“I suppose Gandhi and Shastri didn’t achieve greatness by chugging caffeine in bed. Never mind. My greatness ship has sailed. I’ll just have that cuppa now.”
~ My first conversation of the day
“I suppose Gandhi and Shastri didn’t achieve greatness by chugging caffeine in bed. Never mind. My greatness ship has sailed. I’ll just have that cuppa now.”
~ My first conversation of the day
Perhaps there is some truth, after all, to the wisdom of non-camera-savvy people. When they stare into a foreign object and let it capture the physical essence of who they are, perhaps they know better than us to be in the moment, be real, and not put on an act of pretending to be happy. Maybe they want to be remembered for their true feelings that day, if it means staring grimly, soberly, and not splitting their faces into socialized smiles to deceive an audience into believing their lives couldn’t possibly hold more joy. Maybe there is some truth to their presentation. In a way that will never be in ours. Unless, of course, we go through our days posing and toasting, all flung arms and side profiles, best face forward, like we never scrounge in pyjamas or have a bad mane month.
And maybe there is wisdom in not holding on to those images of ourselves, seconds of moments past, when we are ever-changing, eternal. The you that was doesn’t exist anymore. And yet we chase it down, grapple it to the ground, and pin that wave upon the sand, content with mere froth.
No judgment here, just an observation. Think about it. And share?
Five eventful years ago, Little Blogette (a moniker so creative and original, it blew rings of neon smoke from the ears of all who heard it) made her debut with this post. As is wont to with a newborn, plenty of well-wishers came to oooh and awww and tinkle silver-and-pink rattles by her cribside. As is also wont to, by the time you’re done attending the 5th birthday party of a child whose cutest years are past her, you stagger out, topped up with delicious but predictable cake and a lame return present that looks suspiciously recycled.
So you’re off the hook with all the cutesy things fond parents expect to hear about their snot-faced little wide-eyed monster. But wait! I’m not quite done. If I have reaped the joys of connecting with so many of you over the years, if only through the limited interaction of a comment, a friendly email, or “Hi, I’m a lurker, okay bye!” kind of message, it’s time for me to pay it forward.
As a small gesture of gratitude for the sustenance of this blog and to show my appreciation to those of you who come back, year after year, I will be donating $50 to a non-profit organization of my choice, one whose work and cause I believe in and support. But HERE’S WHERE YOU COME IN:
For every comment received on this post, from the time it is published until midnight on July 15th, I will add $1 to the base amount on your behalf. So feel free to say hello, tell me you’re a lurker in your tiniest font and then vanish forever, share your favorite birthday memory, or….only if you want now, no pressure….wish this blog a happy, meaningful birthday. Multiple comments from the same IP address will not be approved, and yes, I’m so magical, I can tell. 😛 Comments are moderated, so don’t be concerned if you don’t see yours right away.
What do you get out of it other than warm fuzzies? I’m hoping it’s a chance to band together to offer the world a little humble something. And something is more than nothing, even if only in the number of letters it carries.
So tell your friends and family, sign in as Rumpelstiltskin-does-the-Hula for all I care, but don’t be shy, send some dollars this way! There are some fab organizations out there who could do with a leg up. And I’ll be sure to share details of the donation with you.
Oh, and before you leave, have a slice of lime tart, specially baked to celebrate the occasion. You know what this means, don’t you? The Happy Hausfrau will be along to share the recipe soon. 🙂 Bon appetit, my friends, thank you for reading Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas and get clicking on that comment button!
Home is not always a place.
Frequently, it is a person.
Knock, knock:
Are you home?
It’s a wonder there’s no Match.com for socks, given how many singles there are in that universe!
~Me to the Boy, as I unsuccessfully attempted post-laundry pairing.
Frosty beginnings
It was a wintry Boston day. The kind where the sky is azure, and the cold bites into your marrow decisively. Strewn around me were the material possessions collected over 5 years of living in the country, waiting to be crammed into two mid-sized suitcases and flown home with their owner.
“What is a blog,” I had asked him, and wondered if I could write one. The concept of readership didn’t cross my mind. Bored with the task at hand, I lined up my precious babies and took a picture. “Shoes Blues”, I labeled the post, and whined about whether they would all fit into my luggage and new existence.
I shut the browser, and shortly afterward, my bags, and watched as Logan airport dropped away. I thought leaving America would change my life. The seed I had planted on the internet smirked at my naiveté and bided its time.
~~~
Germination
January 26, 2006, started a chain of events that I did not have the foresight or imagination to envisage. My quiet entrance into the world of personal blogs was encouraged by exactly two readers, the love of whom I will always be grateful for. Unexpectedly, the circle grew. Warm responses, delightful banter, and amusing comments from complete strangers ensued. My Yahoo! 360 circle of friends expanded into a co-ed dorm, where we all hung out, displaying our words and quirks in a manner so genuine and honest, it was impossible not to be touched.
Those first years were the most prolific. I blogged for the sheer joy of sculpting sentences, creating fiction, and recording life’s quirks. Quite simply, because I could. Mostly flippant even when I wrote from the heart, I took neither my writing nor its platform seriously (and still refuse to do so with the former). As I navigated the last years of my 20s, my little corner on the WWW became a repository of angst-ridden poetry, nuggets of fiction, and first date howlers. And looking back, how my connections sustained me! Aunty G, Manju, Mina, The Mad Momma, Sabiha, Dezann, Suzy Tay, Lonely Prince, Naoman, Sa’ad, Rajashree, Shail, Summer, Mariah, Anamika, Pallavi, Rajni, Anindita, Twisted DNA, Revathi, Amrita—bloggers, readers, compatriots all, their emails, comments and calls flew in from all over the globe, making me laugh with the race to comment first (FTC!! we’d shout), partake of their intriguing worlds, and thank the powers that be for this new dimension.
~~~
Born-again OJ
And yet, I took a break. Rather, was forced to by technical difficulties, as the 360 platform creaked to a painful end. Without their familiar home, the words went on vacation. (Okay, as did I—but they went first!)
Turns out it was only a quick trip around the corner, because six weeks later, this post went up, and I set about making this new home cozy and inviting. The neighborhood was more upscale and the living space plusher, but it lacked the casual, popping-in-and-out-to-ask-for-sugar atmosphere. But then you all arrived. So many quietly read and departed, making no announcement of their existence. (It’s still not too late, you know!) But some others, they said hello, and to them I am thankful. And to the odd troll who trawls through my posts, you do wonders for my hit rate.
~~~
Wired
Personally, my blogging journey has seen me through a long-term relationship, its gut-wrenching, soul-sapping end, the hilarity of the dating dance of my later 20s, my first meeting with the man you all know as the Boy, along with our courtship, engagement, and wedding, and seven years later, I stand before you as someone this busybee from Bombay least expected to morph into: a contented married woman in suburban California.
This virtual platform—not a jot less real than flesh and blood—watched me move continents (twice), re-embrace my city, only to see it receding yet again from an airplane 2 years ago. Through jobs and businesses, and changes in career and pace, Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas stood patiently on hand, as I force-fed it, ignored it, and worst of all, was indifferent to it, while life led me on a merry dance, and I, with my sixteen left feet, bumbled along.
I found myself eating gouda toasties and chattering with my mouth full (sorry, Nana!) to someone I met 7 minutes ago. I found myself finally putting into words the feminist ideas I witnessed growing up. I found myself published elsewhere, thanks to this unique calling card. I found myself face-to-face with the people behind monikers and pseudonyms to brainstorm how we could help 26/11 victims. I found myself refusing money to shove paid links down your throats. I found myself walking into a stranger’s home to check on her after reading just one heartbreaking post, and her wedding present to me affirmed my faith in my actions. I found myself on the receiving end of genuine affection. I found myself cheering on a queer woman I had never met in her struggle for acceptance. Truth be told, there were simply no strangers anymore. Blogging made me reach out, look within, and wear my heart on my sleeve. It brought me dear friends, some admirers (!), and enhanced my life in surprising ways, but the best gift of all was that it brought me home to me.
~~~
Did it really happen?
Make no mistake: I still write for myself. Very rare are the days when I give a thought to responses before hitting ‘publish’. But now I see blogging as something more than strung words, and would be foolish not to acknowledge the connections it has enriched me with.
To honor this gift, I invited 7 fellow travelers, all key to my online trail at some point, to share their thoughts on what this platform—and our connection— means to them. Over the next week and a half, these guest posts will appear exactly as they were sent to me, so you can witness how this phenomenon affected us all. The writers are human beings who amaze me, whose generosity with time and affection gives me hope for the world, and whose dexterity with the written word is a humbling experience. These are women of strength, of opinions and integrity, true citizens of this planet, and each one has warmed my spirit with her unique charm. I thank them for the pleasure of their company, along with the many unnamed others along the way, and from the bottom of my heart, I thank you, dear reader.
~~~
Kisses on the wind
This post would be incomplete without a shout-out to my most regular commenters:
Aunty G: You’re one in several billion, and your limericks make my day (and everybody else’s!)
Dipali: Big hug! It gladdens my heart that you’re somewhere out there.
Alice: I’m happy you find wonder in my land. (Couldn’t resist! )
Sukanya: Being sincere and generous in equal parts with your compliments is a truly special gift and you have it.
R: In your comments, I see my younger self, and it’s great to relate. 🙂
~~~
Forward
Like all paths, this too shall end someday. Maybe it will be this year, or some years hence. Regardless, in a life littered with unknowns, where pain and poetry blend, I am thrilled—and fortunate—and (insert your own word, I’m too busy mopping the weepies) that I went on this incredible journey of a lifetime.
Group hug, NOW!
Death comes in many flavors, like ice cream. There’s swift, silent death, like the swoosh of a bat’s wings, where you fly into the night, leaving trails of an uneasy hush.
There’s the long, spiral, slippery slope—gradual, painful, the life ebbing away oozingly, never quite dead, always getting there.
There are bursts and tumbles and explosive deaths, and you sizzle out of the sky like a damp squib, while they murmur platitudes in white-clad circles to those left gaping.
Death can be a stranger, unrecognizable around the corner, until you come face to face with his ghastly visage and you already know it’s too late.
Death is a seductress you want to succumb to. She’ll spirit you away to sensual things.
You wish you could pick your flavor. But in this here candy shop, you’re stuck with a cone, sticky stuff dripping all over your hand, until you reluctantly, resignedly, take a bite.
And so it is that we come to another end. Symbolic, obviously, for a shift occurred a while ago and the earth changed, and I with her.
2012 was all about peaks and troughs. Of extremes, learning, and deep realization. A momentous year, of change, insight, and revelation. Like a train changes tracks mid-route, but not quite as seamlessly, I halted, regrouped, and reassessed. Was aided in startling ways by unexpected travelers. I discovered who my very own jedi were, and who wished me harm. Other people became surprisingly irrelevant as I turned inward and focused on my own growth. In the finals weeks of these months of tailspin, more curtains parted than ever before, a path confirmed its existence, and the knowledge I bear became surer, firmer, and better defined.
Gifts abounded. Some were snatched away, others atrophied, yet others morphed into opportunities to burnish the self.This has been less a year and more a journey. And, just as a road has mile markers, today is merely one such in the hike I started longer ago than memory permits.
I leave it to an all-time great to tell you how I feel:
And since we’re on the subject, and not because I wish to boast, oh no no, not at all, listen to this:
Three days ago, I stood in my aunt’s inhumanly immaculate kitchen in San Diego as she flung a casual hand out and asked, “Who was that English singer? The one who died?”
“Cliff Richard? Engelbert?” I asked, trying to rifle through memory for singers from her time.
“No, the Parsi one,” she persisted, “He was quiet, and lanky, with buck teeth.”
“Wait…you mean Freddie Mercury?”
“Yes, that’s what he called himself later, isn’t it? I knew him as Farrokh. We used to play together in Panchgani, and he went to boarding school there.”
“You hung out with Freddie Mercury?”
“We were just 11!”
“YOU HUNG OUT WITH FREDDIE MERCURY??????”
“Look, here’s a picture.”
And so it was, that with a clap of thunder and a strangled scream, this gentle lady with whom I share our fathers’ bloodline, watched me yell for the Boy, disintegrate on her marbled floor, and call out “You knew Freddie Mercury!!!!” until the men in white coats arrived to haul me away.
Happy 2013, my friends. Don’t stop me now. Much lies ahead.
Because you see, while you’re busy ideating, communicating, spinning sentences into webs of understanding and outreach, the chores don’t go away. So there you are, your wonderful self, doing all these things like researching black feminist thought, organizing resistance movements, investigating the origins of Women of Color, documenting the oral history of the Partition, speaking as a panelist, constructing a sphere of influence around your persona, learning, teaching, sharing, writing, and still, the piles of laundry are unmoved. With the patience of stoics, they wait, to be washed, dried, folded, ironed, closeted away; and the dishes sit heavy in the washer, parked until removed and stashed away; and there’s no telling your bed linen to get a move on and do a DIY job, because it needs your keyboard-focused fingers to fold the shams and fluff the pillows, and crumbs are spilled and countertops splashed and the business of getting dirty-clean-dirty spins in endless cycles every day.
Your plants beg for a drink. Your carpet dreams of a dalliance with the dustbuster. Your car could do with a nice soapy scrub. They don’t care who you are, or what you do, they’re not cleaning themselves up, or putting themselves away, and will outstare and outsit you in every possible battle of wills until you finally relent and tackle them darn chores. For all your fabulousness, and even if you divide and conquer, there’s always that laundry list of things to do around the house that keeps you grounded, with the possible aim of marinating your ego in some well-deserved mediocrity. Amplify that times a thousand, and enter children. But we won’t even go there for now.
Hausfrauness: dripping dullness into the scintillating everyday, one reincarnated house chore at a time.
“It’s nice knowing you,” he said, as always, simple and heartfelt.
And her smile spread slow and wide.
Turning down the lights, they climbed under the covers, sporting blobs of Vicks and night cream (respectively); the Boy and his Missus shook on it and kissed, and congratulated themselves on 5 years of good old-fashioned lovin’.
Vox populi