Learning

A personal favourite, in good and bad times.I have learnt how true it is. And I have learnt how hard it is to learn it, too.

You Learn

- Jorge Luis Borges (translated by Veronica Shoffstall)

After a while you learn the subtle difference

Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning

And company doesn’t mean security.

And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts

And presents aren’t promises,

And you begin to accept your defeats

With your head up and your eyes open

With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,

And you learn to build all your roads on today

Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans

And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After a while you learn…

That even sunshine burns if you get too much.

So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,

Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure…

That you really are strong

And you really do have worth…

And you learn and learn…

With every good-bye you learn.

On Turning Twenty

So I turn twenty. Is it a big deal? Is it not? I don’t know. I don’t feel twenty. But then, I probably have no clue how twenty feels, so maybe that statement is redundant.There are times I feel ten (already been there, so this I know). And there are days I feel forty (this is a guess; I hope the real one is less scary than I think it to be).

I talk to kids and find out I have no clue about the cartoons they watch on TV, and feel old. Then I listen to people and wish I could go back to being four so that I could give them a hug and say everything will be fine.

Memories are funny things. One huge, shimmering pot of good and bad, bitter and sweet. Black and white and every shade in between.

I have learnt to keep my plans open-ended.  And accepted that a lot of them aren’t gonna work out, many times just for the heck of it. And it will still be fine. More importantly, I will still be fine. I’ll plan again.

I have seen how quickly masks fall from faces. And found out how badly it hurts to be betrayed (that’s less than when you end up betraying, whether intentionally or otherwise. we’ve all been there). But also that a lot of things heal with time. Whether they do or do not often depend on us, too. There is always a choice. Always.

I have had fun when it was least expected. And realised true friends are not just people who stick together, but who dream together, and snigger together, and sing together, and have tiffs and make up, thousand times over, thousand miles apart. People who are there to welcome you back, no matter how far you go.

I have heard stories that defy logic. And believed them all. Everyone has a story. Many get lost in the cacophony of the world, because they do not know this. But there are some who do know, and treasure the knowledge, even if they don’t show it. If you sit down and let them talk, they might just surprise you, for a few among them don’t just come with stories, they are whole novels (and I personally know two who are regular epics, God bless them).

I have laughed over silly things. And cried over sillier ones. But both felt better when shared. Like the old time school tiffin. Emotions are way more shared among people than the barriers of age, race, gender or location will let us believe. Crossing those barriers can be scary, yet liberating (like going down a highway on a bike. or being in love. take your pick).

I have had my faith tested. And lost some, and gained some. The best way to regain it is to talk to someone who lost more than you (there is invariable someone around who fits the bill). Rarely, if ever, is it true that faith moves mountains. But it probably does save more souls than all the confession boxes in the world.

I have learnt how tough it is to grow up. Growing old will be tougher. I’ll go into the new year (and decade, sigh) a bit sadder, a bit wiser, still reluctantly optimistic, still incorrigibly romantic and still unfailingly inquisitive.

But these I have been since as far back I can remember.
Looks like growing up will have to wait another year.

Kerala Snaps-II

A few more photos from my trip to Kerala. Stay safe and enjoy, folks.

Mirror Image

Santa Cruz Basilica

House of God ( Inside the Santa Cruz Basilica)

River Cruise

A Badling. Seriously, that's what you call a Group of Ducks

Bee Colony

Kerala Snaps-I

I went on a trip to Kerala a few days back. A few snaps to share with you all. :-) Enjoy. More later.

He Sure Knows he is Regal

Vivekanda Rock Memorial (i loved the way the sunbeam came in this)

Mid-Flight!

Where Will you Take Me, Captain?

Feline. Enough said.

Will you Tell me Your Story?

Stories have always been important to me. My brain recognizes people by the stories that I know of them.Some call it a typical Aquarian trait, some call it childish. Whatever it may be, I have been blessed to have been told of their stories by many folks. Lives, successes, failures, loves, encounters, fights, glories. And every time I meet someone new, and hear theirs, it only gets reconfirmed,that every person has a story, if we only care to listen. 

I came across the following poem, and it seemed perfect to express in a way how The Story People came into being. It says exactly what I say silently, every time I talk to a person, every time I talk to YOU.

The Invitation

                                                   -Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.

I want to know what you ache for,

And if you dare to dream of meeting

Your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are.

I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool

For love, for your dream,

For the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.

I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow,

If you have been opened by life's betrayals,

Or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain,

Mine or your own,

Without moving

To hide it or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy,

Mine or your own,

If you can dance with wildness

and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes

Without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic,

or to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.

I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself,

If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.

I want to know if you can be faithless and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty

Even when it is not pretty every day,

And if you can source your life

From its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure,

Yours and mine,

And still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the full moon,

"Yes!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.

I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair,

Weary and bruised to the bone,

And do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn't interest me who you are, how you came to be here.

I want to know if you will stand

In the center of the fire with me

And not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.

I want to know what sustains you

From the inside

When all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone

With yourself,

And if you truly like the company you keep

In the empty moments.

[photo courtesy:http://www.flickr.com/photos/chatinthehat/1190818714/

poem cortesy:Oriah Mountain Dreamer:http://www.oriahmountaindreamer.com/.By Oriah © Mountain Dreaming,
from the book The Invitation published by HarperONE, San Francisco,1999 All rights reserved. I do not own this poem or any parts of it.This is posted only with the purpose of sharing.]

The Blind Boy-Colley Cibber

A simple poem, read more than a decade back. I remember telling my Mom that I did not want to re-read it because it "made me sad". A 6-year old's view of life did not allow for people being sad without being sad myself. Cut to 2011, I find the poem beautiful. It is not an awesome piece of literature of anything. But it shows the simple, honest kind of courage in going through difficulties, which I see around me in so many forms, and have learnt to appreciate greatly.

The Blind Boy

                ~ Colley Cibber

 O say, what is that thing called light,

 Which I can ne'er enjoy?

 What is the blessing of the sight?

 O tell your poor blind boy!

 You talk of wondrous things you see,

 You say the sun shines bright;

 I feel him warm, but how can he

 Then make it day or night?

 My day or night myself I make

 Whene'er I sleep or play;

 And could I ever keep awake

 With me 'twere always day.

 With heavy sighs I often hear

 You mourn my hapless woe;

 But sure with patience I may bear

 A loss I ne'er know.

 Then let not what I cannot have

 My cheer of mind destroy;

 Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,

 Although a poor blind boy.

[photo courtesy: http://www.scientificamerican.com/media/inline/blog/Image/Blind_man.jpg]

On Losing the Meaning

My childhood thesaurus put melancholy as a synonym for sadness. But life taught me the subtle difference. Sadness comes with tears, anger, indignation, denial. It blocks out everything else. Sadness heals. We give Time, time, and sadness heals. But melancholy? Melancholy comes with a tired acceptance. It stays. Softly, unobtrusively but it stays. It never stops anything, but like a tinted glass, it dims the brightest of sunshine.

“And everyday life loses a little bit of its meaning.”

Thus read a friend’s text message while we were philosophising on the phone. Strange how depressing observations reach across people. No one died today. No dreams were shattered. No one cried out for help. No shots were fired. There is melancholy, not sadness.

And yet there is a ever-deepening sense of loss. Each day goes by with the feeling that it left me a little bit poorer than the previous. Small, almost imperceptible, but undeniable. Every day I lose a little more and I know I will never regain it back.

For someone who grew up believing in the glory of life, the brittleness of the meaning of life in the face of the world is hard to swallow. As I pick apart all that is around me, everything unravels with an ease that is almost scary. And it all echoes emptily with a single question, “What does it matter?”
So is that it? I remember shaking my head, and thinking “Crazy fellow”, when I first read that life is something that happens to you on the way to the grave. Somehow, I don’t do that anymore. Shake my head disbelievingly, that is.

No one died, because no one lived. No dreams were shattered because we lost those long back. No one cried for help because they learnt way early that there is no one to hear. No shots were fired because there is nothing left to fight for. And there is melancholy, not sadness.

They say sorrow shared is half. Perhaps it didn’t hold good for this because as I said, there is melancholy, not sadness. There was small comfort that two people, miles apart in terms of geography, ideas, age and background, both shared this depressing (and accurate?) view. The walls the world builds between people effectively prevents any real exchange of emotions, except perhaps in rare unguarded moments. We did not talk about this anymore beyond those five minutes.

My reply was that “If everyday life loses a little bit of its meaning, and you are still not done with it, I would still call you lucky. Because it means you started out with a whole lot of it in the first place.” Old habits die hard, and the eternal optimist says perhaps, just perhaps, this is the meaning of life. That in spite of it all, we still had this conversation.

[photo courtesy:https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyqAGZnpAkWLNhFXbtd4udWjoFQBxvtvYhGaFBnl9BD0JMY_xwRdZJnqgGayZBME8V3fbL9769D2nSxa-2dVO-gab2MFMvw-UssZW3iXg-iNLhC-CK4fCfz4XNo_TSQnnUMpwm8ytnpTk/s1600/Lost-Soul.jpg]