I did something today that took a lot of my energy: I deleted
all of my past. I hadn’t looked at any of those memories in ages but today I got
rid of everything that remained. During the process however, I could not help
glancing at a few things and it is hurting me now; I hate myself for everything
that happened. I wish I had had the strength to run away earlier, but I did
not. I cannot strike out the past year completely, for as long as I live, it
will probably come back to me at my low moments and make me hate myself. I’m
learning to live with the knowledge that it happened and I’m going to put it so
far behind me soon that not a single trace would remain.
I’m glad I had a chance for redemption and change and
movement and growth. I’m glad God gave me a chance to put my resentments to
rest. I will eternally be grateful to Him for listening to me all those nights I
thought he had simply turned a blind eye and moved away from me. But I know He
was there like He had been there before.
I reached home at ten thirty pm last night, carried my bags
into my bedroom. My room smelt the same, the double bed was still as inviting,
my brother felt warm and sweet too when I hugged him but deep, deep inside of
me, I was stable and sane this time. Finally I feel I am somewhat normal. Finally
I can look ahead and see light. Finally I needn’t lie to myself and all my
well-wishers anymore. J
This is the song that I’m thinking about right
now (Kelly Clarkson wrote it in a wasted state in a bar):
All that I know is that I don’t know how to be something you’ll miss
I know all I have been doing lately is post songs here. I haven’t done much reading lately (though I am reading a book called The Forty Rules of Love by Elif Shafak) and haven’t had much time or energy for writing. But I HAVE been consuming songs somewhat greedily. Usually, if I like a song I keep listening to it until I exhaust it but off late I have been skirting back and forth between songs, old and new. And everytime I have a thought related to one, I feel the need to write somthing here.
There IS so much more I could be doing with my writing but I am so very, very complacent at the moment.
The darkest hours of my life passed under the the shades of this song. I’ll be haunted everytime I listen to it. I feel goosebumps rise on my arm; her emotions are so powerful in this stripped performance:
My favourite line from this movie: ‘I know the guy who wrote those emails is somewhere inside of you. But I can’t wait for him. Coz waiting for you is like waiting for the rain in this draught.’
Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Porter is the story of a little girl sent to live with her aunt Polly, who is a rich single lady with a strict rather fixed outlook regarding how a girl must be brought up primly and properly. Pollyanna, however, is an exceptional girl who believes in taking life sunny side up, a rather important and optimistic outlook that she developed through the ‘Glad’ game taught to her by her father. The game consists of looking for something to be glad about in everything one encounters; in even the worst of life’s situations.
Pollyanna’s story grew into quite a movement; it led to the coining of the term ‘Pollyanna’, used to describe an optimist. It also led to the formation of ‘Glad’ clubs in the States and also a board game.
I”ve read just the first part of the Pollyanna book series and that too recently. I was at the Delhi airport and Odyssey was closed or renovating (not sure which of the two). I was disappointed but I walked into a nearby children’s store and while browsing through the books there, came across Pollyanna. It took me a few hours to finish the story and then I was really hoping I had come across or heard of her when I had been younger. I am sure ten year old me would have really enjoyed these books and found a lot to learn from the ‘Glad’ games. Yes the books seem to have quite an effect on the older generation as well; optimism is something that gets harder to understand and explore as one ages. 🙂
“We don’t read and write poetry because its cute. We read and write poetry
because we are members of the human race…and the human race is filled with
passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering…these are noble pursuits, and necessary to sustain life but poetry, beauty, romance, love…these are what we stay alive for.”
–From Dead Poet’s Society
Within the words and lyrics that fill our heart and make us sing, lie the truths of our lives. The truths we ignore as we walk through the corridors of time, our head held high with pleasure at accomplishments, and yet every day…every single day we are taking one step closer towards our own demise. And people wonder as they consider the literature that is a mandatory part of the school curriculum an obligatory burden, why they are being made to study the languages when they can’t wait to start figuring out the mechanisms of the world instead. The truth is, they do not know that as children they are so close to God and to faith and wonder and beauty, that there is nothing they miss yet. But when they will be old and wrinkled and falling backwards, they will sift through their lives and more than their work, more than all the moments they spent pouring over books filled with numbers, they will remember the real things…sensations and feelings and emotions. Getting wet in the rain, staying out all night, their first real kiss, losing their virginity, riding on a roller-coaster, that first time away from home, their marriagem the birth of their child, his first steps, his first words…those are the things that will matter. Not marks or certificates. But photographs and memories. And then their insides might jus tbe stirred by words they might have heard but not understood years back.
And hence we need poetry and music. We need them to release those blocked up sentiments that a person encounters during his childhood and then during his old age but not in all the important times between. We need that imprint upon us. For we might not pray everyday and we might forget to thank God for all the good things… We might miss all the signs and refuse to believe without proof but in every moment that we are moved and our heart is touched, we reach a state of ethereal beauty that allows us to value the counted heartbeats that we have been blessed with.
I have countless Enid Blyton memories from my childhood. Colourful Noddy picture books are the earliest among then. My love for her books grew into adoration for the English countryside that I could envisage; and for quiet walks and picnics by lakesides, sandwiches and cycling, boating and camping (mostly thanks to the Famous Five books). When I read the Malory Towers, I wanted to go to boarding school really badly and I imagined myself playing lacrosse and also wanted to swim in the natural, deep pool mentioned in them. The Secret Island was one of my very favourite Enid Blytons. It was my mum’s, its pages were yellowing and it had a nice ancient smell (a smell I came to associate with books at my grandparent’s place). I loved how the four children in that story lived in hiding on an island, smuggling food and hens and even a cow across the lake and then playing house there for months.
In due course, I happened to own the entire collection of twenty one Famous Five books, among a large number of other Enid Blyton novels and story collections (her short stories were equally delightful too). Sitting out in the sun during winter with a book in my lap, or tucked inside a quilt with a cup of warm milk and a novel was honestly the single most pleasurable activity of my childhood. I frequented the school library and English Book Depot…a place that grew from an old bookstore with piles of novels into a sophisticated urbane bookstore, complete with a coffee shop right in front of my eyes.
My book love has been evident for years. When I was little I never realized it and when I grew up, it didn’t bother me anymore that a lot of people out there thought of reading in spare time as something rather boring and geeky (‘it is a Saturday night and you really wanna spend it inside reading a book? Pooh!’). I grew up in a household where books have always been held, if not in reverence, then atleast with a loving respect, and my parents filled my childhood with stories; so many, many stories!
Enid Blyton was always the author of my childhood. Just thinking about the titles of her books is filling my heart with nostalgia for old times…for the cupboard full of Enid Blyton books that I left behind six years ago…
My seventeen again tragic love song. Stirs the deep reaches of my soul.
Say you’re sorry
That face of an angel
Comes out just when you need it to
As I paced back and forth all this time
Cause I honestly believed in you
The days drag on
I should have known, I should have known
I’m not a princess, this ain’t a fairy tale,
I’m not the one you’ll sweep off her feet,
Lead her up the stairwell
This ain’t Hollywood, this is a small town,
I was a dreamer before you went and let me down,
Now it’s too late for you and your white horse to come around
Baby I was naive,
Got lost in your eyes
And never really had a chance
My mistake, I didn’t know to be in love
You had to fight to have the upper hand
I had so many dreams
About you and me
Now I know
And there you are on your knees,
Begging for forgiveness, begging for me
Just like I always wanted but I’m so sorry
Cause I’m not your princess, this ain’t a fairytale,
I’m gonna find someone someday who might actually treat me well
This is a big world, that was a small town
There in my rear view mirror disappearing now
And it’s too late for you and your white horse
Now it’s too late for you and your white horse to catch me now
A sweet, sad song. It is from a movie I do not care about at all but theres something moving about the words
I can’t stand to fly
I’m not that naive
I’m just out to find
The better part of me
I’m more than a bird…i’m more than a plane
More than some pretty face beside a train
It’s not easy to be me
Wish that I could cry
Fall upon my knees
Find a way to lie
About a home I’ll never see
It may sound absurd…but don’t be naive
Even heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed…but won’t you concede
Even heroes have the right to dream
It’s not easy to be me
Up, up and away…away from me
It’s all right…you can all sleep sound tonight
I’m not crazy…or anything…
I can’t stand to fly
I’m not that naive
Men weren’t meant to ride
With clouds between their knees
Today I have been thinking about how hard it is to develop a certain perspective towards life; especially when you know what you are battling. I think most people do not often realize who the unseen enemy in the shadows of their life is; but I see mine clearly. I see every little thing that cripples me, everything that drives a dragger deep into my soul. It makes it harder to fight the demons. Self-awareness comes at such a price but I always keep alternating between reality and the other world I have built for myself, wondering how hard it will be if I ever had to introduce someone else to this second land. How would they react to the child inside me? Would they think I was crazy or on my way to losing my mind? Or would they see the things I see through my eyes?
So I have been trying to build new worlds around me; after all reality is what we understand of the world around us, nothing more or less. A few people might have noticed the subtle changes; some I have confided in and others have been silent observers. I think I am doing an okay job and after all, every battle has its set-backs. But yesterday I went walking into the night with a really close girlfriend- somebody I feel unbelievably free and real around. We walked around in the drizzle, avoiding crowded places and looking up at the overcast sky. I was thinking of my grandmother. I do not know why. It has been three years since she died I think. But the sky looked so melancholy and grey and the night was dark and moonless and I found myself thinking of evenings back at my grandparents’, where we would sit on the roof and eat fruit. i was missing my mom too suddenly; old mummy who hadn’t been through the pain of losing her mom. And I was missing those old days and my grandmother and I realized that though the sky still looked the same as it had those years ago, I was in a different time and place all-together and everything was so different.
I felt sad and lost and I couldn’t understand what I was trying to do. If I move down one path, I start missing what I left behind. I know they say you shouldn’t look back and I know that the road I am on will lessen all my pain and make me the kind of person who would blend in better with the world probably and not be so lost and have an easier life but the path that I am leaving behind is beautiful. It is pure and leaves little room for doubt. It lets me have faith in people. It lets me be a child. Sure, it hurts like hell and makes it impossible for me to be normal in even the simplest of circumstances, but it is just so delightful and inviting that I find it hard to give up its security and even as I do give it up, I miss it and feel sad to have to lose it