What They Say of Me

They say I'm brave. They do not see I'm terrified.

They say I'm impertinent. They do not see that a world inherited by the meek is not worth the trouble.

They say I laugh too much. They do not see that life is not for the grim.

They say I'm loud. They do not see that my silence has no place for them.

They say I'm smart. They do not see that it's exactly what makes me stupid.

They say I'm unsympathetic. They do not see how hollow a "I understand" sounds to someone in pain.

They say I'm wishful. They do not see that stops me from making wishes.


They say I'm childish to begin sentences with "One day in the future...". They do not see how every second feels like borrowed time.

They say I hate everyone. They do not see that includes me too.


They say I'm weird. They do not see it protects me against mundane normalcy.

They say I'm alive. They do not see that I had wanted not to be.

They say I don't believe in miracles. They do not see I'm living one. Just like each one of them.

I Never Knew- II

 
I never knew...

How dreams can flutter,

Like fairy lights

Draped over ancient trees.







As part of the "I never knew" series. Each one a small spark of emotion, a moment suspended in space. First one is here.

Photo:http://s1.favim.com/orig/11/blossom-fairy-lights-madamelulu-tree-Favim.com-178046.jpg

I never Knew- I

 
I never knew...

How delicate conquests can be,

Like soap bubbles

Under the lazy afternoon sun.





I plan to make these like a series. Each one a small spark of emotion, a moment suspended in space.

photo:http://graphics.ucsd.edu/~iman/SoapBubbles/Soap_bubbles_RGB.png

Being a Fool

If there is anything that being buffered around a few times in life does to you, is that it makes you skeptical. Something good happens, and you assume there is something bad waiting somewhere around the corner.

It is useful sometimes, even if unfortunate. Getting knocked down enough number of times comes with valuable experience. Experience that tells you you can't avoid getting the knocks, but it sure helps if at least you can prevent being blindsided. Survival strategies are made of such stuff.

As they say, life hands you lemons. And for a while, you do your best to sweeten away the sourness, figuratively speaking. Then you run out of sugar, and just accept the fact that lemons are sour. That is usually smart.

And then, rarely, something really nice comes your way. Guess what, you poor sod, you are still stuck with the sour taste in your mouth. This is the sad part. You know you like it, but you can't enjoy it. You try to put aside the baggage you've accumulated, hurt and pain and mistrust and everything else, and try to replace it with a new order of things, one that has you happy. And all you can think of is, "This is stupid. This is too good to be true."

Frankly, you're right. By most chances, the good phase will not last. It rarely does. And you'll come back crashing again, broken. Just like the last time. Remember how much it hurt? You are a fool. You can walk away from what makes you happy, you can even convince yourself you're doing it to protect yourself from further hurt.
It makes frightening sense, but you know what, you'll still be a fool. And moreover, now you are both a fool and a fraud.

Tough deal, huh? It's tough for me. But right now, I'll take my chances. I'll be just the fool. Simply because I've been a fraud for too long. Wish me luck.

Love Stories

I pointed out The Bridges of Madison County to my friend at the bookshop.

Friend: "What's it about?"

Me: "It's a love story."

Friend: "Why bother?"

Me: "It's a love story that doesn't work out."

Friend: "Why bother?"

He didn't say it because he didn't care. He said it because he did bother, that too, too much. I remembered vividly the sense of helplessness and melancholy that the book had left me with.

Why bother, really.

One can perhaps answer  the question in a hundred different ways. But my favourite is one that I had read long back, written by a woman whose wisdom I've come to appreciate fully as I have grown up.

Because to write a love story requires a special kind of bravery. At least to write one that is any good. You make two people meet, you make them love each other, then you make them laugh or cry, depending upon how your mood is. And it all get read by people, who can, with exceptions, be categorized into two groups.

One are those who have, or have had, their own love stories. You embellish your story, make the couple go through everything from disapproving parents to an alien attack and let them live happily ever after. Or you make a grocery list of all the ways they are perfect for each other, and then let last year's stock markets keep them apart till the next lifetime comes around.
But whatever you do, nothing impresses these people. For them, it is always their own that was the most beautiful. It's no use arguing. When you see their faces when they tell you their story, you know that they are right too, yours is no match. Every single time.

The other group, the polar opposite, are the ones who haven't had their own stories yet. And guess what, you can't impress them either. No matter how mundane, how "life-like" or how "based on a true story" you make it, even the simplest descriptions will look over-dramatic to them.
Again, it's no use arguing. You ask them to tell them the biggest thing that has happened to them. Then, if you have a love story, compare that theirs. You'll see that they are right too, yours is too dramatic. And from their view point, too dramatic to be true. Love always is. Every single time.

Perhaps that is why we bother to read a love story, specially those of us who fall in the first group. Because we know the pitfalls of one. Because it lets us validate our own. Because one can never write a love story. One can only live it, for a day or a lifetime.

Reading a Hemingway

                              

 Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee." 
-For Whom the Bells Toll

My first brush with Hemingway came before it should have. I picked up The Old Man and the Sea from the old neighbourhood bookshop (the kind that still wraps them up in brown paper). I was ten. Fair enough, I understood very little. But there was a haunting sense of melancholy that did make a lasting impression on me.

My next was For Whom the Bells Toll. I was more matured and more receptive when I read it, and boy, did I love it! I loved the fragmented style of narration, which jelled so well with my own thoughts. I loved how there was a certain kind of innocence juxtaposed with violence. And I loved how you could live a lifetime in three days.

Another was Indian Camp. Short, simple, and again the juxtaposition of innocence and violence.

The latest is A Farewell  to Arms. Brutal, realistic, tragic. It has the lyrical quality that life achieves without needing music and rhyming words.

The reason I keep re-reading Hemingway is the way he portrays everything without either sugar-coating or demonizing them. He doesn't need to. He stays true to the colours. He calls the bluff on hypocrisy and lets mundane things show their grandeur through mundaneness itself.

People are battered, broken, destroyed. And yet they move on, they survive, they allow their cynical selves to hope again. And that, is life in its full glory.

Desiderata - Max Ehrmann

It is a bit wordy and maybe a teeny bit preachy, but it has calmed me in my worst times over the years. I don't want to spoil it by too many words of my own, but even if a single line makes sense to you, keep it close, it will serve you well.

Go placidly amidst the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

 

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

 

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labours and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its shams, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.