Well, here I am. Blogging from my friend Yssel´s house in Mexico City. I haven´t yet figured out punctuation on the Spanish keyboard, so no one gets to call me out on that in this post :P
My journey here was surprisingly smooth. I had expected trouble at the Mexican airport immigration, seeing as they have just changed their laws to allow me to travel without a visa, but I was pleasantly surprised by how together they were. If anything, it was the staff at LAX that didn´t know what to do and made me wait around a while; once i actually got to Mexico, it took me only a minute of explaining the new rules for them to let me through! (although yes, i do think it amusing that i had to explain the rules!).
My friend was an hour late picking me up from the airport, so I got to sit around and absrob the Spanish sounds around me for a long time. I feel myself stumbling a little as I try havinga conversation with her, but interestingly she thinks my Spanish is better than it has ever been. That makes no sense, I havent spoken the language in 3 years, and I feel myself searching for words and for correct conjugations in a way that I havent needed to do before. And yet, I am happy to realize we were able to have a real conversation, about the past, about what we have been doing, about ideas for the work we could do over the summer, and about other fairly complex issues. Makes me confident that, within a few more days, I will be fluent again.
This might sound horrible, but I;m also overjoyed to note that she isn;t in touch with that one-time common friend from Mexico some of you have heard about whom I really don;t want to run into again, being back here is bringing so much of the past back, the wonderful and the less than wonderful, but it;s good to also see that things have changed.
Quesadillas and sopes for dinner... made me happy to be back. If there;s one thing i truly love about Mexico, it;s the food.
As the project itself goes, turns out there really isn´t a plan, or even a proper vision, in place for what we hope to achieve this summer. I had learned to expect that, but it is still a teeny bit disappointing... but only a teeny bit because that means i get that much more of a role in figuring it out with them. Pravah´s and Paul´s training in asking hard questions about the whys of the work we do will stand me in good stead. I;m also hopeful about getting an oral history piece off the ground, brought my dictaphone, wouldn;t that be exciting? Lots of ideas, need to spend some time concretizing them before we head into the mountains.
Looks like we;ll be in Mexico City for a week or 10 days before we head out. Y and L are both still finishing up their school year. They asked me if i wanted to go to the city of Puebla with some of their friends who are part of a circus in the meantime, i;m not yet sure if I want to do that, although it does sound like fun, doesn´t it? Haha, will keep you updated.
So, disregard any panic that last post may have caused (although I do appreciate the concerned emails). I'm feeling better and heading to Mexico tomorrow. These should prove to be an interesting 6 weeks.
This past week in California has been utterly beautiful. Exhausting at times, yes, but also refreshing in incredible ways. Catching up with people I haven't talked to in months or years really helped me see myself differently... one conversation in particular, had after a 5 year silence, transformed so much about how I see myself and people around me. More on that some other time, perhaps, but it's really more diary news than blog news. Nevertheless an important week.
It hasn't yet hit me that I shall be in Mexico at this time tomorrow. Hasn't even hit me enough for me to feel nervous or excited or anything. But yes, there you have it, one more adventure. I am looking forward to it when i think about it, and I'm sure it will become more real as soon as I check into that airport tomorrow.
Well then, that's all for now, will blog again from Mexico City in the next couple of days. Stay well, and stay in touch!
I've been back in California this week, and it's been both wonderful and exhausting. There's a lot going on inside my head, but most of it is diary-worthy, not blog-worthy. Still, I feel the need to touch base a little.
Staying with J & W, that's been wonderful. Also really glad I came out early enough int he week to actually get a chance to meet and talk with TL, PV, and JK... even when all the students had changed and the cafeteria seemed weird, it felt good to have these guys still be there, to be able to talk to them as an alum but also as a student. I feel like my favorite part of being an SUA alum is having such close relationships with my teachers.
In some ways, of course, the ceremony was overwhelming. Not the ceremony itself, but all the people gathered there. There were so many more people to talk to than was possible; I hugged more people yesterday than I have all year, but I didn't get a chance to talk to anyone for more than a couple of minutes. That's not how I work; I know I need to do more catching up... so, in a weird way, I feel less like I caught up with people at graduation and more like I now feel more motivated to catch up with people after I return from my summer adventures. Including with people who weren't there today but whom I would have loved to see. I feel more connected to the alumni in general after today, and it's a good feeling.
Two more people to meet, hopefully tomorrow, and then I head on to LA to spend a day with L, then off to Mexico on the 1st of June. So glad I did this week at SUA first.
Suddenly very nervous about the whole Mexico experience, though. I'm sick. More than I have been in a long time now... walking in very painful right now. It's a scary context from which to be going into a rural summer... I'm not sure how to deal with it yet. Trying to see a doctor tomorrow, but struggling with the medical system in the USA and figuring out health insurance details. J & W have both been so wonderful, so grateful they are here through this, but still scared of what next. Even briefly considered dropping the whole Mexico plan, but couldn't bring myself to do that... I really, really, really want to go. But I have to weigh this out carefully and make sure I'm taking all necessary precautions. Don't want to repeat Mongolia. (Yes, this is more than I would usually admit about my health on a public space, at least during a crisis, but I'm trying to be more upfront about things, in general and therefore on this blog as well.) We'll see, I hope that my next entry is indeed from Mexico.
In 2 days, I'm going back to SUA for the first time since I graduated. M is graduating, I'm so proud of her for getting there despite all the odds she faced that I have to be there to celebrate. I'm also looking forward to a week of catching up with friends I haven't seen in way too long, haven't spoken to in a while either. At the same time, I'm so sad about all the friends who won't be there, especially two close friends I was counting on being able to hug and catch up with after too long... but I guess that's part of what moving so much involves. I'm especially looking forward to one person, whom I haven't seen or spoken to since sophomore year of college, driving up to the OC to say hello... that's going to be the most interesting, even if intense, meeting of this next week, I think.
But a little part of me is in disbelief. That world feels far away. Mexico, where I return on June 1st, feels even further away. I can't exactly say I'm nervous-- it feels too far away for me to feel anything about it-- but I am curious to see what happens. I know I'm not the person I was 3 years ago, and I know that's probably going to be true for most of the people I'm going to see again after this interval, so I'm curious to see who we are now in relationship to each other now. That's especially true of my Mexican friends and even the village I'm going back to... 3 years is a long time, the toddlers I carried in my arms will be running all over the place now, the 10-year-olds will be teenagers, probably with a bit of an attitude, and none of them will remember me. There's something humbling about that.
And yet, I feel I will be more myself by the time I return to New York City in July. It's almost as if I no longer know who I am without the confusions of identity... being an international student from India in New York is almost too simplistic, I need to be all of those other people in order to feel whole now. It's a little bit like when you've been sitting in one place too long and your foot goes to sleep (is that the expression in English too, or am I just translating literally from the Hindi?)... waking it up involved those pins and needles that are uncomfortable but not in a bad way, just in a strange way. Once you move it around a bit, though, the blood starts flowing again and you can walk and feel your feet below you as you do so. I'm in the pins and needles stage just now, but I do look forward to feeling my feet again.
I've noticed over this past year in New York, more than ever before in my life, that I switch, from one hour to the next, between feeling surrounded by the love and care of so many beautiful friends that I can't believe my good fortune to feeling utterly alone. That's at least in part because most of those beautiful friends are physically not here, and it's easy to let them slip to the back of one's mind sometimes... and i haven't had the time or emotional energy to create that community here yet. Yet, I know by now that, for the rest of my life, my "real" community will probably live inside my head and all around the world, not in any one specific geographic location. That's both wonderful and frustrating.
Speaking of which, I owe at least two of those friends a phone call before I set off on my summer adventure. And my apartment is demanding a thorough cleaning spree, and my bags haven't even come out of the closet yet, and I have SO many important errands to run, and I leave in less than 48 hours. It's time to sign off, and I look forward to seeing many of you lovely readers soon :)
I was given a beautiful gift today. By a woman who has given me many beautiful gifts over the last few months-- my poetry professor in Spring semester, Suzanne Gardinier.
It was the senior lecture, a tradition at SLC where the graduating class selects a professor to give them one final talk before they leave. This lecture was called "A life of learning: How to tear down a house and build a boat" and it reminded me of so many beautiful things that I asked her for a copy, knowing I would need to go back to it at different points in my life... as I reread it late at night, I can only think of it as a wonderful gift that someone gave me and that I gratefully received.
Do you know the feeling of being at home in a talk? Suzanne's talks and writing make me feel at home in a way that only one other person's talks and writings do-- Sarah Wider's. they both talk about poetry and activism in the most beautiful, most gentle of ways, with a love that makes me feel so complete and so utterly... at home, that's it. Here's a quote from it, something I needed to hear today, something I need to hear often:
You're not lying awake worrying because you're neurotic. (Or not entirely anyway.) You're worrying because you're awake. And the question isn't how best to anesthetize yourself against this, but how to live with it. How to dance with what's true.... you can be trained enough not to panic, but to dance
Anesthesia is sometimes the easier choice, but I want that training she talks about, and I know that all of this past year's struggles with illness, with confronting mortality, with everything, have been part of acquiring that. Have been part, simply, of learning to dance.
Suzanne would often talk to us in class about what a gift our art can be, would encourage us to think of ourselves as creating gifts that we can give to people we may have never met. She wants to see a world where people leave poems around for others in to read in phone booths and coffee shops and public places, where who wrote the poem is less important than the gift of that piece of one life to another life. Today, I read a blog posted on the facebook page of a friend who recently did something called "poetry in unexpected places"... a group of young poets/ spoken word artists who spent one weekend afternoon performing poems in the subways of NYC. The blog post mentioned something to the effect: "The greatest part was that nothing was expected in return." Because if something was expected in return, it wouldn't really be a gift, would it?
I can't get these thoughts about gifts out of my mind. I have been thinking a lot lately about what it means to give something without expecting in return... when the other party doesn't quite believe you expect nothing in return. So, when you give because you find joy in giving, and the other party starts feeling uncomfortable because they assume you want something back that they cannot give, should you feel apologetic about giving in the first place?
S told me this morning that I can come across "too strongly"; that he knows me well enough to understand where I am coming from, but that for someone new, it can be hard to realize i honestly don't want anything in response. I'm talking here not so much about literal gifts as just about love and support... there have been a few different people in my life whom I have tried reaching out to over the past few weeks, people I don't really know that well but, for different reasons, connected to and wanted to reach out to. I ignored the voices, once on the outside but now well settled into my head, that tell me I "care too much," felt comfortable in reaching out with all the love in my heart. I knew I couldn't get hurt because I really wasn't looking for any specific response, or even a response at all necessarily, that was not the point. But I hadn't realized that other part enough until recently... that even if I don't expect anything from someone, they often still think I do, and that often still makes them uncomfortable. I am starting to see that over the last few days, and S was right in stressing/ explaining that in a way that drove the point home. It almost feels selfish not to have realized it on my own.
Except that I don't know where that leaves me. I don't want to apologize for caring; I don't want to apologize for the gifts I want to give. Mostly, I don't want to apologize for who I am. But do I want to apologize for their discomfort? I'm not sure.
I'm not sure today is the best day to restart this blog, but I figure I'll never start if I keep waiting for the right day to start it. So here we go, this probably won't be my most interesting entry, just think of it as my ramp back in :)
I feel strangely exhausted. I finished my first year of graduate school 5 days ago, and I haven't really done anything since, but I'm still so drained. Most of the time, it's a good exhaustion... you know how, after a really excruciating workout, you wake up the next morning and every muscle of your body hurts but in a really good way? That's how I feel emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually right now. Everything hurts after this past year's excruciating workout, but in a good, satisfying way.
I'm not sure how to sum up this year.
Am I a better writer than I was when I got here in September 2009? Yes. 100% yes. It feels really good to be able to say that with such conviction... I'm not sure I could have said it after my first semester, but definitely by the end of the year. I've grown in craft, but the really important part of this year has been becoming much more honest to my experiences, much less conscious of other people's thoughts about my work while I am doing my work, much more comfortable in my voice.
It's also been a process of deconstructing my education, so informed by first British and then American literary traditions, and ask what that means for the understanding of literature that my generation of writers in postcolonial societies has grown up with. In my first school, we could be punished for speaking Hindi; we learned early that English was the language of intellectual work, was somehow more respectable. Although speaking in Hindi would not have been an issue in the school where I did most of my schooling (moved there in 2nd grade), I refused to speak Hindi in school, outside Hindi classes, until my friends in 10th and 11th grade made me do it. I was never sure why I wasn't comfortable speaking this language in school when it was my home language just as much as English was; I guess lessons learned in childhood go a really long way. Now, as I think about writing multilingually, I realize that my diary is naturally multilingual, but the moment i "sit down to write," I switch into English and have a hard time being flexible. Interestingly, though, when we did pure sound and rhythm based exercises in class, I found myself composing in the devnagari script-- it just didn't work in the roman script-- partly because Hindi is more phonetic, but i think also partly because when you reach beyond language into more primal rhythms, then Hindi's rhythms inform me in crucial ways. Now, my program director is strongly encouraging me to do translation work (from Hindi and/ or Spanish) as part of my thesis next year... which sounds like an amazing idea, and feels like a logical next step, but is still incredibly daunting. We'll see.
In the context of those questions and explorations, it's been an interesting journey being the only international student and the only non-white person in my poetry workshops. Even though I've lived in so many different places, somehow I've never really had to think about being a cultural outsider as much as here at SLC, except perhaps in the Catholic University in Argentina. I guess all of those spaces have had enough diversity within them for me to find a home in it; here, being the only one, I've been pushed to think about it in a whole different way. I have also never had to think about race before; this year has shown me that, even if I'm not thinking actively about it, there's no way for me to avoid it while I live in the USA... and has thereby forced me to reflect on how it informs my everyday experiences here. At first, all of that was incredibly unsettling: being surrounded by one specific poetry tradition, hearing a similar voice around me and knowing that that was not my voice, but not really knowing what was my voice. Over time, though, it became a useful exercise: every time I read-- or wrote-- something and knew "that's not how I sound," I was forced to ask myself, "well, then, how do I sound?" A few months ago, my poetry changed incredibly as a result... everything, the content, the structures, the rhythms, the line lengths... and for the first time I felt like I was really hearing my own voice in my work. Other languages I speak, other traditions that speak inside my head, other experiences that are close to my heart, all slowly began to creep into my work.
And, frankly, that scared me.
I don't know if I can explain that fear to someone who doesn't create and think about art on a regular basis... but it was outright scary to hear this raw voice and realize it was my own and then to have to wonder what the other voices were. Not that they are in opposition to each other; the new writing just felt deeper and more gut level than anything that came before, but it's still scary. And the further I'm trying to go down that road, the more scared I am, but also the more excited I am.
Now, I feel I'm "talking like an artist," and that isn't a comfortable feeling either! I don't want to be obscure, and I'm always wary of pompous artist-y talk. But this feels so utterly true in my heart, I'm just going to accept that this is coming from me :)
In that context, I'm curious to see how my writing evolves while I am in Mexico for the summer, utterly away from both English and Hindi, surrounded by Spanish and Nahuatl. Even if I continue to write in English alone, will the rhythms of those other languages creep into my work? I hope so. I can't wait to see.
Just to say "I'm back, sort of, but don't have the time for a real post yet," here's a short video/ slideshow that I made for my Oral History class. My only suggestion on how best to "get it" is don't try to hard; don't look for a particular time and place and context for each photo. Just follow the journey from the waiting room onwards into a place that only exists inside my head.
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.
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!"
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!
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! ;)
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.
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 ;)).
I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge, That myth is more potent than history, That dreams are more powerful than facts, That hope always triumphs over experience, That laughter is the only cure for grief And I believe that love is stronger than death
-- Robert Fulghum, the Storyteller's Creed
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