The impossibility of being Moureena

[ I shamelessly admit that this very long post is all about me!]

The impossibility of being Moureena, because, to begin with, I'm not sure what my name actually means. But that also means that I'm free to ascribe any meaning of my choice to it.

I don't particularly identify myself with any state identity for the nomad that I've been, I have within me, a part of all the places I've been to. But I do think of myself to be Punjabi by nature and by that I certainly don't mean crumbling under the influence of drugs. I think I'll hand pick from the most common stereotypes associated with Punjabis for myself - warm and cheerful, because that's how I come across, usually. Superficially.

I've been such a daydreamer and have built numerous castles in air only to later discover that those are inhabitable. I wonder if my life events are being controlled by a donkey, and whenever I think, from a safe distance, that this particular situation would be a very uncomfortable one to be in, I'm kicked by that donkey to find myself right at the centre of that situation. Or it could be this notorious genie-chef, who has my wishes for ingredients, chopping them up haphazardly and serving life to me, so that I have my wishes granted but they are nothing as I ever imagined.

I think as a child I wished my life to be like a movie, I didn't know it will turn out to be THAT melodramatic. I probably failed to specify the genre. You have to be careful what you wish for, right?

But along the way, I grew up to realise that I am the one in control.

I'm dealing with turbulent waters but gliding just fine. In my own little Ice-land I'm waiting for spring. I have a little shovel and I feel audacious enough to start clearing the ice and make my own way.

I have set my heart on this particular wedding dress and I have perfect plans for my life post retirement. Now all I need is that perfect employment opportunity which will enable me to realise those plans and a groom.

How difficult could it be?
*laughs and cries alternatively*

I liked this particular 'you' so much that I wanted to, and I did label it as the very problematic four lettered 'L' word. But a twist of time and the feelings vanished. No more cravings and encounters weren't as satisfying as before nor the company as comforting.
I'm obviously talking about chocolate. I got over my sweet tooth.

I felt giddy with happiness to find out that there is something called social psychology. You can, in a way, actually read the minds of people!
I fail to read mine at times though.

I frequently have nightmares and in most of them I find myself running away from wild animals and I swear I'm not making this up that I wake up with aching legs. I'm so used to them that they aren't scary anymore. In fact, I plan to record them in a diary someday and call it "stranger than fiction."

In reality, instead of fight and flight, my mechanism asks me to freeze in face of danger. Maybe my coding forces me to access the danger more closely before I take a step. Evolutionary anomaly?

I had a taste of my own brilliance when I was younger, which I now feel fleeting, dull. Recently, I was so overwhelmed by the stagnation in my life that I decided to go for morning walks, taking them to be a metaphor for moving forward.

I don't think I'm a materialist but I felt sad when I lost my favourite spoon once. No, I wasn't 2 when this happened, I was 21.

I don't always like what I see in the mirror but I still love myself enough. And I think I'm a different person everyday.

I would be disappointed if all our life is not being recorded, somewhere, up there in heaven, to be viewed by us later when our time on Earth is over. Mine would definitely be a musical as I find myself singing and dancing around when I'm home alone.

I have a really loud mind and a squeaky little voice and I'm sure I wouldn't have said anything of what I write, out loud.

I find myself postponing too many things for "someday". While my guitar gathers dust I dream of playing it till my fingers bleed. I'm looking for that one perfect song to serenade people with to move them to tears. Misery, like happiness, should be shared.
I think, through writing, I'm doing pretty much the same.

The little joys in life satiate me enough to forget all failures and the goals not achieved, for a little while. Stepping out in the world does seem scary but I do believe in the power of kindness that's making the world go round.

Sweaty and messy for doing something good is totally acceptable.

I've felt this feeling of loneliness creep up my skin even while being with people I know.  I haven't actually figured out what exactly it is, like so many other things. I'm a wallflower and a fireball in the same body. I don't know if it's sane to have these two voices in my head, listing the pros and cons of anything and everything.

There are certain places that I ache to visit. Places I've never been to before, but they somehow feel familiar.

Reading newspaper has become increasingly saddening and fiction has become a refuge.

I've swallowed tears and smiled instead while watching something that I know isn't real but still hits hard. I've remembered something really funny at the most inappropriate of times and suppressed laughter.

I secretly like all those people making puns and cracking lame jokes. I secretly like so many things about so many people.

I've now realised that festivals are more about the family coming together and being together, with or without the overt celebration. 

And that people might leave behind voids which can hardly be filled, but you can use that space to grow.

I don't think I have anything figured out in life for now but I would happily be the listening ear for others.

I'm watching life unfold slowly, in its own beauty and trying to abstain from the sweet poison of the rosy daydreams. And expectations.

I would want my epitaph to read "The dusk has fallen upon me" while I chase the sun now and patiently wait to witness a glorious sunrise.

Relevance of film festivals

Though what I wrote didn't get published, the mention certainly made my day! ( The Hindu 21 November 2015)

This is what I had submitted :

Agreed, that entertainment is now just a click away – or to put it more precisely- a tap away, as now even personal computers have become obsolete and information is on the palm of our hands, now that smart phones have taken over. Movies can now be downloaded and watched at the ease of our homes but that experience certainly doesn’t diminish the experience of the movie festivals.

Film festivals are still relevant, even more so as our engagement with the social space has decreased drastically. Film festivals are platforms for appreciation of art, of shared living experience and bonding. The cyberspace is unfathomable, with more information being shared online with every passing second, but the fact can’t be denied that it has definitely led to the shrinking of human interaction, which is essential for the sanity of human beings. 

Furthermore, film festivals provide a bigger audience, encouragement and recognition to the small scale film makers, the artists- the creators of the unconventional cinema. To the audience, they bring forth the best of cinema- the unheard, yet significant stories; with each story acting as a window to another world and a chance of sharing the experience of humankind from different parts of the globe.

Last but not the least, with the debate on (in)tolerance getting more muddled up every day, I think film festivals can be beautiful examples of people coming together, being presented with different worldviews, forming different opinions and yet, sharing the same space for experiencing and appreciating art and taking home with them fond memories of it. Film festivals can bring people together, literally and metaphorically.

So, for the sake of camaraderie and for the love of art, I think film festivals, and in fact, all festivals celebrating art will be forever significant.

Changing frequency

[ When talking to yourself, tangibly, becomes a necessity to maintain your sanity ]

As a kid my nightmares had me standing on a diving board, very high, made up of glass and as I would try to balance myself up there, the glass would break underneath my feet - completely crushed into pieces, noiselessly though - and I would fall in this abyss of darkness.

And wake up. And it would end.

Many years later, I wake up to reality and the free fall into the bottomless pit doesn't end. It makes me realise the metaphor of that particular dream and its convergence into reality.

Life has its peaks and troughs and I find myself shifting from one trough to another, maybe lower than before, I can't figure out, maybe because the numbness of being there negatively impacts your sense of direction and decision making. The peaks seem a thing of past - to me, to people around me. They seem far, a distant possibility, an upward slope you can't seem to gather the courage to even start climbing, reaching the peak seems out of bounds. But your clock is still ticking, the road to the peak won't be ever accessible.

Being in this trough dehumanises you gradually. You're no longer a person. You are your failures, piled together, stitched mercilessly with expectations and given a veil of a human face, that could nod positively when asked if okay.

Do you recognise yourself? The shine in your eyes, the ring in your laughter, the cheer in your voice long gone. Do you still dare to hope? To dream? To wish for more when all of them seem shredded into a million bits? You resemble those very pieces of broken glass - with rough edges and without depth.

The trough never feels like home. So you find yourself as if in another body and another place, although nothing outside has changed. You are an alien in your own surroundings.

Hearing the phrases "May your wishes/dreams come true" and "Stay the same" scare me to no end. And at this point of time, I don't know any other way of response to them.

Treading through days seems heavy, everyday begins with the effort to break through, using your last ounce of courage. The dents made in the trough are almost negligible and the night brings with it the familiar remorse and hopelessness.

The dreams of the peak are sporadic and never without the familiar fear of failing and falling.

Even the confession of the condition comes by hesitantly, words flee you, leaving you with the hostility of the incapability of expression and the necessity to do so nevertheless -

and hence, ramblings like these are born.

And with them, the reminder, to find a way to the peak. Tomorrow. Again.

Race against time : Prelude

2004
Nagpur

Dad dropped me and my sister at the school gate. My sister joined her friends and headed to her classroom. As I was about to pass through the school gate, one of my friends met me and said :

"You forgot your SUPW bag!"

I realised that to be true. I did place that godforsaken thing near my school bag but forgot to bring it along in a hurry.

Now let me digress a little and explain what this SUPW bag was. It was a bag you made using plastic sheet and decorated it as you liked. This bag was later used to keep your assignments of the SUPW class.

But what was the big deal? Who took that period of the time table seriously? The "Socially Useful Productive Work" class was a pain for most of the students and for all the parents, because, hello? Do you expect that students did all that art and craft by themselves? No! They were completed using inputs from parents and sometimes they ended up making the whole of it.

But being the kid that I was, I didn't want to be pointed out in the class or to be punished for being insincere. The time of morning assembly was drawing near. Students in queues had already started trickling out of the school building to the playground, where the morning assembly was held. There wasn't any time to lose.

So I ran! I ran back to my home!

With my heavy school bag still on my back, I started running back towards my home. To my little feet, the distance from the school to back home was a lot. I kept running. I passed by the usual landmarks I saw everyday, now in a blur, because of the tears welling up in my eyes. The thought of being late for school was also something I dreaded, among many other things. After a point of time, I was aware of my breathlessness but my feet didn't stop.

I encountered an old lady, going in the opposite direction, who asked me something in Marathi. I didn't understand a word she said and in all my awkwardness, I nodded and kept running! Perhaps she thought of me to be crazy to be running in the opposite direction of the school at that time of the day.

After a lot of running, I finally reached home - out of breath and in tears and that alarmed my parents. After I managed to tell them the reason behind this endeavour of mine, my dad was furious - for putting myself through this unnecessary ordeal, for something as frivolous as that SUPW bag. Mom intervened and asked him to drop me back, lest I get late for school.

It was just a few hours into the day and this high drama episode had taken place. I was dropped at the school gate again, this time with that wretched SUPW bag. There was a bit more of running to do. I ran to my classroom at the first floor and back to the ground, in the queue of my class at my place, just in time.

All sorted.
Or maybe not?

The last period. SUPW.
Though the teacher was very much present in the school that day, he didn't turn up for the class!

To this day, my dad teases me for that incident and all the family (myself included) has a good laugh over it! :D

Race against time

11 October 2015
New Delhi

The goodbyes and good wishes and parting hugs.
It's 3:45 pm, the train I'm supposed to board leaves at 4:35 pm. I still have time and the railway station isn't very far. I turn around and quickly head to the GTB metro station, which is only a few steps away.

"This won't take long." I think to myself, constantly checking my wrist watch.

As the train is about to reach Vidhan Sabha, this thought crosses my mind - I should take the trip to loo now, so that I don't have to do it on my way back home and wouldn't have to leave my bag unattended. Yes, that would be a wise thing to do.

( NO, IT WASN'T)

I get down at Vidhan Sabha metro station and walk towards the loo. I see this khaki clad woman preening, looking at her reflection in the mirror. Next, I try and open these two loos and when they didn't, I assumed they were occupied. There was a third one too, the door being without a door knob. I decided to wait for a while.

While I was waiting, another girl enters, repeats the process of trying to open those doors and reaches the third one, when this khaki clad lady says - "These two are out of order, only that one (without the door knob ) is functional."

I wondered why she didn't make this revelation a minute before!

I had to wait some more before I got to do my business and leave.

"I should still be able to make it. The metro won't take long." I assured myself.

15 minutes before the train departs.
I reach the New Delhi metro station. The swarm of people wasn't surprising, but was surely distressing. I join one of those not-so-symmetrical queues which was, thankfully, moving swiftly, until -

Until it was my turn.

I place my card at the panel. The error message written in red flashes across the screen. I don't remember what it said, I just remember the colour of it and I guess that very colour spread across my cheeks too, I could feel them burning. I try and place the card differently, a couple of times, but to no avail. I turn for a split second and see the crowd swelling behind me.

The metro card cheated me. At this point. And how!

That's when this metro security person, who was standing there and probably saw this episode of the betrayal of the metro card, came to my rescue. He gave me a token so that I could pass through. I did, but still couldn't let out a sigh of relief. Time was running out. I cut through these two men engaging in a brawl and made my way to the railway station.

10 minutes before the train departs and what I saw wasn't very encouraging.

An impenetrable human fence at the entry, right opposite to the metro station exit, where it says "for ticket holders only". There was no way I could make it to the station in 10 minutes. I was nearly at my wit's end when suddenly, as if a switch was flicked on inside me, I ran to the main entrance, the last resort.

The entrance wasn't any less crowded. I checked the display board for the platform my train was to arrive on. 9, it said. Now, I had to find the way to the platform. I spotted a flight of stairs, and climbed up only to find out that they weren't leading me anywhere. I still looked around to see if there is any way I could join the throng of people heading towards the platforms. None. I rushed down the stairs and saw the sign board, opposite to where I was, saying "platform 16 to 1". And between these two points, was a sea of people to cross.

I was making my way hurriedly to the other end when I heard this voice asking me which platform I wanted to go to and he could take me there without the checking process. I didn't even have the time to look back at the source of the voice. I kept moving. I could see the check point now. I made my way past the people moving leisurely.

The last lap. Reaching the platform. No time to look at the time.

It was for the first time that I actually had to push people aside (gently though) to make my way to platform no. 9. Reached the last set of stairs of this hurdle race. As much as I am afraid of falling down from the stairs, I got down as quickly as I could, with the other voice in my head telling me that a missed train is better than a broken bone.

Thankfully, the coach I was supposed to get into, wasn't very far from the stairs. I got inside and made way to my seat. I sat down, panting by now, sweat trickling down my neck and my throat felt what it might feel to have gulped down a burning piece of coal. I could feel my head and my face throb.

4 minutes for the train to depart. I made it!

It was several minutes before I was finally in a position to call my parents and tell them that I have boarded the train. Doing so while I was still struggling for breath would have scared them and that was certainly not the thing I wanted. I sounded like how a girl having a really happy birthday should.

Oh yes, this adventurous hurdle race happened on my birthday!

Exhausted that I was, I slept like a log for 40 minutes straight. My sense of time was pretty much distorted after that and the 4 hour journey didn't seem very long, like it used to be. All I wanted to do was to crash on my bed as soon as I could.

On the brighter side, I think I won't complain of the inability to fall asleep at night for a few days to come!

Lullaby

[ I was not sure if this should be or could be put into words but still, here it is. Lest I forget what to do when I find myself awake till 3 a.m.]

The silver dreams of the golden days
hung afloat, shattered
bleeding black,
still shining though.

The horizons smeared with ashes grey
as far as the eyes could see
and here in my bed I lay
Still. Awake.
Inconsolably. Uncomfortably. Incorrigibly.

I think hard and remember
my memory brings back to me -

That lullaby.

What was it? A hymn perhaps?
And the patting by those hands
Those rough heavy hands with calluses from years of work
came gently down my forehead.

I clearly remember,
That day, many years ago
I had just woken up
But was put back to sleep
instantly
with the humming of that lullaby
and those comforting pats.

And how one day,
I can't remember when
the lullaby was heard no more
I was too young to understand what death was,
Or bereavement.
The only physical sign I could remember is,
My father seemed to have aged years in a few days.

"My memory has no mercy on me." I read somewhere.
Rightly so.
It wasn't until recently that I realised

the treachery of memory,

it wasn't until now that I missed that lullaby, 

Recalling it, fiercely
picturing those hands gently putting me back to sleep,
patting myself,
trying to listen to that wordless hymn in the silence of the night.

And somewhere in this train of thoughts,
I find myself lost in the void of sleep.
That lullaby, still
comes back to me,
to comfort me.

...

[ Attempt at breaking the writer's block. Couldn't come up with a title, hence the ellipsis, which ironically indicate a pause whereas I'm hopefully overcoming one - a pause of 3 months and this post is perhaps as cheesy as I could get (period). How difficult was it? Well, I wanted to end it with "Enough of this shit, I'm no John Keats." But oh, this compulsion to write! I somehow made it to the end! ]



My heart must be a forest,
I say so because of relentless rhythmic sounds :

the savage roars and brutal chases -
futile, mostly.

The wimper of the vanishing,
the silence of the dead.

The wildfires blazing,
grazing all within its bend
and the struggling life, continuing,
despite.

The soft showers falling,
washing away the old
the joy of new creation,
that the forest unfolds.

The bubbling quicksand,
the hissing of snares,
the nightfall with its sinister glares.

The new dewy dawn,
dispersion of the dark
with the chirping and the abundance of songs, 
another day embarks.

And that less frequented core,
the little heart of hearts -
the deep forest of booming silence and light,
and a few wincing scars.

The forest flourishes
with every orchestrated beat,
indifferent
to the fate it meets.

Unlearning

I'm unlearning,
As the chapters of life go by

I'm unlearning
to remain my old self
my being is under the time's chisel
carving out mercilessly
someone I hardly know.

I'm unlearning
not to bottle those screaming fiends in my head
and pour them out.

I'm unlearning
how to feel, connect, empathise, express
how not to suppress
the tears that roll and wash away
a part of the pain.

I'm unlearning
how those raw, gaping
invisible wounds sealed
or how to let them heal.

I'm unlearning
to pay heed
to respond
to not laugh away, to revolt
to the things that bother
like daggers that cut through.

I'm unlearning
to listen to myself
Or the self has unlearned
to talk
amidst the constant humming
of reality and facts
the way of dreams is blocked.

I'm unlearning
to think, to dream
my eyes do gaze at the distant sky
but blankly, lost.

I'm unlearning
to find answers
because who needs them anyway?
I'm unlearning
not to give up,
because the only way I see,
is the way through -
through time,
through this thorny rough patch
and it's better to go numb.

I'm unlearning
to believe
in prayers, miracles, fairy tales,
silver linings,
new beginnings
and so much more.

I'm unlearning
how engaging with life felt
confined here,
bound by chains of hopelessness,
that I forged along with time.

I'm unlearning,
to the extent of near emptiness
but with a tiny sustaining flicker of hope -
which I can hardly fathom in words.

For the vacuum might house those millions of clouds of dust and stars again.  

Coming of age

Her workplace shifts
to home now,
the work never really ends
To lessen the burden
a helping hand the daughter lends
Amidst the sizzling of spices
conversations also crackle :

"Once I start earning,
we'll get a house by the beach
in Ilha de Calma, mom!
We'll make our own isle of peace."

She laughed, replied :
"You're 21..."

(21 too old to daydream? )

"You'll be getting married soon!"

(Not again!)

"23 is the correct age."

"Its too soon. I don't even work, don't have a job!"

"Oh you'll have one by them"

( I wish! )

"Find a good guy for yourself"

( I don't think I'm capable of doing so)

"Must not drink, must not smoke..."

( Remembers something, smirks)

"...should respect you and love you.."

( okay, sounds good)

" ...follows our religion.. "

( Oh, so being in love was never an option?)

"... you see how difference of religious practices is working against..."

( cuts her short) " I know"

( both let out a sigh)

"I'm so grateful to God, my girl is pretty..."

"Mom. No."

"You remember how they couldn't find a groom for her, she wasn't that..."

"I do. I do. But still, its too early...."

"You know the complications she's undergoing in her pregnancy..."

( I am reminded of the body clock. Of course! What else is the ultimate goal of our lives? )

"Let me first get a job"

"Oh yes.. Of course"

( To find : A sarkaari naukri and that "good guy" who probably doesn't exist. No pressure!)

I know this mindset is not yours,
It has been borrowed -
lent from one generation to another,
I know it has a lot to do with
"What would people say!"
I know,
this is the way of the world..
I know 
of your dreams, hopes, expectations
and my obligations
and that you want to see me happy,
I believe
there won't be anyone else who would feel the same as you do,
for me...
But!
Let's agree to disagree,
and for a change -
Find a middle path, maybe? :)