryside. It is in the process of building this trehouse that he teaches her all these lessons about poetry that she, as a rebellious daughter and a professor herself, had long resisted.

The chapters of the book are organized by the lessons he taught his creative writing students, and the first one, the most important one, is probably a large part of why i reach for this book in times of stress. The lesson is: Be still, and listen. So simple, so profound. When and how and why did we lose that simple ability to be still and listen? Listen not just to noise around us, but listen to silence. So much of my life is a clamor of so many different noises, and I have to consciously find time, early in the morning before anyone wakes up, just to catch those few quiet moments with myself. But because that first lesson is the undertone for much of the book's attitude-- towards the poet, towards life-- this book always manages to calm my frazzled nerves and help me take a deep breath.

What about you? Do you have a comfort book? Leave me a comment telling me which it is and why!

Well, here I am again, and I can't believe it's only been 5 days-- it feels like a month or more since I wrote! What can I say? it's been a long five days!

I've been meaning to write for a while, but i have been and still am too exhausted for the detailed essays i want to put down. Done too much "serious" writing in the process of applying to grad schools and fellowships, and I have a headache because of a bad cold, so there's no way those essays in the offing are getting written just yet. Maybe another time. For today, I want to explore this stress itself.

stopped going to my old pottery class a few months ago... for many reasons, but the main reason was just that they emphasized technique and skill too much, never allowed space for playing with clay. I appreciated their emphasis on skill, but i'm doing pottery to RELAX... wasn't worth it if i was just going to get stressed out over it.

Recently, a friend of my father's mentioned this lady who is a professional potter and has a studio about 2 km away from my house. She doesn't give formal classes but she was happy to meet up. It felt worth investigating, especially since she is so close by, so i called her and walked over to her house a few days ago. I really enjoyed talking to her, and I decided to take up her offer to do informal classes at her studio-- structure it according to whatever time and day works for us both, and pay her for materials and lessons per class rather than have a structured 6 month plan.

In retrospect, i think i know what made me accept her offer so readily. In a pause in our conversation the first day, she suddenly said, "I just love pottery... it's such a great feeling to make these things." She went on to talk about how excited she is when she opens the kiln, how she sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night to check the temperature on the kiln, to see if it can be opened an hour earlier. She talked of the feel of the clay in her hand. I told her how i often used to stay in the ceramics studio at college late at night, right until it closed, especially during my advanced class-- shaping a sculpture, testing a glaze, painting a finished piece. And i realized just how long it had been since i had talked to someone about the sheer joy of creation. I knew I wanted to study under soemone who knew that joy, who hadn't forgotten the pure excitement of opening a kiln even decades after she made her first pot.

I think that's something i need to visit in my writing as well-- just the sheer fun of it. Lately, so much of my writing has been high-pressure, writing to meet deadlines, writing to try and fit as much important information as possible into page limits, word limits, and even character limits! In the process, I haven't had time to savor words, to roll them over my tongue, to write gibberish when I feel like it. I haven't had time to actively participate in writers' groups, to share words with others who love them as much as I do. And somewhere in that process, writing is becoming like my old pottery class- something i know I love, but something i'm lately jsut not being able to enjoy that much.

I found a way out of the dilemma in the case of pottery (I went for my first class yesterday, and I did enjoy it much more than I had in a while; she's probably stricter about technique than even my old instructors, but it's not restricting, perhaps because she starts the class with "so, what do you want to make today?" and lets me follow through with my answer). I need to find a similar way out in writing. And soon, before the blank page overpowers me completely!

So, here I am again, after another couple of weeks. A crazy couple of weeks (but then again, I say that every time, don't I?). Here are some quick thoughts and summaries on my life right now.

1) Mom broke her hand. On the 10th of Jan, she joined me for an office picnic. We were playing frisbee, she slipped on some wet grass, and she fractured her right wrist in 3-4 places. Had surgery a few days later, and her arm's still in a cast (will be for 6 weeks!). Once the dust settled and the initial worries about the surgery were over, once she was back home from hospital, I could start processing those few days. First, of course, there is the sense of the stupidity of that accident... maybe all accidents are stupid, but a little fall in the park seems like a terrible reason for 2 months of pain and dependence! Once I got over the frustration and worry, though, i also realized just how much hospitals put life into perspective. Hospitals have always been part of my life, I practically grew up in the eye clinic, and lately they've been more a part of my life because of Nana's and Mom's illnesses. And there, in hospitals-- in elevators and public spaces in hospitals-- you really get a sense of so may people's stories. It's one of the few public places where people are openly vulnerable, are afraid, cry, shriek with pain or with joy or with grief. So much human drama takes place in hospital lobbies that it can be quite overwhelming. But it's also powerful and humbling. How can you lament a broken wrist when you overhear a family grieving over a young man who has just been diagnosed HIV positive and also has a fatal liver disease? every grief deserves its own place, it is true, but hospitals put them in those places, prevent the broken wrists from taking over the places that need to be reserved for the liver diseases. (Disclaimer: I hate hospitals... the smell of antiseptic makes me gag, at least partially because i have far too many unpleasant memories associated with it. But even in that hatred, i have found that they help me regain perspective).

2) as i write still more grduate fellowship essays (will they ever end?), i had an interesting conversation with a close friend the other day. I was telling him how one of my essays starts witha conversation that he and i have often had... and that he was an important part of that particular essay. He was curious to know mroe and to read the essay, but i hesitate to show him it; i don't think he'll like it. Another close common friend also wants to read it, and again I hesitate. It's also an essay that I would never be able to publish or put up on the blog because to do so would be an invasion ofhis privacy. Another personal statement i wrote left me in a similar situation with someone from college... i would love for him to read my personal statement, but I cannot show it to him because he would probably be highly uncomfortable with it, and I definitely cannot show it to many others because again there are huge privacy issues at stake. Of course, neither mentions names or details that would help a stranger identify them, which is why i am ok with strangers on the admissions committee reading them, but common friends and acquaintances would probably guess right away. All this is making me mighty uncomfortable. I am realizing how much i will have to walk this fine line between public and private if i ever plan to publish my work. I am ok with exposing myself (it took a while but i did finally get there, mroe or less) but, for obvious reasons, not with exposing the lives of others i love. And yet, i find that i exist in relationships, find that it is impossible for me to write about myself without writing abotu the people close to me. Nothing about me makes sense in isolation. I know, I know, it sounds redundant-- obvious-- but there it is, a simple and hughly uncomfortable fact when it comes to personal writing. not sure where to take that, but wanted to put it out there.

OK, i could write at least as much mroe as i already wrote about. But this was supposed to be a warm-up exercise before i start writing those essays. It won't do to spent any more time on a warm up. So, more when i sit down at the computer next time round.

Two New Poems

Now that i am done with graduate application essays and portfolios, i can finally find time to play with words again (yes, yes, i see the irony there). Here, then, are drafts of two new poems... the first is about a necklace given to me by Mauro, my program coordinator and dear friend from Mexico. For the second one, you might want to look up "Delhi iron pillar" on wikipedia for context, especially if you aren't from this part of the world. Both are drafts, both need more work, but the exhilaration of finally writing poetry again is too great to allow me to leave these in a desk drawer for a few more weeks!

A Necklace of Seeds

I wear a necklace of seeds

from an earth that is still sacred.

Watermelon seeds and the tears

of saints that have traveled

exactly halfway across the world

to be with me.

I rub the necklace like a rosary,

then place it against my cheek.

Through the pricking of some seeds

and the smoothness of others,

that earth speaks to me. Be well,

it says, for I am here.

Here. Hear.

THE DELHI IRON PILLAR

Long ago, before the fences were built,

we hugged the iron pillar. Eight or nine,

we must have been, out on our first

school excursions, arms clearly too tiny

to go around. We stood there, backs

pressed against cold iron, hands reaching out,

groping for each other, across six tons

of sixteen hundred years old iron,

yet unrusted. Something good

was to happen if the hands met.

2009

It's 2009, and I'm writing because i want to start the year by writing. Really, that's about the only reason. I've spent SO much time lately writing graduate school essays that I am otherwise fed up of staring at the computer screen.

Today was good, though. I got into the flow. I wrote 1 3/4 essays for SLC today. They want 3 long essays, and i still love their application. Am I just nuts? Nope, I'm a writer, I'm supposed to love writing, so of course I would enjoy the 3 essays. Yeah, right, that's why ;)

Did I make New Years' Resolutions this year? My grandma wanted to know, and I am not sure what the answer is. Yes, I decided to do certain things I haven't done before, even committed to doing them. But then again, that i do every few weeks or months-- find things that i think are important and commit to doing them. Part of my Buddhist practice, I guess, this process of making determinations and working to fulfill them. Ok, so I did that again. Does that mean I made New Year's Resolutions or not?

I had something a little more interesting to say, actually, about my friends and the notion of arranged marriages. Also some more sappy stuff to say about gratitude. And some interesting reflections that emerged in the process of writing those 3 essays. But I am too tired today, spent too many hours writing already. So it will have to wait.

In the meantime, here's wishing you a beautiful 2009!