Deer in headlights

Courtesy: Google Search. A terminology that has been used to resonate anything from substance abuse to mental anxiety, financial strategies to lewd fantasies (not kidding, just check the urban dictionary!!), YouTube videos & Google images capturing actual incidents of a “deer in headlights”. Is it plain curiosity? Or, are we just hunting for another interesting story to discuss by the copy machine? It has become almost involuntary & rudimentary to giggle and gossip, or simply ponder our industrious mind, upon the millions of gigabytes of the floating Internet medium (the genesis, if I may presume, to all the nitty-gritty’s of modern technology). There are, however, a few skeptics, like me, who cannot but help linger upon the unraveling scheme of things when it wasn’t this simple or sophisticated to navigate every human interaction to its assigned milieu. I mean, for starters,when was the last time we let a Relationship run its course unhindered by the social networking moguls? Today,  we meet someone, and the next minute we have a whole spread of delectable entrees, in copious amounts, to nibble or chew, as we please, and, just as easily, purge out of our system; So, it got me thinking- how different were my relationships unaided by the wire-less whirlwind?

It was still an era of the “mix-tapes”- a period when “cyber-cafes” were yet to become the business novelties of the retired few and the vast majorities of un-inspired college graduates struggling to find stability and security; a time when women’s clutches weren’t wide enough to accommodate a cell-phone, and frankly an embarrassment that men had to carry like dead weight in their pockets! Internet and e-mails were terms only used on hoardings to promote institutions promising a flourishing career in Technology; and, last but not the least, resumes actually had printed on them, “Yes, I am a computer literate.”!!

This was my so-called bustling adult life in a small town in eastern India, where I spent three years of my under-graduate years commuting to college every day on a 3-wheeler, called a "cycle-rickshaw*" (almost a novelty on the beaches in coastal California); my tuition –fee for the month was less than what I paid every-day to the man in his rusty gear that comprised of a long shirt and a “lungi*” pulled up to his knees, and a pair of over-worked flip-flops. Together we would trod through the few dusty miles buzzing with street hawkers, almost deafened by the roaring honks of the buses, empathize with the throbbing tunes of the cycle bells-a tedious journey we wished would end no sooner than it had begun. But such are the trivialities of every day life and amidst those we have to find interludes of entertainment.

For the most part, it consisted of my monthly visit to my Dad who still lived in Calcutta (a.k.a Kolkata) for a few days in a month. It was a happy escape from the small town I lived in, and I was allowed to make the seven hour train ride to the city alone. For the first time, turning 18 actually made a difference. I had earned my father’s trust, although my Mom claimed she spent sleepless nights worrying about my solo train journeys! Well, she had her reasons- for I was, at that time, indulging my idle time with a boy I had briefly met during one such train-ride after a visit to my Dad. He lived in a different city a few hours away, hence the interjection. I never understood why he fancied me in the first place. We were just co-passengers, and I was mostly sad the whole time reminiscing about the happy times spent with my family under one roof. I pretended to be aloof while he vainly tried to get my attention; was even willing to share his 'precious Walkman'. I soon learnt he was returning from a kind of Pilgrimage to the temples in Jammu. Apparently, he did it every year. Was I supposed to be impressed?

After a brief interlude, his station had arrived; we said good-bye, and I took a sigh of relief. Imagine my surprise, when I saw him back on his seat next to me just before the train started pulling off. He made-up some sob story about missing his connection and I was, in lack of a better word, naïve. When we finally arrived at my destination, he asked if I could help him with directions to the Bus Stop. I gladly agreed. It was only a matter of time before we were exchanging phone numbers and promising to stay in touch. I reached home, feeling mildly flattered. Romantic?- may be, at No. 10, according to a recent poll on some random online survey; but certainly a notch above the ‘cat-calls’ and ‘I love you’ blurs of the 'idle lot', who, at the time, having deprived from following their true passion- anonymous “comment’’-ing maestros, were left to their own means of amusements.

I, on the other hand, was mitigating the "romance" phenomenon over the long-distance phone call service. I would often stop-by on my home from college in the afternoons, my valiant chaperon on wait, and quickly dial the numbers for a brisk tête-à-tête, cooped up inside the “private booth” of a musty shack consisting of four brick walls, cheap white-wash and a red thatched roof; in other words, the business venture of the 90’s- a public telephone booth or, as was popularly called, a PCO. Looking back, emails would certainly have been more cost-effective, don’t u think? Well, I was getting broke from spending all my pocket money over phone calls, and not to forget my very expensive chauffeur ride to the college every day was leaving me penniless. And, like everything mildly annoying, this episode was soon put to a stupor!

A few short years, and we had transcended into the New Millennium; and although Y2K did not hit the world computers, something powerful and an equally potent virus was spreading like wild fire all across the Nation: Mobile phones. Although by early 2002, carrying a humongous handset around was still not deemed an eye sore, mobile phones were yet to infiltrate the student community simply because they were expensive business!! And there I was stranded at the railway station at 4 in the morning, counting the minutes to finally putting to rest the phantoms of hours and hours of longing and brooding; the face I had so longed to see peeping out of the window, the hugs and the cuddles that follow; for a moment, I even made my peace with the cabbie who robbed me of  my hard-earned pennies (by that i mean, my Dad's). Instead, the wheels have rolled in, and  I am  frantically searching through every compartment; my sleepy room-mate drudging behind me cursing under her breath; finally, giving up, I now have the daunting task to locate a telephone booth open at this hour; when I do get lucky and all my misgivings are subtly put to rest, what do I hear, “I couldn’t reach you over the phone last night to tell you I had to cancel my trip”! The odds of that relationship ever making it to the altar? Slim.

Well, sadly, such sob stories still continue to exist; except now we just happen to look up the latest Status Update. Growing up, in a country like India, it was inexplicable to not experience a somewhat clichéd romantic interlude over train journeys. In fact, it could spring from anywhere: an innocent stare while waiting at the station platform to catch a train; a short chase after the train has just started hissing off into the numbness of the dark; or someone handing you a ticket stub with their name and phone no. on it at the end of a grim and quiet 8 hrs. From saying good-bye to your loved ones, to waiting haplessly for them to arrive, every journey was besotted with myriads of memories; and while some fade away with time and distance, other’s have echoed through all the fleeting moments of Life spent looking out the window of a moving train faintly brazing the metal tracks and cruising into the listless specter of the horizon. That feeling only lasts for a minute; one beep and we are glued back to our respective wireless devices; and although there may be scattered images of vast expanses of  arid lands, the mellow hues of the spring dusk, the sweet fragrance of the honeycombs, the drizzle from the morning dew...or just a “deer in headlights”, I click 'un-tag' and recourse to my RAM (randomly accessible musings of my mind).






*Cycle rickshaw- "The cycle rickshaw is a small scale local means of transport...are human powered, a type of tri-cycle designed to carry passengers in addition to the driver."
For further reading: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cycle_rickshaw

* Lungi- "The lungi, also know as a sarong, is a traditional garment worn around the waist in India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Burma, Brunei, Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore, the Horn of Africa and the southern Arabian Peninsula. It is particularly popular in regions where the heat and humidity create an unpleasant climate for trousers.
For further reading: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lungi

How I stumbled upon your Daddy!

Now, there are too many versions of this story floating around, and no, this is not an attempt to get the story straight. In reality, after almost 7 years of wedlock, we have successfully been molded into Mommy & Daddy! No more Boy meets Girl, Girl meets Boy, struck with lightening, Love’s first bite…and the sorts-You get the picture. Until, one day, our bundle of joy comes galloping, and invariably utters those few words: “Daddy, how did you meet Mommy…?” And, trust me, it is only second worse to, “Mommy, where do babies come from”???

A strategy has to be in place to tackle these “tit-bits” of childish candor and innocence. Some of the more prudent ones, I mean couples, would probably have their “stories” ready for just this moment; and without further adieu leap into the intricate & finely tuned  fairy-tale “Picture” that was their “Wedding”. They have their Albums neatly stacked, the family portraits all glittering with Joy and Happiness; and the minds of the little ones aptly put to rest; or, in some cases, fueled with adorable fantasies of a glorious “Love Story” building its course…; and, suddenly the Boy in her class, with a chipped tooth but cute smile, who decided to grab her hand merely to push, has a “crush” on my little girl.

Is this how it all begins? Or, do we unscrupulously build its course ourselves? I can still recall the first time when a boy grabbed my hand and blurted those 3 big words during a friendly game of “hide and go seek” with our neighborhood kids. I was 10 at the time, and the only response he could scrunch out of me was me jerking him off. But, alas, the seeds had been sown; the land had been ploughed; the sun was shining bright, the streams were gushing through the ditches, the air filled with cherubic scents of the willow woods; and, for a long time, it seemed the world was festooned with “seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulness…*”; until many years later, I find myself reticently reciting “our story" to our latest set of acquaintances!

It was not until a few days ago that I was struck with this daunting paradigm of shifting behavior. I stumbled upon a book I had read sometime in my teens, and feeling ‘more than ordinarily dull this morning’ decided to replenish the memories with a fresh dose of cynicism inevitable at my age- the title of the book, “The Convenient Marriage”* (go figure!). A few pages into it, and I was really enjoying myself; the plot was simple, the dialogues witty, the characters jumped to life with their funny anomalies: the heroine, 17, with eye-brows that refuse to arch and relinquished hopes of getting any taller or hiding her stammer, valiantly 'deals' her way into a prosperous marriage to a wealthy Earl*, who, at age 35, is a man of the world in business and with ‘such wanton pieces of pretty femininity’.

 In short, a classic tale of how, despite the glaring ineptitude, the “marriage of true minds” inevitably results in the fresh blooms of the spring; and the gold mine called Love is struck! But, was I struck as well? At 16, I remember gushing pages of my journal with ideals about love and marriage, and the whole deal. It did not, for one moment, feel preposterous or fallible to conspire such romantic notions for someone eighteen years my senior! May be husbands were meant to be mature, or how else will they indulge in your petty faults? At 20, however, the very same notion was not without chagrin. I was forced to harp on such entreaties from my parents for they were all about finding the “right guy”. And, may be, they would have succeeded to an extent. But only, if I let them! 

And, thus, began my journey to my present. So it wasn’t a charade; it wasn’t the “union” to guff about; there weren’t any foreboding or speculations as to whose royal blood (or “commoner”) will grace the country of its future heirloom; no circus of paparazzi adorned the Spanish steps of Rome; nor there were “millions” to be made. ( I mean, who could but the Kardashians!!) Nevertheless, a journey well besought with a few funny notes, stories to be told, and laughs to be had…of how the groom went chasing his missing luggage on his wedding day; or how everyone scattered about  not knowing what to say in a tongue spoken by all, but the family of the Groom!

                                                                                                                                To be continued....

• John Keats’ The Autumn, composed in 1819.
• A Georgian romantic novel set in 1776, written by Georgette Heyer; published in 1934.
• An Earl is a member of the nobility. For further reading, look up http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Earl

In search of the mighty sword.

A little over a decade ago, I had confided in one of my English Professors, how I fancied being a Literary Critic someday. But whereas reading came naturally to me, my writing abilities weren't as spontaneous as I had imagined it to be.  I soon realized I could not write as objectively as when I was saying the same thoughts out-loud in the middle of a heated conversation. So what happened? I completed my Degree in English Lit., with an average percentile, an army of disappointments, and swore not to invest any more time or effort fueling a Dream, for which I had little or no potential. 

But, those three grueling years I had spent deliriously reading book after book (and then reading again some that were written about those books,) were not utterly useless, as some may claim.* To me, they were the brightest, the happiest, enthralling years of my academic life. I never tired of reading, until a time, when a Book ceased to be about a Character, a Plot, an Event, or just plain Narration. I finally learned to appreciate the work of the Author. How is it that someone can write so effectively, that it drives hundreds and thousands of Readers all over the globe to simultaneously feel the same feelings as the Writer (or vice-versa): to be able to park in that same space, for as long as it takes, until they can finally decide to shift gears; or take it with them every place they go, till they find it's worthy successor? Or, in some cases, just leave it at the coffee table and forget about it altogether. 

Okay! I was able to "cough up" the above piece in less than a few minutes. But does it mean, "I am any good at this”? I have stopped working on the piece over 8 months ago, after spending a little over quarter of an hour (Admit it- just saying "15 minutes" completely ruins my potency!). Lately, however, I have redeemed myself a little by scribbling a few posts now and then on my Profile page of you know where (duh!). I have been met with a few encouraging remarks and comments from friends & family (well mostly my cousin) to "plod the weary lengths of the icy shores" (and, yes, I am quoting myself-finally something to feel proud of!!); in short, to unleash my "creative skills".

After several such indulging and often mildly chastising "encouragements"(again, mostly from my cousin), I, gleefully, decided to embark my husband on one such creative adventure. Let me translate for all you 21st C. gals & lads who barely ever dust the Classics off their e-book shelves: I made him read one of my posts! Now, that's much better for the ears, the tongue and the Mind, which I am sure, just wants to flee at this point! Not digressing any further, my dear husband (a 21st C. lad who has never read a Classic besides the abridged versions in the English text books at school) seemed very impressed and remarked: "did you really write this?”. I nodded. Then dryly added: "are you hoping for over-night stardom?" ...where "someone unexpectedly stumbles upon your remarkable writing talents, and you are signed for the book-deal of your Life"? .... (Is there more?)..."what's the point of this...did anyone even bother to read it. How many actually understood it..."???? Not to sound partial or anything, there was some Truth in what he had just said; so he doesn't have my articulate skills, is blunt to my face; should I take offence?; well I did. Told him: “I am not writing to prove any thing...I am just sharing". I decided to shake it off and gloated in what little happiness in the recognition and praise that my very loyal friends have bestowed over me... because no matter "how far from perfect Life can be, and yet we are all imprudent enough to still breathe every moment of it, in all its glories and shams!"*.

Such glories cannot last a lifetime. It was time to take a stride. Although, to say, I have stumbled a few times is putting it mildly. I often find the reviews written on Netflix* (by some of the Users) more deft and vivid (and to the point) than I can dabble after watching a Period piece I have really enjoyed (mostly unto the wee hours of the night). Don't mistake my intentions; they are honorable and honest; where my heart just wants to leap into action, my mind is giddily conjuring words & phrases like they have been simmering in a "boiling cauldron" (Macbeth*), and I see enrapturing imagery floating and dancing in the fumes of the burning fire…and there the trail breaks off! I can now hear my husband softly snoring, and I am consumed with a sudden fury. I blame him for not buying me the "tablet" I have so longed to possess. For in those ghastly hours of the night, after a hard day's labor (or not-who can remember what day it was!), I forlorn every thought of having to leave the comfort of my bed, to drag myself & climb the stairs and turn on the PC; just so I can dribble a few lines for my friends online (who are far busy than I am, I am sure), to persuade them into watching a “masterpiece” .Phew! The audacity!

So, instead, I cuddle up next to my 3 year old, and dream Dreams of the” sweet roses in bloom…the lime green grass" (quoting a review from a Netflix User)…the crisp Summer air…; and all is well with the World; until morrow when I am glaring at the screen, reading a fancy article, and promptly guzzling my cup of tea.

* I was nick-named “Shakespeare” of my class in Business school. Nope! Wasn’t flattering in the least!!

* A quote from my post.

* Netflix, Inc., is an American provider of on-demand internet streaming media in the United States and Canada, and DVD  by mail in the United States. (source: Wikipedia)

* Shakespeare's Macbeth: Act IV, Scene 1.