Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Because for heaven's sake, who cries out of restlessness?
We do. We even have a name for it. We call it the COA keeda*. All three of us have had it, and continue to have it. It isn’t always bad. Most months it lies low, occasionally erupting in an urge to ‘do something different’. These are more easily dealt with. A good play, a new hobby, a get-away-from-it-all-trip, they work. There is calm, even if it is uneasy. But you know you’re only suppressing symptoms, rather than curing disease (which is the most perfect word for this sickness. Disease: dis + ease). And you know, that like anything held in, when it explodes, there is havoc.
We know better than to offer solutions to the stricken. Suggestions will not, cannot be taken, opinions will be feverishly sought, then ignored, kind words will only lead to teary breakdowns.
So we listen, patiently, as people who have been down that road. We listen to the raving, the longing, the agonised debates, the justifications. And we empathise, but can do little else. It’s like a fever, it will run its course and only then, burn itself out.
All we can do is hope that we survive the fire. Or failing that, that phoenix-like, something beautiful will rise out of the ashes.
* Keeda: bug / worm.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
So, eight random facts about me.
1) You know that idiotic make-a-wish-on-a-fallen-eyelash thing that girls in Hindi movies do? Yeah well, guess what. I know, I know, totally pathetic. But look, I shook off some nineteen years of extreme religion - I'm entitled to one tiny equally baseless belief? Think of it as a nicotine patch of sorts, it might seem a little more tolerable.
When I was a kid, I had a mental picture of this silver-bearded old man, sitting on a pile of clouds, hunched over his worktable, prising open eyelashes with a pair of microscopic tweezers. The eyelash would then roll open scroll-like, and written on it would be the wish you'd made. I have no idea who I should blame for this.
2) I hate long nails. On myself, that is. I completely envy women with slender hands, tipped with perfectly manicured nails (the bitches), but it drives me nuts if mine grow long enough that I can feel the edges.
3) I once dated a neanderthal who said - "मैं चाहूंगा कि मेरी बीवी मुझे कम से कम एक वक़्त का खाना बना के खिलाये" - I was horrified, and argued till I was blue in the face, but I did not dump him. Well, not right away at least.
4) I people-watch to the point where the watchees begin to worry. It's not deliberate - I don't mean to make them uncomfortable, but the thing is that after a while, it's just my eyes that are focused on them; my brain has run off to pick daisies. When the brain comes back from her flower-picking, we have a good laugh about it. And then they (the watchees) worry even more.
5) I hate being tickled.
6) I cannot smoke. I've tried to, oh about a hundred times till date, but I always end up coughing and wheezing like a chain-smoking asthmatic. Oh and pot? Same difference.
7) My second toe is longer (taller? higher? faster? stronger?) than my big toe (on both feet). Superstition says that a woman with this particular toe-configuration will lord over her husband. Superstition is a lying bitch.
8) I think boobs are a bad design feature. Really. I think I might've even been lesbian if it weren't for boobs.
Done! Now I'm supposed pass on the tag to eight people but I'm fairly sure that only four out of eight will do it, so here goes:
Izzy (who I think has done this before but so what, tell us eight more things)
Monday, July 02, 2007
The first time I heard the wailing, I thought a bat had flown into the house. After a rather jittery search revealed that it was only the wind, I tried sealing off the windows by jamming in newspaper. It didn't work, at least not in the way I hoped. All it did was lower the pitch. So instead of soprano, my window banshees now wail in a soft contralto.
I should sell tickets or something.
On a completely unrelated note, a lovely poem I read over the weekend. Author Anne Lamott calls it a wonderful use of paranoia as material. I agree.
We Who Are Your Closest Friends
We who are
your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting,
as a group,
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift.
Your analyst is
in on it,
plus your boyfriend
and your ex-husband;
and we have pledged
to disappoint you
as long as you need us.
In announcing our
we realize we have
placed in your hands
a possible antidote
indeed against ourselves.
But since our Thursday nights
have brought us
to a community
rare in itself
with you as
the natural center,
we feel hopeful you
will continue to make unreasonable
demands for affection
if not as a consequence
of your disastrous personality
then for the good of the collective.
- Philip Lopate