Reading the World (An old Note from 2nd year)

Every single piece of writing, ever painting, every photograph or even every building has a story behind it.

The artist tries to project an idea through a particular medium. This idea is either a crystallization of thought or more often than not it is something that must be presented to people because they expect it of him. Why is the latter true? This is because an idea is a a shadowy reflection of the artist. He has latched a little bit of his soul to his work and people will judge the real being through this creation. It is for this precise reason that whenever we read a book we like, or we listen to some good music..we want to know who WAS the artist. What was he like?..is he anything like the image we have created in our minds or was he different?

This can be a good thing and a bad thing. It's a good thing because by knowing more about the history of the piece, we can extract the meaning attached to the text by the author her/himself and we will then understand what she/he was trying to tell us.

It is a bad thing because sometimes a piece can have no more importance than what we understand from it by reading it without any thought of the creator. Time can lend more shades of meaning to something that was not intended in the first place. The subsequent events that followed Salman Rushdie's book, "Midnight's Children" made the book much more important and valuable.

Not only that the text may have an entirely different meaning for me altogether because of various factors like my cultural upbringing, my opinions, ideas etc.etc.

The above is basically something we've learned in our literature course this semester. And I've found it extraordinarily interesting. But basically, what is the "truth"...which story is "right"?
Is it the author's story? or should we completely cut the author from his text after publication?

I think that there is no "correct" view. Just like relativity..there is no frame of reference that is the true or the only frame. Both stories are important and both stories are enmeshed in history. Neither can be overlooked.

So why is this important for me? As an abstract speculation it is pleasing and sort of brings out this sort of similarity between science and arts.

i just feel that every day we confuse these two perspectives. We are always switching between what we want to do and what others expect of us. If we feel that a certain set of people will "read" something in a particular way we will do our best to "write" our story from their perspective.

Now it can still be debated as to whether we are not really still involving our true selves in this because by doing something "expected" by a certain set of people we are automatically setting this set of people apart. This classification can be unique.

Generally however, this forestalling of what others read is the reason we subscribe to the "herd mentality". If we don't follow the crowd and do something different and are then proved wrong then our estimation in the eyes of the people we like and respect automatically falls. We read this response in advance by placing ourselves in their shoes and hence decide not to risk our "value" to them and do the general thing whereas we might have done something different.

It is this also, which set Roark aside in "The Fountainhead". He is true to his perspective and is indifferent to other people "reading" his work.

This note is merely a crystallization of my own thought process.
i realize that everything I do has a meaning attached to it. Everyone else is perfectly right in judging my action based on their principles without trying to delve into mine.

Its an odd world....

Mom

My Mother loves being home. She still labors under the delusion that my sister, dad and I haven't cut our teeth yet, and require constant supervision. Every moment she spends at work is fraught with the horrifying possibilities of the three of us wrecking the house by getting stains on the white walls of the living room (which she has forbidden us to touch!)/ wrinkling the couches/ leaving the geyser on and a host of other unforgivable misdeeds. She hurries home preparing for the worst, and heaves a sigh of relief as she enters her own unharmed little kingdom. The next day, she goes back to work and experiences the same cyclic anxieties. Hence, it was with a great deal of effort that we persuaded her to accept an invitation to be keynote speaker at a prestigious 2 day medical conference in Goa.

We managed to get her fluttering and protesting feebly (who would get us our meals/do the laundry?) into the car to drop her to the airport. We deposited her safe and sound at the terminal and watched as she joined the line to get her boarding pass. My mother is very old school, and when she does anything, it is methodically, carefully and always correctly. We watched with amusement as she ignored the impatient tapping of the feet of people standing behind her and methodically, carefully, correctly and unnecessarily wrote her name and address on each one of her hand baggage tags. She gave us a little regretful, i-can't-believe-i'm-doing-this hand wave before heading off to her departure gate. We got back into the car.

We felt a trifle sad at first, but that was nothing comparable to the subdued feeling of joy that FINALLY for a weekend we were FREE! We could order pizza without being reminded (correctly) that there was home food in the fridge; we could text and call our friends while eating, without being reminded (again correctly damnit!) that meal time was family time. The possibilities were endless! Why we might even rumple up the couch a little and who knows; Maybe even TOUCH the walls of the living room? (oh no unthinkable! she would come back and KNOW!) Thus with the myriad possibilities left open to us by the empty front seat, we got back home.

Saturday morning. We woke up and wondered what was wrong. We listened in vain for the muted sounds of our well oiled domestic machinery. Where was the low hum of the washing machine? The sizzle of hot bacon? The gentle pop of the toaster, the little whop of the dusting cloth and the crackle of the morning news in the living room? My sister and I looked at each in consternation for a moment and then remembered; Mom had gone to Goa! We got out of bed. Sunshine poured in through the windows, leering in, in disgust at the mass of blankets and crumpled pillowcases. Automatically we started folding everything neatly before Mom could come in to yell.

"Priyanka", Tara whispered. "Lets not do it today! Lets - lets go crazy!"
"You mean we should just leave our beds like this?!" I asked
"YES! Think about it. We're going to go to sleep again tonight. No one comes into our room but us. Who cares? Making beds is a silly, waste of time!"
"But mom.."
"She's not here! Thats the best part! She's coming back tomorrow. We'll make our beds tomorrow! Lets take a real HOLIDAY and go nuts!"

We shook hands and bobbed joyfully into the living room. We couldn't be bothered to make toast or breakfast and had cereal in cold milk as we spread out the newspaper to read. We lazed around agreeing that this was Life! Dad had gone to the clinic early in the morning for his rounds and finally came back at noon. We clamoured for pizza as he vainly tried to tell us that mom had left some food in the fridge.

"Home food?!" we scoffed! "On a holiday?!" TREASON! Dad, proved unsuspectingly firm.
"No! I don't want you kids to eat all that junk food. Tell me what you want for lunch and I'll cook us something" he said with all the savoir faire of a professional French chef.

Now my dad is just great. He's a good doctor, he's great at telling stories and flying toy helicopters and he can make the world's best omelettes. But that was the problem. In all my 22 years of experience overlapping with my sister's 19, he'd never cooked anything other than omelettes. We hastened to point this fact out to him in no uncertain terms!

"Hey, you kids don't know anything!" he said warmly. "Why when I was studying in Minnesota, I was the best cook in town. You should have seen what I could come up with. In fact! Infact, if I hadn't become a doctor, I could have got a job as a chef anywhere" he said dreamily. Rosy visions of tossing up concoctions by the bucketful obscured his vision.

We said nothing after that. What was there to say? When dad made his mind up about something, it required only an earthquake or Mom to make him change it. We watched as he hunted vainly for an apron.

"Now you kids just wait here" he said. "And I'll make something so good that you'll never be able to eat anything else again!"

My sister and I cleared out of the kitchen and sat disconsolately by the piano. We waited as we heard the banging of utensils in the kitchen. We listened to dad muttering about, "nobody keeping anything in the proper place" as he searched in vain for the utensils he needed. Suddenly, we heard a large crash, bang and a sharp invective. We rushed to the kitchen, but dad slammed the door and told us everything was just fine and to keep away until he was ready. "Too many cooks" he said darkly and went back.

Finally after being in the kitchen for more than 2 hours, we smelt the appetizing odour of pav bhaji. Dad triumphantly brought a huge bowl of bhaji to the table and in a short time, it was over. Dad hardly ate anything but watched us empty our plates with a large benevolent smile on his face. My sister and I were very impressed! We promised dad we would never doubt him again. We went to the kitchen to clear our plates.

"Traitor" my sister hissed!
I looked in the direction of where she was pointing. There sticking out of the dustbin was part of a large box which said "Ready to eat Pav Bhaji. Add 2 cups of water, leave in the microwave for 10 minute..."

Needless to say we had pizza in the night.

Sunday passed uneventfully and quietly. Dad buried himself in his books to hide his embarrassment over the previous day. In the evening my sister and I made a half hearted attempt to get the house back in order before Mom came home in the night. By the time we had to go to the airport, we gave it up for a bad job. With trepidation we picked Mom up. No sooner had she got into the car than we were regaled with questions about if the house was still standing, did we do the laundry, did we wash the dishes..." "Yes, yes" my sister and I said to everything uneasily more out of habit than anything else. Dad remained silent. His ears were a bright red and we knew he was dreading us telling mom about the cooking fiasco.

Well, Mom entered the house. She said nothing. But in an hour the house was exactly as if she had never left it. We woke up Monday morning to go to college. The washing machine was running. We heard the pop of golden toast, the sizzle of bacon, the morning news. God was in His Heaven. All was right with the world.

Old Note: Swine Flu

I charged into the library, raced into the study room section, grabbed Nathanson and finally collapsed into a convenient chair.
It was around 9 in the night and despite my good resolutions, I was just starting to study for an environmental studies quiz scheduled for 830 am the following day.
I was wholly engrossed as I sat there devouring pages and pages clogged with information on sewage systems when suddenly a resounding "Hey" made me nearly fall off my chair.

I turned around and glared balefully. By disposition I am fierce, stern and formidable. Strong men quail before my glance and it is said that in school when I glared at my hindi teacher, he had to be rushed to the hospital with a nervous breakdown (people say that this could also have been attributed to the fact that he had just completed reading an essay of mine...but till date I refute this rumour vehemently!!)

Anyhow, to my complete amazement the guy at whom my glance was directed did not seem to be affected at all! Infact he did not even seem to realise that he had just transformed a mild and blameless female into a 'vessel of wrath'. He went on smiling and grinning like a cheshire cat.

"Yes", I said in my coldest and most distant voice. "Did you just say 'Hey'?"

The poor fellow now started hopping about and dancing like a kangaroo who had just been given a large dose of laughing gas.

"Ofcourse I said 'Hey'! Infact I have a great deal more to say than that. "Hey hey hey hey hey!!!" he answered.

"Hey hey hey hey to you too. Now I have a quiz tomorrow so please could you 'hey' someone else?" I pleaded.

"But thats the point! I remember seeing you in class and ...its all because of SWINE FLU" the poor chap had resumed his hopping and skipping.

I looked at him in consternation. SWINE FLU??

I continued gaping at him, my mouth opening and shutting like a fish. I had no idea whether to take offense or to take him to the hospital. I was getting more and more convinced that the poor chap was weak in his upper storey.

"What", I said clearly and distinctly, "What exactly do you mean to say?"

By now the poor chap had cottoned on the fact that I was still helplessly and hopelessly groping in the dark. "Classes for the next couple of days are canceled due to swine flu. So no quiz tomorrow!!" he chirruped blissfully and before I could say another word, he "flu" off to the next table to impart the glorious news.

After confirming the news, I got up and left. All along the path I met gangs of ecstatic girls chanting the words "Swine Flu". For the first time I saw everyone united under one banner..even if it was only dubbed 'swine flu'.

That night we had a riotous time. It was only in the cold grey light of dawn when i got back to my room that I really got time to analyse the situation.

The risk is minimal in a secured place like IIT. And I am not really afraid of dying. At least, I dont think I am. But still, when you think of the great Greek and Roman heroes burning in glorious pyres blazing to the sky after having fought for their honour and their country. When you think of great men dying a great and immortal death-that of being assassinated. You cannot but help turning up your nose at that ignominious of all deaths. That by swine flu.

Kathleen

Kathleen the Kite

Yesterday, I walked to the boat house as usual. I went a trifle early. One never really understands the color blue, until one looks up at a blue, blue summer sky. The memory of it sears into our brain and evaporates slowly, leaving only a brilliant impression and a void in its stead; a pang that needs to be assuaged by another summer sky; for no two skies are ever the same.

I would have lingered at the boat house for longer, if an amorous, giggling couple had not come by and disturbed the softly, dizzy waves of heat; breaking in rudely upon the clearing and into my thoughts. Philosophically, I got up to make way for glorious, all conquering love and tripped back onto the little winding path to the main road. And that's when I saw them: A pair of wild gold flecked, brown, proud, austere eyes looking at me. I was face to face with a 'common kite'. It lay huddled in the undergrowth that bordered the pathway. I stood looking down at it, at that wild beautiful thing. I could not get enough of it.

Man is but a chord in the symphony of Life. We are not the supreme, final outcome of a plan whose aim was to produce our species; but merely part of the flow of time, a natural outcome of a deep instinct that is embedded deep within Nature: the second law of thermodynamics. Let us not be so arrogant as to think that we can ever truly conquer Nature, that we can ever label everything with the words: good, bad, evil, or ugly. For everything is just as it has to be. We are part of a far grander cobweb and our intellect can only detect a few threads here and there, which lie within our span of perception. We yearn ,to see the entire pattern, for a glimpse of the whole picture. We vainly try and sew a vest onto a button; interpolate and conjecture what the whole should be from the tiny bit that we hold in our hands. Will we ever get to see what it all really means? Who knows?

But just then, I had Kathleen the Kite with me in my arms and I just wanted her to get better. It did not matter if her laws were different from mine; If Nature wanted her to die, because she was weak. I shook the cobweb of fancy away from me and carried her to my room.

Lakeside

I've got into this habit of haunting lakeside at all times of the day. Early in the morning, when the sky is a dreary watery blue; In the still, hot afternoon; at sunset where I delight in the violent coloring of the sky; and late in the night where the few stars that are left in Bombay burn softly above the lake. The lake is a protective barrier which keeps the real world away and serves as a cushion against the realities of Life.

One can still pretend and dream, away from the cars speeding away to homes or offices; Poles/Centers that form and disappear as the wrinkles in the fabric of our lives alter gravitational fields that tie us or break us, howsoever the force chooses. Do we have control over the creation of those wrinkles? Do we wake up one fine morning, examine our skin like a woman approaching forty and tremble in alarm at a new line? Lines carved by patience or sorrow or feelings that exist beyond our rational selves and that are beyond our control?

The waters ripple past; moon shine so much more elusive and beautiful than the arrogant dancing flecks of sunlit gold, and shrouds the future in a shadowy veil. As long as I'm on this side of the lake, I go on dreaming.

Patricia Brent, Spinster

Yesterday, I read 'Patricia Brent, Spinster' by Herbert Jenkins. The book is about a girl, stuck in life as a secretary, forced to live in a boarding house. She hears the old cats at the house pitying her for not having a man. On an impulse she announces that she will be meeting her fiance at a fancy hotel the next day. This thunderbolt sends all the pussies quivering with curiosity.

The next day she is forced to keep up the pretense and goes to the hotel. She thinks that she will have a quiet dinner alone. Lo and behold she finds the cats have come to spy on her. In a lightening flash, she goes up to a man and asks him to play up to her (The man obviously is a lord and the most eligible man in England) . They have such a good time together, that the inevitable happens, they fall in love. The man tries to better their acquaintance, but the girl gets offended when he pursues her, because her pride cannot take the way in which she forced herself on his acquaintance. Then the man's sister shows them both that they really love each other and it ends with a wedding.

A ridiculous story line and yet it was sweetly told. The girl had all the virtues under the sun from beauty, style to intelligence and is a very satisfying heroine; the man likewise. The most glaring issue in the story however, is 'propriety' and how different classes of society interpret it.

The lords and ladies are least concerned with it, while the less well born, like our heroine are obsessed with it. By contrast, we are introduced to the charming, simple Mr. Triggs who is a noveau riche. He too is unconcerned with class distinctions but tells his simple, sweet lovestory with wet eyes and is seen as a champion of true love.

Mr. Trigg's however is still a millionaire and can afford to be himself, but what about our heroine, Patricia? While reading the book, I felt irritated at how she would not grasp the happiness that was offered to her on the proverbial silver platter. This started me wondering. How important is propriety today, and what does it mean?

My answer is nothing! We have books like Patricia Brent, Spinster. If we went by the book, we would know life from the start. But if we factored in, our knowledge of what happens when one clings to the burdensome mantle of propriety as portrayed in the book; And include our cynical distrust in fairy tales, it all points to one thing: The Breaking Down of Convention. All possibilities has already been explored by the hundreds of writers of yore. Hence, the only thing left to do, is to recognize the story lines in our lives and add our own twists to them. A twist that we have not yet read about.