my online avatar (often using data without my consent) for online ad targeting is very blurry. the only thing it is sure of being is a female. it thinks it is heterosexual, but that's only because it does so without thinking about it; it has never questioned it. it thinks it is a mother, or at least a trying to be mother. it thinks it is getting wrinkles. it thinks it has body image issues (which female doesn't), but also thinks itself plus-sized! and that's probably cos it keeps eavesdropping on store-conversations with the words "you don't have my size"!! it cannot even begin to formulate an answer to what its occupation is or is not or whether it is a student or a work-from-home scammer. it thinks its been to places that in fact it's parents have just visited. the only other thing it is beginning to guess correctly is that it is penny-wise and dollar-foolish.

when I was a young teen, I have no idea why the world thought I was very maternal, or rather, some of them told me that I would make a great mother. (later when I lived with some friends and was the only one who monitored and was after others' lives to keep the place clean, they nicknamed me 'mom' too, for very different reasons.) then, even I thought I wanted to be one someday soon. but then I didn't know yet, that those thoughts of mine weren't quite mine, they had been bequeathed to me. now, since I started to have my own thoughts (or so I think till some future me will refute this) I have always wondered why in the age of contraception do people have kids. let me rephrase: why does everyone have kids in the age of contraception? or almost everyone. the power to not have kids puts a huge responsibility on the choice to have them.

so I asked around and seemed like there were two reasons that seemed to resonate with most people. 1. kids were supposed to be fun, and great company, at least when they were babies and lil human beings dependent on parents. "joy" was the word many used. "the greatest joy in the world"; from those who hadn't seen much in the world anyway. or "I wanted someone I could call my own". love, loyalty, companionship. the need to feel needed (wanted). 2. "clock-ticking away" yes, that exact phrase. just because the choice to have a kid may no longer be available, it has to be done now. before it is too late. sort of like a prescient version of the 'you miss what you have lost'. at the base of both these reasons, somewhere deep down is also the (sometimes) unconscious desire to leave a biological part of yourself in this world that will survive past your own demise.

either way, I found both these reasons too selfish to exercise the power to create a new life - for my own satisfaction (joy or eternity) - and leave it to the mercy of this world. there is also the third reason - that which taught me to want to be a mother when I was barely a teenager - society; but let's give that its worth and ignore it here.

I therefore determined not to create lives till I could find my own reason - something not selfish - to do so. I believe I have found my reason at last.

the only real reason is to forget oneself, because 'I' am anyway an illusion that my brain creates for efficiency. in reality I am not a separate being, I am not in control, I do not really choose. that is, the only reason to make a baby is not to really make one but to give up controlling not to make one. to let things be, and to give in to what may happen and how it might change 'me'. is it true that the early years of caring for a newborn changes a human brain in ways that are similar to an infant human brain's growth in complexity?

but that doesn't mean I am ready now. far from it. I might have found my reason, but I'm still not willing to give in, I still cling to the illusion of control. I do, however, want to read some serious neuroscience, and maybe child psychology.

india is waking up (finally) to good-ish bread. bakeries actually bake now, rather than heap layers of cream and icing on generic sponge base. I have finally - after more than a year of trial and error and bayesian updating - found a source of daily bread that is not priced to somehow mimic import costs. most of last year I flitted between rare self treats of expensive sourdough loaves from L'opera outlets in VK malls and tastes-like-sand (and lacks character) factory made (i refuse to call that 'baked') bread from popular brands. despite the trashy quality these brands are oligopolies in this market. but slowly a renaissance is occurring. erstwhile cake shops are selling daily baked bread. my preferred one is Angels in the Kitchen. plain simple bread baked with flour, multigrains, salt, sugar, water, yeast, and sometimes some nuts and raisins. breakfast is a delight again. lathered with 5-seconds warmed butter in the microwave that smoothens and melts over the slices of bread, and is therefore re-lathered so it shows after absorbing in. dairy-fat on simple bread: that's my wake-up caffeine.

and by the way, sourdough is not supposed to be fancy and expensive, because it is not some special kind of bread but the oldest simplest method of turning wheat into easy to digest food with some shelf-life.

coming back to breakfast though, the perfect one cannot end there with buttered toast. is followed by a fistful of mixed nuts and raisins (and/or dried berries) with cold yogurt. yogurt is one thing you can count on anywhere in this country. thick lumpy fresh yogurt without the heaviness and creaminess of greek yogurt. but the mixed nuts must include some salted roasted cashews, without which nuts are boring. now I have had multiple conversations with people in india trying to rid them of their misconceived bias against cashews, without any success. someone has whispered into ears in this country, especially that of middle aged or retired parents - who anyway wear the mantle of authority on public knowledge - that cashews make you fat and are bad for your cholesterol levels. my personal dig into this claim has revealed it to be not just false but harmful, in that cashews are actually good for our cholesterol levels, and (just like most other nuts) release energy slowly such that they in fact reduce hunger pangs and snacking, and therefore possibly helping control overeating and obesity issues. but they won't listen to reason or scientific evidence. good for me though, I usually end up receiving a somewhat regular supply of roasted salted cashews from either set of parents in them trying to keep those gifts out of sight and out of their mouths.

and yeah, have you seen cashew shells? or probably they were a second layer of casings that cashews wear when in their natural habitat inside their shells. you can eat this layer in fact with the nut, and it gives a slight bitter tinge that kinda complements the cashew's plain-ish taste for which I eat it. thinking about it, it somewhat resembles the plain-ish-lack-of-taste kinda taste of avocados and also coconuts.

Joan Didion used to have (maybe still does) fridge-cold coca-cola and nuts (that her mom regularly sent her) for breakfast. maybe we should exchange notes.

I wonder if Joan Didion is working on something these days, if there will be another book. and I am somewhat ashamed that it took me a Netflix documentary to finally read her. Her words are so apt, so carefully chosen, so brilliantly expressive. and i donno why i felt like she is superhuman, that image of her receiving the honor from Obama and simply thanking him and walking away without one look at the crowd, walking that frail body of hers and only reaching out for that one arm of support. a tiny woman. but so big.

i want to write like her, not literally, because i dont think i could. but like her. write because without it i wouldn't be alive. because writing is a compulsion, to understand myself, to converse with myself. write because i must.

although my writing (if I will ever be able to call it that) might also be on very different subjects than hers. I'm still waiting to publish my first paper in some journal. after more than I can count or remember rejections. after the core point of the paper has changed because of the many rejections, after it got rejected many times since then. I've always known i was stubborn and i also knew it would serve me well in some way. i still dont know whether this time will be the one i've waited for or i'll wake up another morning to another "we are sorry" email. i'll cry again, angry tears. tears of hopelessness of failure of rejection. i will ignore the comments for a couple of days, still angry, still dejected. but then some fine day i will get back to it. send it to another journal or rewrite it once again with or without changing much. its funny how this one paper is still alive in me. I have almost thrown away the other two of my dissertation, one because a reviewer pointed out another paper by other authors (a working paper then; published now) that did something very similar to what i thought i was the first to do; and the other because i felt it was full of holes that couldn't be plugged. i might still pick up the latter some day and try and do a brief on it. maybe after the one i am working on now can somewhat claim to be finished.

why is it that i have never yet written about all this? is it because i doubted this to be just a phase? that i was waiting to quit one day, to finally realize that this was beyond me? i still live with that doubt though. despite it, despite being unemployed, i still work however. because i must. even though this might all be worthless crap. but till i know that : i can still dream that this is the first comprehensive analysis of the topic. that it will start a small literature; or at the very least help someone else find a clue to their answers.

the paper i am waiting to get back from the journal though - i realized a few weeks ago - has a major typo, in three different places. the same wrong word which means exactly the opposite of what it should have said. i must have been tired when i wrote it out, or simply confused as i often get - if an increase in A causes a decrease in B I can often state the opposite and get lost in my words - even though I know, even though I was the one to find it out. ah well. just hope they understand it is a typo. and if they have to reject it, how does it matter what reason they give.

coming back to Joan; her words on the flower power movement in Haight Ashbury in the 60s:

"We were seeing the desperate attempt of a handful of pathetically unequipped children to create a community in a social vacuum. Once we had seen these children, we could no longer overlook the vacuum, no longer pretend that the society's atomization could be reversed. This was not a traditional generational rebellion. At some point between 1945 and 1967 we had somehow neglected to tell these children the rules of the game we happened to be playing. Maybe we had stopped believing in the rules ourselves, maybe we were having a failure of nerves about the game. Maybe there were just too few people around to do the telling.

...

They are less in rebellion against the society than ignorant of it, able only to feed back certain of its most publicized self-doubts, Vietnam, Saran-wrap, diet pills, the Bomb.

...

As it happens I am still committed to the idea that the ability to think for one's self depends upon one's mastery of the language, and I am not optimistic about children who will settle for saying, to indicate that their mother and father do not live together, that they come from "a broken home". "

anything can go over the top.

for some months or maybe years now, I've been wondering how much waste I'm creating and how to reduce it, especially that of non-degradable materials like plastic. some thoughts here.

first, a complete abandonment of plastic and its substitution with paper products would cut down too many trees in this world, and there's nothing to suggest that that wouldn't be more catastrophic for this world than the current norm; what's important then is simply reusing bags (and other things) till their death, regardless of what those bags are made of. I now always keep shopping bags in our car, carry them to shops, and categorically refuse vendors' generous offers of numerous plastic bags or even paper bags, unless I really need to separate dirty potatoes from other vegetables. I have stopped shopping at the supermarket that individually wraps fruits and vegetables in cling wrap and throws plastic around like its dust. hubby still doesn't cooperate with my efforts on any of this.

second, most Indian households consider it 'clean' to throw out garbage every day, but it is completely unnecessary - we use large bins and throw out our garbage bags only when they are full, our habit uses considerably fewer plastic garbage bags and therefore releases less plastic waste. most people here screw their noses when they learn we don't empty out every day. this just reveals cultural ideas of what's clean and not (the same people have a daily system of their maids mopping the floors of their houses with a dirty rag that often doesn't dry after use and is never washed or cleaned beyond the little scrubs it is given by dirty hands in dirty water). even in the worst of delhi summer, our garbage rarely stinks. yeah, sometimes if its hot, we might tie out any meat waste separately and throw out earlier than the rest of the bag.

thirdly, and the point of this post, I've been worried by the amount of menstrual waste I create, and I am just one of many women on this planet. I started exploring options, cos there's also too much plastic in my pads. I found many things. the alternatives are - tampons (both organic and normal ones), organic and decompose-able pads, menstrual cups made of silicone, reusable cloth like mom did, and also surprisingly some new brands of absorbent panties that claim to lock the blood in and can be washed and reused. regardless of what excuse I come up with, I cannot bring myself to use reusable cloth or underwear. the thought itself is too much work on my part; as if managing periods in an environmentally reckless way itself is not hard enough. menstrual cups sound the least wasteful, but I find myself incapable of being able to insert it, even without trying (trust me, I know). so I tried tampons after researching them a bit. and that's why I came across TSS (toxic shock syndrome) even before I had ever used a tampon; most women who use them are oblivious to this possibility. true, that the risk of it sounds more like a Poisson possibility, especially if you follow instructions of hygiene and avoid super absorbent tampons. but then this morning I heard a woman narrate her experience of TSS when she was a 24-yr old athlete and lost her legs to the episode. now I am only human and I get scared too. and to give myself credit, I did try tampons this period after learning of TSS, and in fact, decided on alternating between them and pads (even before I heard this BBC story mentioned above) because I did not find them too comfortable - there's even some pain when it gets heavy with blood, and on my first two days that can happen in a couple of hours. don't think I'll be using them anymore. so I am left without making a change so far, and with the sole possibility of moving to environmentally friendlier sanitary pads - but won't demand for more organic cotton use up more important water than if we mixed some plastic in?? that is a question I will mull over for some time.

but talking about periods. there's this recent Netflix movie 'Soni' that is really worth a watch for its realistic portrayal of women's daily trials in this country. however, I remember strongly disagreeing with a particular scene in it, and the idea behind the scene that I felt perpetuated the shame and stigma forced upon women when they are 'down' with periods, especially if the blood leaks and their situation is revealed. instead of advising her niece to be unashamed of a bodily routine that women all over the world go through, and that is the very source of the ability to bear life, the character in the movie advises to track down the student(s) who played a dirty joke on her that highlighted the fact that she was on her period and was having a heavy flow, and demand they be punished. really? shouldn't we rather free women of the burden of shame that has been imposed upon us with regard to periods? if it leaks, so be it; I deal with mopping the blood every month for days, and you just had to see it this once and maybe some furniture needs to be cleaned up after it, you should just be thankful we bleed for the possible continuation of humanity. if you know I'm on my period, more information to you. and if I'm on my period, its just proof that I'm healthy.

when I read about a topic, I do get a lil obsessed by it and even unwittingly sometimes, related stories come my way. I read about a young woman who bled freely and ran a marathon : https://www.cosmopolitan.com/health-fitness/q-and-a/a44392/free-bleeding-marathoner-kiran-gandhi/ . and that BBC story this morning: https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/w3cswlmt . and in NPR today again, a mention of this: https://www.wfae.org/post/new-book-busts-myths-about-menstruation-spread-public-health-groups#stream/0 . referring to the last link, it is true that in the western world (or in the privileged consciousness) new for-profit firms are refurbishing old ideas like reusable cloths and underwear and selling them as sustainable period waste alternatives, while other firms (or maybe the same ones) are using non-profit organizations to change habits and sell their single use sanitary pads and tampons to women who are used to home-made reusable cloth!

by the way, facebook is earning shit ton loads of money because of all those ads I keep seeing on it. another reason to write more here rather than discuss ideas and developments on that network with disinterested people. at least here I know that viewership self selects interest too, even if both are extremely thin.

if not earlier, I'll be back next month, when I'll be bleeding buckets again. it does get creative juices flowing as well, allegedly.

last year, a lil later this month, K's grandma died. I had spent some afternoons n late evenings with her while she watched TV and i sat on her bed next to her with my computer, reading or working. sometimes we also talked, although in her last year that was increasingly becoming difficult to do as we more than often failed to understand what she was saying ; talking had evolved into her writing in her notebook and me trying to decipher her words, often scrawled on top of previously written conversation. it was the same disease that Hawking had, but Badi did not have the same technology as him. whenever i guessed correctly what she was trying to say she would smile or her eyes would do that for her, and when i failed to understand she would scowl and get mad. that was the only expectation she had from me, or anyone else those days, and i failed her often, but neither of us gave up. you cannot when there isn't an alternative.

since her death, i have come upon some of her things. i was given a small silver box of hers that i now keep some earrings in. and i was offered to take whatever of her things i wanted. i took a nightshirt i had gifted her some yrs back on a birthday. i had shipped it to her from the US. a pink one with blue figures of Indian cricketers on it. it had been world cup season i think and she was always a big fan, giving greater importance to watching entire matches than to her meals, which had become an ordeal for her to swallow. i also took a yellow soft toy turtle that i had gifted her quite some years back, a small one from Anokhi made from Indian hand dyed fabric. it now lives on our yellow sofa, camouflaging and blending in pretty well. and yday i found yet another gift i had given her on yet another birthday. we were each peeking into her books cupboard last evening wondering if we wanted any. she used to be possessive about her things apparently, according to her daughter in law. i spotted this book and immeidately wanted it back now that she is no more. i wonder if she ever read it. there are some gifts you give to people that you want them to have because they appeal to you, even though you have no idea if they will appeal to them in the same way. in fact, because you don't know what will appeal to them, you often judge by your own liking. and now these things are so much more valuable because for a while she owned them.

"am I good enough?" I read that in some review of M. Obama's recent book 'Becoming', that that question underlies every phase of her life narrated in her autobio. to me it gives an immediate sense of humility, maybe even of insecurity of losing one's achievements, also of strife and struggle that makes every achievement more precious and viewed with more distrust, almost un-believingly.

yet it is possible to have that question gnawing inside you all the time while lacking humility, while being afraid that you overestimate yourself. maybe because 'good enough' does not have an external scale, but is measured against an internal one, that keeps adjusting, moving, fading, colliding with one's perceptions of others.

how do class, birth, and social privileges manifest themselves in one's self-opinion? and how does a big exogenous shock to one of those settings in which one finds oneself, shake those indelible markers of opinion? how do relationships change it, if they are honest enough to present truths about us, fairly or harshly worded?

last evening I suddenly got tear-ily nostalgic about my early twenties. about the people I found then in life, many of who have stayed, but don't feel the same as then now. all the tests I have put myself to since then, have altered the sense of entropy I had then. it was probably the last time in my life when I felt confident and bursting with potential, although acutely aware of my weaknesses but at the same time endowed with a sense of being able to fix them. and yet after falling a million times I feel happier in my withering than I could have ever imagined it then. I have evolved wings, and fins, and filters too. and have learned how to do the penguin walk for fear of slipping and falling on my face.

some people I now keep bumping into take me back but not in a good way. what is it really? do they remind me of myself screaming with my friends while we stood frozen between zooming cars in Dhobi Talao (those friends I no longer call friends), or me yelling 'asshole' affectionately at the guy for who I had a mixture of disdain and fascination because he seemed something I knew I would never become, or me in those years when I started to become myself how at first I had to find my tongue again and therefore often blurted things I shouldn't have in civil company and started to give in to lost temper with those around me. No I have considered all of these. I think what they remind me of is the self-centeredness one realizes in early adolescence after the awkwardness of the teens melts away and one feels for the first time like one is in control and that one understands deeper meanings in life and loves. this comes to stay, but without an honest critical lover or friend, or life that knocks one down time and again, it becomes a little obnoxious.

"her eyes stared vacantly at mine every time I told her a tale, but sparkled when she cut in to our conversation with a completely off-track statement that centered attention back at her. she couldn't stop talking, or voicing aloud that she was drunk. "

from now on, in family gatherings I should talk less and write what they are talking instead. I'll call it the ludicrous journal cos they do say such ludicrous things. so far I tried to argue, tried to get them to see sense, to rationalize what they were saying and what their words implied. but I only agitate myself, and it gives them pleasure - to see my logic be frustrated because they simply deny it. and they continue to bait me in this, cos it is a source of entertainment for them.

I have sometimes ignored it, sometimes zoned off, sometimes categorically refused to engage in their futile conversation.

today for the first time I tried Lockwood's tactic - of giving them more of what they desire to such an extreme so as to expose their ludicrousness. the journal is yet another of hers I plan on emulating.

today this is what happened.

background: my mother in law knows I don't share her laughs on the issue of sexually abused women (or people as I like to think) coming out with their stories after many many years. she finds it funny, both the issue itself and that it angers me that she finds it funny.

so today she forwarded some 'joke' poking fun at accusations of sexual assault after years of the episode having occurred. where else? but on whatsapp. I don't read whatsapp forwards, so I didn't read this one. it was however followed by a message addressed to me, in the family group (my dad in law, her, hubby, his brother and sis in law, and me), saying exactly the following:

"__, apologies but there is a lighter side to serious issues. Has taken me courage to forward it on ___ (this group)."

it made me glance at the forward before it. I still did not read it through but caught the words: Jill .. Jack ... sexually assaulted her ... 102 years ago ... ... and laughter emojis.

My reply:

"Mummy you have freedom of speech and I have freedom to not read whatsapp fwds. but haan try and read 'rape joke'. By Patricia Lockwood. she was raped by her bf when she was a teen."

Mummy: "Yes - we live in a free world. What you refer to is certainly not humour. But this bit of not having courage earlier, in the me too movement by so many does amaze."

me: "Do not doubt Lockwood's humor."

Mummy did not reply. nor I believe did she look for and read 'rape joke'. but you my reader must, its quite something.


aside: its actually funny how people who laugh at rape and sexual abuse and victims' 'courage', cannot even grant victims the right to laugh at these very ideas themselves.

Patricia Lockwood is quite brilliant (she didn't even go to college because she had a strange dad who killed her chances by not saving money for his kids' college education). that's her below, writing about the sexual misconduct cover-ups in churches.

"All my life I have overheard, all my life I have listened to what people will let slip when they think you are part of their we. A we is so powerful. It is the most corrupt and formidable institution on earth. Its hands are full of the crispest and most persuasive currency. Its mouth is full of received, repeating language. The we closes its ranks to protect the space inside it, where the air is different. It does not protect people. It protects its own shape.

You have belonged to many of them. So have I. The church was one of mine - it was my family. The story of a family is always a story of complicity. It's about not being able to choose the secrets you've been let in on. The question, for someone who was raised in a closed circle and then leaves it, is what is the us, and what is the them, and how do you ever move from one to the other?

In the not-so-far future, Bishop Finn will be forced to resign by Pope Francis, who is proving to be a figure worthy of some study. My father will publish a letter of staunch support in the church bulletin, suggesting that the bishop was being persecuted for his conservative beliefs, that in fact he had committed no crime at all, and that the prosecutor in his case was a mercenary with "strong ties to the abortion industry." I will be so disheartened by this that I can barely speak to him or meet his eyes for weeks. Though later he will tell my mother, with perhaps the first stirrings of doubt, "I'm beginning to think any one of them would have done it. That the position is more powerful than the man."

i am lonely, conceited, proud, and a self-made failure. what do I do now?

it cannot be a coincidence. a lot of my last few posts have been about reading, the act of it, the process of identifying with the author and with the character, the religion of it, loyalty to it, about how mostly I've been left alone to love it. etc. etc. for the first time in my life also, the words I've been reading have been coming from people as old as me, almost, round about. this is the age when geniuses begin to shine, have been noticed, been known and start to live upto their introductory fame, and often to overtake that. one of the last few writers I got impressed by - and then felt disappointed by because all her books are like that, beginning with a lot of excited promises, then they pause midway somewhere, kinda lose what they were trying to do and then become little shadows of themselves and wither into some endings - got her PhD the same year that I did, went on a road trip through a similar route that I did (a little before in time than me but hey I didn't know that then), got pulled over and was scared by it in Arizona somewhat like I was. and now this writer I'm reading and am totally in love with right now is guess how old?! just about two months older than me. its not a coincidence, its a sign. but some signs die out, repeatedly, stopping short of manifesting what they portend.

one thing is clear. I will die with an unfinished book on my kindle, in my hands, near my pillow, or wherever or on whatever futuristic device people will be reading in those years. I will die with some future plan of travel, if my death still has an element of surprise in it for me; if not I might die while traveling if I plan it. but in saying this I'm assuming Sartre was right and that my life then - the last few moments of it - will be much like my life now. its funny when I was a young adolescent I once told an aunt that she would find me more than 10 years later still wearing my favorite pair of tights and t-shirt that I was in then. when I was young(er) I believed more that I was an old soul, and as I am increasingly addressed as 'aunty' by kids playing on the road, I've stopped asserting that to myself. I don't even know when I threw those tights and if they had even earned it with any holes in them. many things in fact get trashed now because my marriage is too old to count anymore, and one's husband has to see too much of the things one loves too much. at some point you have to sacrifice one love for another.

about that by the way. I don't remember too many people writing this in too many books but the tenderness in one's marriage grows with the waistline of the husband even though occasions of sex (or the desire for it, or is it quite the contrary and age and this country kill desire by making it ludicrous when there's more urgent stuff always to take care of) dwindle, and a rubbing of cheeks and a peck on the ear feel lazily satiating. and yet I want to share more and more with him. so much so that I have become a running commentary on our surroundings, our friends, his friends, our family, the movies (and other things) we watch, don't watch, pretend to watch, and are forced to watch for lack of choice. I have become like my mother but only in the volume of talk that comes out of me. the nature of it is thankfully different. in short, I am my version of my mother. and I don't even have enough lived life and experienced suffering to my claim. not even the accidental or planned creation of new life for my entertainment that grows out of its purpose, and therefore not even the torment at its (his or her) hands. all that I have gifted myself is a pointless continuous rebellion without a goal and in the process lots of lost friends and earned detesters. and I do have enough to be ashamed of. time to write that book. only if I can muster the guts to come out clean. before I'm much older than the people I read.

okay, buckle up. its time to get some discipline in life and finally grow up. somehow it took this month of travel back in amreeka for this to dawn on me, and not the whole of the year gone by in which it now seems I've aged a million years.

this really needs putting down on paper.

I recently turned 36 (I often forget what age I am, not because I'm already suffering from a degenerative mind but because the calculation of years doesn't agree with my intuitive feeling of age and therefore I often let my mind mislead me. in that too, I'm not special), and hubby and me have been traveling for almost 3 weeks now, combining summer work and visiting family and hiking and driving and all the things we miss in the place we now live. as a result, for the first time in 36 years I had the feeling of being homeless: I said bye to him cause we were flying to different destinations out of different terminals at the airport today, and I worked my way to my gate. on getting there I sat down to adjust and pocket all important things in my hands and well just to think about how to spend the next few hours of waiting. and as soon as my bum touched the seat, I felt a lil afraid, a lil lost, a lil lonely. of course I blamed the desi lifestyle for it, the getting used to having people around you all the time such that one cannot spend time alone at all. but then it wasn't just loneliness; I am now a lil also fatigued and as with any longterm travel I suddenly yearned to go home. that was soon followed by a questioning - where is home? I don't know. for the first time in my life there is no place I think of when I yearn to go home, and its not because I'm transitioning or 'shifting' or 'moving' from one home to another.

I wasn't alone in this apparently. he kept forgetting and thinking that he was flying back home, to DC, and had to keep reminding himself that he wasn't.

the one thing, the only thing, that I appreciate, been given time to live in Delhi in these days, is feeling part of the social upheaval and of the huge female emancipation that is going on in India right now. the focus on women in Indian movies, the emphasis on their point of view, on their desires, their pleasures, their sexuality, their freedoms, their refusal (and slow societal acceptance of this) of the social roles they had so far been forced into.

there are many symptoms of this. women are much better accepted in social outdoor spaces today than they were when I lived in this country the last time. men actually maintain their physical distance now and keep their eyes to themselves, and seem to be less lecherous than I remember them being (hubby says this is a function of my age or rather my aging body). women can wear what they want and men are getting used to it. single women and divorced women are more common today than before, and families are so much more okay with that. women refuse to have kids if they don't see themselves fitting that role, and with this although people still keep "helping and advising" against it, their talk is becoming more futile (and they realize that) and is being met with more opposition. and of course, household chores are being so much better shared between the sexes, and most important of all, there is much less co-habiting with in-laws in younger married couples' lives. of course, I'm only talking about the upper strata of urban society, but just that is a huge improvement.

and bad as they are, Indian movies are getting better, more realistic, sometimes overdoing it a lil to tip the scales away from the earlier bias. but still worth it all. lust stories latest of them all. but even veere di wedding. although I still don't understand why the objectionable part in the movie for some of the audience was a woman masturbating on screen; it should instead have been her being embarrassed about it enough to be blackmailed for it and also for considering it an act of "cheating on her partner". really?!! it will probably take India some more time to understand how natural masturbation is.

its been 2/3rds of a year us having moved back to India. some of what people told us: "your life is over, you won't be able to travel like this there" has come true; some of what we were afraid of has splashed over the top of our expectations and bewildered us, broke us out in sweat, and left us literally gasping with our tongues hanging out like dogs. I notice I have written a lot less here during all of this, precisely because. and now Tony is dead, killed himself (?) and Tony used to write regularly. most people are stunned to hear of his suicide because they thought he had it all; why did he want an escape from the dream life. I am saddened because I thought he had figured it all; what then did he fail to come to terms with. there's this video on youtube (yes, we continue to watch more than a few of those almost everyday, even now) where he talks about going into a deep depression for days because of a bad hamburger. if I had seen that before, I'd have thought he was kidding around. but now, what do you say to that now? in the same video he talks about being really affected (saddened) by a quote by Orwell: "a human being is like a tube to stuff food into...". the full quote from Goodreads is below.

“A human being is primarily a bag for putting food into; the other functions and faculties may be more godlike, but in point of time they come afterwards. A man dies and is buried, and all his words and actions are forgotten, but the food he has eaten lives after him in the sound or rotten bones of his children. I think it could be plausibly argued that changes of diet are more important than changes of dynasty or even of religion....Yet it is curious how seldom the all-importance of food is recognized. You see statues everywhere to politicians, poets, bishops, but none to cooks or bacon-curers or market gardeners.”

apparently this struck a nerve with Bourdain because he ate his way through the world for a living - he stuffed food into himself. Ironically, Tony was one rare chef and food enthusiast who provides an answer to what Orwell finds curious: Tony is one rare foodie who has become a 'statue', and yet one whose words and actions will be remembered long after his burial. what's sad then is that Tony took this quote and derived some sense of futility out of it, some sense of being an inanimate, useless, food stuffing, tube. when he was in fact the polar opposite of that. what was remarkable about Tony was not his understanding and appreciation of good food, but his curiosity of why and how that food, and by who. his ultimate interest always were the people. and he possessed (or curated) such 'extreme empathy' (new yorker's words) for people all around the world, of all shapes and colors and ideologies, that in that he was almost super human. much higher above than all the food he ever ate. I admired him for that. I felt like he and Michael Palin were/are similar in that, to some extent.

Tony was a cancerian by the way, a few days (and many years) before my birthday. and he used to say "be humble".

my country is like gaol

desperately needed some dose of idealism. it was high time I read Nehru. this below, from the pages of 'An Autobiography':

"Fortunately almost everybody in that barrack was known to me, and there were many friends. But the utter want of privacy, all day and night, became more and more difficult to endure. Always the same crowd looking on, the same petty annoyances and irritations, and no escape from them to a quiet nook. We bathed in public and washed our clothes in public, and ran round and round the barrack for exercise, and talked and argued till we had largely exhausted each other's capacity for intelligent conversation. It was the dull side of family life, magnified a hundred-fold, with few of its graces and compensations, and all this among people of all kinds and tastes. It was a great nervous strain for all of us, and often I yearned for solitude. In later years I was to have enough of this solitude and privacy in prison, when for months I would see no one except an occasional gaol official. Again I lived in a state of nervous tension, but this time I longed for suitable company. I though then sometimes, almost with envy, of my crowded existence in the Lucknow District Gaol in 1922, and yet I knew well enough that of the two I preferred the solitude, provided at least that I could read and write. "

infidel preferences

can having choice reverse preference? I hadn't realized the fading of my love for India till my choice of flying out was taken away. maybe in the same way, people from other countries find India romantic because they can come and go when they want.

is this similar to marriage? do people feel chained by marriage, and is that in itself the cause that they unravel? theoretically, marriage shouldn't change anything though, togetherness should always be preferential, optional. walking out is open.

but borders have visas. and passports. and nationalities. and love doesn't decide any of these.

...

on a different note: I never was a fan of Konkona Sen Sharma, other than in the movie Mr. and Mrs. Iyer (she is also good in the recent Lipstick Under MY Burkha). there was something about her in most other movies which felt overdone. I remember I once shared a flight with her, and was completely unimpressed by the excitement in the air (pun intended). then recently I saw her directorial debut. my mind was blown. I think she found her purpose in life. she was born to bring that story to life on the screen, the story of Shutu, Mimi, Tani, Vikram, and the Bakshis. if she died now, she shouldn't feel sad. but I guess she should live on some more. after all it looks like she has just become herself (you can kinda see that in the way she dresses too, as if she wears clothes only that resemble her skin her soul). but yes, she can now never create anything anymore and her life would be accounted for.

I'm still searching, I'm still trying different garbs. nothing seems to fit.

coming back though, regardless of how brilliant her movie is, it depresses me, not because of the tragedy in it, but because it spells out yet one more aspect, one more thing about India(ns) that I hate and that hurts me.

strangely, few people I know who saw the movie, seemed to have understood the last scene. and I guess none of us would have got it if she hadn't revealed it in the first scene. so the movie works better if you're streaming it or watching it such that you can go back to the first scene after the last. if the big screen is where you saw it, the likelihood is greater you will misunderstand, cos then you will think you know, misled by a combination of your memory and your self pity. cos each of us was Shutu at some point. Konkona too. Vikram too. but Shutu cannot grow up alone, if Vikram doesn't, if Mimi doesn't, if Tani doesn't. one cannot drive safely on Indian roads unless everyone does. but we in India don't learn how to grow up. I guess it says something about the self pity in our lives that we feel good with aggression behind the wheels.

rebirth

I'm back here, after ranting aimlessly and complaining endlessly about a sudden turn of events (and location) in my life. with an epiphany of sorts. I don't have to be here. and I don't have to be a star either. I can just be. even within my average (lack of) achievements and my average constraints, I can still choose, quite a lot. and I can still do, quite a lot.

as I understand myself better, and this world, as I grow older, many things become clearer.
1. It never makes sense to do something for the sake of doing something, despite what they tell you.
2. All those "someday I will ... " , what day are they waiting for? Don't expect life and time to be patient with you.
3. Sometimes you have to do what you have to do, even if just to prove you to yourself. But you must have patience with life.
Do (1) and (3) seemingly contradict each other? Or do (2) and (3) do so? But if they do, then they must only for those who don't really understand, and that shouldn't stop you from writing them.

some words emerge out of the chaos between what I've been taught and told, and what I've managed to forget and unearth. privilege. access. sharing. time. effect.

there are many trade-offs in life. but one will always be in some form, in many different scenarios, that to change yourself or not. some vices are dear, and would alter one's character too much. what is the story one wants to leave behind, even if one leaves no one to remember.

so I was wrong. some years ago when I was questioning the boundaries of a life, as separate from those of the lives that produced it. there is a dividing line, I think I understand better now... every individual life has its own inherited genome, a mixture from those of it's parents. even before the umbilical cord is cut, the child is a person different from it's mother. the more I learn, the cooler it all gets. fascinating really.

fame, popularity, impact, influence, and then memory.

the first two are not perfectly correlated with the latter two. and of course, memory is fallible. and trends.

its amazing how many important people were barely known for what they were doing while they were alive. their works went ignored or forgotten until after their deaths. and posthumously they become legends.

and their stories of the stories they unraveled are brought to you and me across eons by some third person. inherited tales.

I'm reading a fascinating book
https://www.amazon.com/Gene-Intimate-History-Siddhartha-Mukherjee/dp/147673352X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1510146369&sr=8-1&keywords=the+gene

I've almost just begun, so its too early to attempt anything like a review. but I'm glued, even in a yellow green auto in delhi's poisonous (so-claimed) november air; it keeps me reading on my kindle, and i smile while i take in the interwoven stories, the images created of the people who brought meaning to the idea of heredity. and i shuffle through the contents of my bag because i must write down some words from it. in a scribbly scrawly hand as i jump over potholes and careen dangerously close to other honking unruly automobiles...

"one's imagination must fill very wide blanks" - Charles Darwin

"how small a thought it takes to fill a whole life" - Ludwig Wittgenstein

... inspiration. perspective. meaning in the trivial. i look at people around me. what fills their lives? as they seem oblivious to the question.