Looking in/Looking out.
Breathing in/Bursting out.
The sun might go down in the west, but rises up later in the Northern city in my dreams. I hold it and squish its sticky juice of light. All I want is chunks of moonlight to eat.
Supper has to be sweet, you see.
Because moonlight does not demand hunger, require an appetite; moonlight does not promise satisfaction.
It simply stays on the tongue like a paper boat on a puddle and then dissolves into anonymity.
Like a drop of white blood.
Oh shame be upon my judgement!;
Is it nothing but sunlight in a subtle disguise ?
Little Margot had traveled out of the womb of time.
She was displaced. Misplaced. Unplaced.
From the verge of the cliff of ice, she had managed to float.
Above existence.
Above herself.
She had crawled out of the womb of space.
Her sorrows and joys had married each other, and she pitied the anonymous state that was left behind.
How ruthless it seemed to live without a name!.
Trees were neither blank nor green.
It was neither dark nor light.
Neither Margot, nor not Margot.
Where was she?
Who was she?
What was she?
Some relations melted and some froze; and she really couldn't tell which ones she preferred more.
Letting go is not always a sign of strength.
Holding on and on is not always a sign of weakness.
As she had realised, we are all children of circumstances.
Lo! What she had been holding on to did not make sense to her when she was asleep, but was truer than her own existence when her eyelids arose.
Because it went beyond to a meadow strewn with grey violets.
Violets who had managed to trap their tears and give fragrance a chance.
Mamma will never know that her daughter was probably half insane.
Mamma will never know that flying not only gave her daughter wings but also cut off her threads of blood.
Mamma will never know, or probably never understand, that her daughter had lost her own self, had flown up to the kingdom of thunder and lightening, and was happily prancing around in the lashing rain of night.
Little Margot now slept under the waves of sand.
Mamma will never know.
Bullying at school and at college exists at different levels, for different reasons, everywhere around the world. Having been a victim myself at college (for a completely different reason and a completely different manner than the one shown in the video below though), it is very easy for me to relate to the fear of fear, and the fear of not belonging. Of feeling like an outcast.
At 25/26 we are quite mature; but how do we handle it at 15/16 ? When I look back I see a total blank, for along the years I have found a way to numb the pain and even ridicule it. But when I try to imagine a 16 year old me back in that situation where no one talked or no one sat next to you, it makes me cringe and wonder why I was silent about it. It is easy for me to say that now, but that 16 year old still just shakes her head and cries silently - she had always thought it was her fault, she was not worthy of love, and that what was happening was what she deserved.
I wonder how many more 16 year olds are going through this for whatever reasons and how many 16 year olds are buried inside 20's and 30's and 40's.
Is it possible to ever empty yourself of your earliest experiences? To see with fresh eyes?
Last fall I attended a 'Beat Bullying' Training workshop and was taught the various ways I could handle a situation if a young person were to show signs of being bullied or being depressed.
I SO wish I knew these simple things back then. Unfortunately I could not follow the workshop and become an online counselor because of my college schedules, but it certainly opened my eyes as to how much going on is actually all hidden. And so much of it is unbelievable, the newest being Cyber bullying. In fact even 10 and 12 year-olds have massive depression problems and suicidal tendencies.
Who is to blame?
The new 'generation'? The 'modern' culture and upbringing? The 'too early loss of innocence' age of technology ? The whole system ? Parents ? The educational systems ?
Is there any one answer or any answer at all?
Not new stuff really; but every time you come upon an incident it shakes you up and wakes you up again, no matter for however brief a time.
Reasons don't matter, whose fault it is doesn't matter, what matters is that a young person's vulnerability is taken for granted and misused against them. It doesn't matter who misuses it - for family, friends, the society- everything matters in shaping an individual and break a cord with even one of them, and you have a person scarred and cut. It doesn't matter for what reason as well, for you cant really compare people's experiences and say 'They have gone through so much more! you should learn to cope up!' - Because that is perhaps the most insensitive thing to say; for peoples reactions to pain are different and of varying intensities.
Some cope, some seek help, some just give up.
Some do not realize they need help until it is too late.
Some just cant fight anymore because it doesn't seem to make any difference.
I will not give judgmental remarks about Amanda and about her particular situation here, but will definitely say that talking about the bad uses of the net and the lost innocence of the present youth is all just crap talk. If only we all can keep our common sense intact.
P.S - If you see a child or a young person, just smile. Those years are supposed to remain as smiles, not as scars.
One smile of yours could build a child's life; you never know when and how.
And wherever, whenever possible, sensitize kids against bullying.
Please.
I have begun to dislike sunshine.
So audocious, Pricking the eyes like silver thorns.
Drying up the oasis in the heart.
Winter is where I belong, below the frozen sky that looms majestic like a cube of ice.
Huddled up in the blanket of chilly winds.
Breathing in the blue tinged breeze.
Savouring the warmth of a hearty drizzle.
I do not want the illusion of color that springs out when you hold a glass to the light.
I want the blandness, the unabashed void that need not justify.
The cold that is not shackled up in acts of sympathy that would make me cringe.
The absoluteness of Nature's dream - saturated siesta.
The whiteness of her heart and the blue waves of her soul.
I want to drink in the origin of all birth.
I want to lie down in the death that is born before birth.
I want to freeze.
Of course. Gay marriage was declared illegal in India.
But there was something else that annoyed me (and entertained me as well!) as I sat miles away and read the barrage of status updates and comments on social networking sites and the way they were expressed.
Most read like this :
' Gay sex illegal'
'homo'sexuality' is banned
blah blah blah
Why is there this misconception that the 'homosexuals' are just possessed of animal instincts devoid of any emotional quotient or intelligence? What about the character or personality of that human ? why cant it be just plain 'love' or 'marriage' or whatever, without the tags of 'straight' or 'gay' or blah blah? cant we get rid of all these labels and definitions completely? Doesn't the segregation and exclusion start with naming/labeling something and deeming it different ?
Second. Many enthusiastic declarations read like this :
I am NOT gay, but...'
'Well I am NOT like you, but...'
Note the emphatic emphasis on proving oneself NOT gay. If they were, or even mistaken to be so, would it be such a cause for guilt or shame ?
It is considered ok to make fun and create 'cliched' gay characters on tv/film/media to make us laugh, but if you have genuine feelings for someone and care about them, then oh Lord save you, my child!
Third. This sounds too far fetched even as I write it down; but I do not understand the whole point of 'protesting' or 'fighting' for freedom or rights, be it women' rights or racial/cultural rights or gay rights or whatever. Doesn't it kind of imply that we have in whatever way agreed to have our freedom snatched, have ourselves shackled up, realized its not a good place to be in, and are now fighting for it?
But of course, we live in a world where we have political systems that makes rules/regulations/prohibitions and so we have no choice but to fight away what stands against us.
Why fight?
Why justify?
Why be ashamed?
Maybe its not just the law that has to change.....
Something that started off as a bemused reaction to chatty auto drivers in Bangalore who curiously wanted to know my family history, has now become an amusing past time of sorts. Living in a city where no one knows me, I have the liberty of giving myself different names, creating different pasts, and weaving stories around myself.
I strike up unexpected exchanges on the tube, while in a park, or while on a night walk to soak up the fog.
Usually begun with a smile that says nothing except a curved line of the lips, at times it goes to a nod and a 'Are you ok?' (That's how they say 'how are you' here). Then possibly we exchange details of where we are headed, what we are doing, how it is in India right now (most constant topics are the population and bollywood), and so on. And i strangely relish the joy of creating an illusion me.
Sometimes I am Catherine.
Sometimes Margaret, born and brought up in lush kerala
Sometimes I am Amritha.
Sometimes a Kamala that loves going out for a dinner with granny.
Sometimes I am Radhika.
Sometimes I am just no one who blots away from memory within 5 seconds.
Generally speaking, there are two ways to get through life - to be in the stream of life, swimming; or to be on the banks, observing. Maybe everyone does a bit of both; but artists are people who are trying to do both in an intense way, they have one feet on either side.They let themselves feel life, drench themselves; and also sit on the banks, to question, create, criticize, wonder, ponder, philosophize, and leave artistic marks in whatever way they choose.
And as I look at the windows lighting up one by one in the stretched horizon from my apartment window, I feel curious about the kind of thoughts and the kind of lives that breathe within the curtains. So many paths, so many relations, so many hopes and loves and losses and tragedies and miracles - all hidden to the naked eye.
How far deep have the people who stood next to me on the train swam? What kind of amazing ideas are crumbling within the walls of the seemingly nonchalant faces? What mysterious circumstances and life's ironies are hidden behind someone's sudden sigh?What kind of smiles and tears are huddled up in the incessant array of aeroplanes flying high up in the sky, hidden from my perception?
For the first time since I had arrived here in London, the sun was shining generously a few days back. I sat in the park, looking at people, observing expressions, conjuring stories. I was really not sure if I had ever swam in life's lake or if I just kept making a fool of myself screaming from the banks saying how deep it is.
My!
Every person I saw, every voice I heard, made me wish I was a different me. Still me, just a bit different. Maybe a bit like the girl with the dimples. Maybe a bit like the saucy sports-person who seemed to own space with absolutely unabashed leaps and jumps. Maybe a bit like the friendly cyclist who was the easiest to speak to. Perhaps some answers would have spoken to me then.
Neither am I ungrateful and nor do I hate myself, but if I had a little more courage ( I have some, its just not enough), and a little more compatibility to love ( so that I wouldn't have to keep consoling my soul), I wouldn't have to seek salvation in a jargon of words all the time. A little more people-appeal. A little more edge to me so that I wouldn't keep shrinking away from people's minds.
But, if given a different chance, would I be able to do justice to it?
Could I handle a different body, a different mind, a different plethora of thoughts that hopefully dint seem so monotonous?
If given a choice, Could I change?
Should I?
Would I ?
