Category: On Books, Poetry & Writing

All the thoughts you don’t share – Em and the Big Hoom

I think of at least 3 bad jokes in a day, a few good ones in a week. Most of them are shared with friends or family, or I at least put it up on insta if I think it’s witty (when is it not? Bwahaha). My current draft tally on my blog is 203, and there’s at least 7 drafts up in my head, I don’t think I’ll ever get to finishing all of them.

I finished Em and the Big Hoom in less than a day. I woke up twice in the middle of sleep, picked up the book lying next to me and continued reading like I never slept. I wept a lot in the last 20 or so pages, the story really throws you in the thick of a family and it gets intense real quick, and stays that way.

I don’t think I’d have read the books that I’m reading now at any previous point in my life either, timing is so crucial. Whenever I’ve found someone who had read a book that I was reading, we’ve discovered a new connection together. East of Eden is a book I recommended to my brothers even while I was reading it (it’s that good). Em and the Big Hoom is something I’m not sure I’ll ever recommend to somebody. It’s a different story that I started reading it thinking it’s a thriller (and was ready to discard it if it didn’t fit that small niche of thrillers I enjoy). It turned out to be about a mother who suffers from bipolar, the narrator son, his sister and father in a 1BHK in Bombay, their lives through her mania and depression, the give and take of hurt and love, the unrelenting, answerless questions of whose pain is more, do these things skip a generation, is it wrong to feel relief along with grief when someone is taken away?

I’m constantly gravitating to stories that immerse you in emotional turmoil, I can leave any time I choose to but I’ve only ever left out of boredom or too much testosterone, never turbulence.

I have friends who read similar books. My brother recommended to me The Eternal Lightness of Being, and Miriam said she had read it. I take her word for it that it’s beautiful, but when I read its blurb I was positive it would break me and I wasn’t ready for it. Yet. But then East of Eden made me whole, wrapped me up in warmth and now Em and the Big Hoom has me plunged deep in emotion again.

So I write about the books I read here, a lot of times I talk about the plots with my friends, because that’s just how I process stuff in life. Just like all the remaining thoughts of my head go into drafts, pickled and forgotten, so do these. Some of them I think I’ll come back to later, yet when I revisit them I’m not ready enough or there are more pressing concerns. I’ve a feeling that’s what all of life is going to be like.

This is a joke Em cracks, and when I read it, all I could think of was – Wait, that sounds like a joke I would make.

Guilt and Unlearning – East of Eden

Last week I met somebody who made me grateful and appreciative of life again. I think all of us meet people who, sometimes even unbeknownst to them, play such roles in our life, in whatever small ways. And of course it’s subjective.

Maybe you meet someone who dances like a dream and stretches your imagination, maybe someone by their demeanor evokes a warmth in you like no other, maybe someone is just really kind and restores your faith in humanity after your brief but very personal rift with mankind. My point being, it’s as much about you as it is about them.

And while I’ve been shocked / disappointed / impressed / amused by both people and circumstances during in my time in Atlanta and even in this country, this was the first time I’d met someone like this person. The details are irrelevant. But the fact is everything immutable in our life, we usually accept because we have to. Also because denial doesn’t help and one can only fight reality for so long before you have to move forward with it.

I do not know when it was drilled into my brain that one must be grateful for everything life gives you, that one must be grateful for all parts of life and not just some of it. But I can accept everything and everyone life gives me, sure, but gratefulness I might scrape for at the bottom of my barrel and still not find any for some things. And that’s okay. I wish whoever taught me that lesson years ago knows this, cos otherwise it’s a long, tiring battle with oneself. Uncovering and unlearning old lessons has been my recent pastime. I maybe wrong but life’s hard enough and faith shouldn’t make it harder.

Life’s also too short to fight with oneself, especially if your mind and body are united in the fight and when those are two things to be grateful for everyday. Our loads needn’t be heavier than what we already carry.

This is put together from East of Eden which I’m reading currently :

“Don’t you see?” he cried. “The American Standard translation ‘Do thou rule over him (sin)’ orders men to triumph over sin, and you can call sin ignorance. The King James translation makes a promise in ‘Thou shalt rule over him,’ meaning that men will surely triumph over sin. But the Hebrew word, the word timshel—‘Thou mayest rule over him’— that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if ‘Thou mayest’—it is also true that ‘Thou mayest not.’ Don’t you see?

Now, there are many millions in their sects and churches who feel the order, ‘Do thou,’ and throw their weight into obedience. And there are millions more who feel predestination in ‘Thou shalt.’ Nothing they may do can interfere with what will be. But ‘Thou mayest’!

It is easy out of laziness, out of weakness, to throw oneself into the lap of deity, saying, ‘I couldn’t help it; the way was set.’ But think of the glory of the choice! That makes a man a man. A cat has no choice, a bee must make honey. There’s no godliness there. 

East of Eden, John Steinback

I’m not Christian and I haven’t read the Bible to attest to the accuracy of what’s quoted from it or their varied interpretations, but all three of these are lessons I’ve heard from my own people at different times in life – sometimes imparted to me, all of them held in high regard in different contexts. Even the vastly unrealistic Thou shalt rule over sin is a take at least a few people I know still uphold in adulthood, and I myself have battled with them way too many times. If not in these definite terms then surely they’ve been the moral backbone of many a mental strife I’ve had. So it was a joy to read this passage in East of Eden and I had to pause for a bit.

To me, the biggest takeaway from this is that free will exists. I’m sure what you take away from any reading depends on your state of mind and your own internal monologues at the time, but the agency of choice means that while you are allowed to fight to overcome sin, you may also take credit for whatever you do accomplish – it is yours to take and celebrate, for you chose it. On the other hand, the lack of it being an order also means one doesn’t have to be so bogged down by the goal that life becomes too heavy to bear. That life is worth living even if you fail to overcome evil, whatever evil may mean to you.

Like I said I had to stop reading after the chapter, this book has been such a joy to read so far.

Back in ATL – How Others Live

I can’t remember where but I once read that before social media, books used to be the only source to see how others lived. I disagree.

I was reading The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle the other day. There’s a part where the narrator talks to his wife over the phone while she’s at work. She’s yet to have breakfast so he tells her about the sandwich he prepared for himself. The wife replies “Hmm”, he says there was no jealousy in her response.

I can’t remember where but I once read that before social media, books used to be the only source to see how others lived. I disagree. What about walking into your friend or neighbor’s house and seeing how they live, their video games and magazine subscriptions? Seeing how your coworkers dress and eat and drink at work? What about simply asking them? The problem books solve for us, I think, is seeing how others think, the voice in their heads.

I too have shared things I’ve wanted to show off, like a meal I cooked myself, and been disheartened by the lack of jealousy in people’s responses. I’ve never articulated it the way Murakami did it nor heard someone say they’ve felt that same emotion, so seeing it on paper felt so good that I paused, looked up and grinned for a bit. It happens a lot with the writers I like. Shame, jealousy, longing and curiosity – I’ve only discussed these with a few of my female friends to the extent that I have seen them represented in books.

I remember writing my first few blogposts and never wondering if someone might relate, I didn’t expect anyone to. Probably because I felt like my life was so different from most people’s, so surely my thoughts must also differ? When I had my first heartbreak and Miriam said to me, Everyone feels this way Paru, you’ll get over it with time, I shot back Don’t say that, that’s not true! How the hell was that supposed to console me anyway? I also didn’t believe that it could hurt everyone or even a lot of people as much as it hurt me, this pain simply couldn’t be universal. I’m older now so I now know there was some truth in what both of us believed.

I’m glad that social media is changing things and is filled with folks oversharing random and sometimes their most intimate thoughts and emotions, looking to find others to relate with. I hope we live through the phase of validation-hungry, influencer-title seeking users, and that the wholesome habits live on.
I, like other humans, want to see how others live and the most crucial part of it is surely how they feel.

Back in ATL – Libraries

And when I walk in after a hiatus is when I’m unequivocally convinced that life’s too short. It’s a little depressing but the next few days of my life become colorful, or are made colorful by this reminder of the passing nature of life, and its brevity.

Life is a repeated cycle of getting lost and then finding yourself again.

Jay Woodman

I borrowed my first Murakami novel from Arlington downtown library in summer of 2021. Back then I didn’t have a driving license, didn’t own a car and used Uber and share-rides for transit. The library being close to my apartment easily became my favorite place to hang. In the book when the protagonist got into a cab or got off one onto the street, I always imagined it to be outside the library. Maybe it had something to do with discovering that Murakami stayed in New York at the time and I had never visited the city. But then I’ve hardly visited many places I’ve read of in books. Anyway.

I got a membership at my local library earlier this week, I’m allowed to borrow 50 books with my card. I smiled stupidly at the librarian who told me that – I think it was 15 back in Arlington but it very well might have been 50. It was just a number I knew I’d never hit. First world stuff I suppose, I hope kids here don’t have to negotiate with their parents on how many books they can borrow on a visit.

The library here is much smaller, but the familiar vibes remain – nobody wants to be spoken to unless it’s critical like how do I check out. I have used the library to create routine in life or to get back into something of the sort more than a couple times. Mostly through reading, sometimes to write or to work when the silence in the house was too loud. And when I walk in after a hiatus is when I’m unequivocally convinced that life’s too short – too short to discover all the authors and learn everything there is to be learnt in the world. It’s a little depressing but the next few days of my life become colorful, or are made colorful by this reminder of the passing nature of life and its brevity.

When I track through my Goodreads history, it makes me smile. The long breaks between reads are concordant with my own behavior, falling out of routine or losing all grounding once or twice even, sometimes quite consciously too. I guess losing yourself once in a while is okay.

Arlington Downtown library. April 17, 2023.

#15 Postcard – Switching POV (Barfi! movie)

There’s no way to run when your past corners you like that, at Puja dukaan counter with the Prestige pressure cooker.

“Wo jo ruki si raah baaki hai
Wo jo ruki si chaah baaki hai..”

– Phir Le Aya Dil, Barfi! (2012 )

You’d think things would have changed after 6 years. After Jhilmil, things have. Yet so much hasn’t and you do not know until your past shows up right in front of you.

Barfi saw his past through the stained glassdoor of Puja dukaan, now dressed in a starched cotton saree. The saree was unfamiliar but his pulse rose as he identified the figure through the glass. Shruti – he engraved on the new Prestige cooker, hands shaking.

He swallowed the knot in his throat, combed his hair down, pasted an all-too-easy smile and walked out to the main shop to meet her.

When she finally turned to him she smiled surprised, her eyes vulnerable as their last goodbye, while the scarlet of her sindoor stared down at him.

Barfi smiled back.

He smiled at the lie that you stop loving somebody once they leave your life. That one day, 6 years later when they show up, they will not take you right back to where they left you, a moustache-less heartbroken 20 year-old chasing after her bicycle and running along on her busrides.

He smiled, and this time Barfi knew well enough to not fall.

The ends of her saree were wet from the outpour, Shruti mumbled a goodbye as she stepped onto the road where her husband awaited.

Heartbreaks are hard not because of rejection. Heartbreaks are hard because of the shared future that crashes down before your eyes, because of the pretty-faced kids and grandkids you won’t raise together, bus rides with them that you missed and the what-ifs that haunt for long after.
There’s no way to run when your past corners you like that, at Puja dukaan counter with the Prestige pressure cooker.

On the street, the man switched on the engine to go home. He looked smart. He probably read their kids bedtime stories to sleep, sang to the tunes of the radio and listened to her daily complaints. He probably woke her up from sleep by whispering her name, the name he could only do a botched job at engraving. Barfi watched as Shruti walked into the car, colorful bangles tracing her slender arm.

Jhilmil taught him that one can love again. Life reminded him there’s nothing quite like first love.

PS : I wrote this as part of Switching POV exercise for my writing workshop. I didn’t like it enough then because my narrative voice didn’t feel authentic, but it doesn’t seem too bad now 🙂

#9 Postcard – On Writing

Stephen King says, If God gives you something you can do, why in God’s name wouldn’t you do it? Wouldn’t you do it until your fingers bleed or until your eyes fall out of your head?

In On Writing, Stephen King talks about how he arranged saxophone lessons for his son when the seven-year old fell in love with the instrument. He soon knew that it was time to stop, and that the sax was not for him. He knew not because his son stopped practicing, but because his son practiced only during the classes set for him.

He says it’s better to move on to an area where deposits of talent may be richer and the fun quotient higher.

This follows an observation about gifted writers, good writers and bad; more importantly he acknowledges the existence of bad writers. It is satisfying to read things you have thought yourself. One can only wonder, however, which category one belongs to 😀

At this point, I was glad that managers of the world have not read the book, or they would know how to quickly verify it when candidates tell them My profession is my biggest passion. Okay, let’s not bring day jobs here. Moving on.

He says, If God gives you something you can do, why in God’s name wouldn’t you do it? Wouldn’t you do it until your fingers bleed or until your eyes fall out of your head?
Why then did Harper Lee who wrote To Kill a Mockingbird stop at one book? Her own answer is – “I have said what I wanted to say, and I will not say it again”. Arundhati Roy says “Fiction takes time”.

I haven’t read enough to write about writers’ rules. But I guess people do what works for them, in general. Some find rules that worked for others, some set their own. The most interesting always being gems created by breaking the rules.
But like other fields, it’s important for mere mortals (which is most of us) to know rules of the game before we break them.

#2 Postcard – Low hanging fruit & Kafka on the Shore

To put down in words what lies behind the simplest of exchanges – in this case, a pause – must be some gift indeed.

If you told me today morning as I woke up, that I’d go on a reading spree and finish Kafka On The Shore by sundown, you’d have surprised me. I have not covered 350 pages in a day in years, I think. It’s not a feat by any standards, not even for the 14 year old version of me. And these pages were generously spaced and had wide margins.

Did I do this so I could write about the book in today’s write-up? I don’t think so, the story is brilliant and the book a page-turner.

I did do something else, I have to admit, because of the question, “What do I write about today“. I cooked three dishes – I used beans and diced tomatoes from cans, store-bought curd in a tub and a ready-to-boil fish curry masala so the whole thing took less than an hour. It was hard to not think I could write about this at various points.

200 words a day is low-hanging fruit, intended for those who find it difficult to get writing done. So once they hit the target they look forward to writing more until they slowly stop paying attention to the count. The other side to it is to prioritize Quantity over Quality – to do it before you do it well. I guess I’ll start somewhere in between.

Although I could write 200 words about the garlic I chopped for Rajma masala today (I didn’t count my words, but I had the narration going in my head as I peeled the cloves and made thin slices out of them). There was a tidbit I wanted to throw in about Nigella Lawson explaining why she loves canned tomatoes and how they’re a lifesaver though many look down on them; much like 15 year olds playing pretend-cooking-show hosts while they’re in the kitchen.

Of course I listened to her 10 years before I’d actually use canned tomatoes, and it’s one of the few things I’ll be sure to miss when I leave this country.

I’ll leave you with the below 2 lines from the book :

“Kafka, I-” She stops, looking for the right words.
I wait for her to find them.

To put down in words what lies behind the simplest of exchanges – in this case, a pause – must be some gift indeed.

#12 Then they smile and float away

It’s strange how for many of us, our privilege to fly was in fact earned for us by others who complied to stay.

I ask, “But how am I to get up to you?”

They answer, “Come to the edge of the earth, lift up your

hands to the sky, and you will be taken up into the clouds.”

“My mother is waiting for me at home,” I say,
“How can I leave her and come?”

Then they smile and float away.

Clouds and Waves by Rabindranath Tagore

I first read the above lines in 2016 while away from home. I didn’t realize it was an excerpt and that the poem didn’t end there. The abrupt end of it came as a cold shock, as if the last line served to close any possibilities, implying the child never left. Yet the brevity of it hit harder – that the clouds understood and left as soon as they had arrived – that there was no discussion, only a simple thought backed by a young boy’s emotion and rationale. It was as if Tagore meant life was usually that simple.

I was 22 then and more free than I’ve ever been. It was more than what many I knew could afford with their time and obligations, and I was quite aware of it. The lines hit hard because I do know people tied to homes, as well as others that leave homes and not entirely out of choice. My mother always said – well she says many things – but one was about how children are like little birds, to be kept in their nests only until they grow wings. And then we let them fly away.

It’s strange how for many of us, our privilege to fly was in fact earned for us by others who complied to stay.

I googled the poem today to see if I felt anything differently now. I was surprised to see there were more stanzas and that wasn’t the end as I’d thought. I still think it can form a whole, just startlingly short, cold and real.

The comma,

The beauty of the comma lies in all it stands for. Comma is hope, just like semi-colon is (the better) alternative to a full-stop. It’s an appeal to pause and to look around, to not get lost in details when it gets too much, to not lose track of all that makes life beautiful.

I was watching 13 Reasons Why (again) and realized, If I had to get a tattoo today (maybe I wouldn’t get it or maybe I would, but if I had to) I’d get a comma.

The semi-colon has received its due, sure, but what about the comma? Not enough has been said about it. What if an impending full-stop was not your issue, what about getting through every day?

I hate talking in metaphors as well.

Comma, we’re taught, is a pause in the sentence. It’s often a necessity. At other times it’s yet another device to structure your writing, your sentence, to convey your tone.
And they’re mostly harmless.

I like trees, flowers and life.
I like trees, flowers, and life.

I wanted a pause after flowers– maybe that gave it a rhythm in my head, maybe I was pensive or maybe I’m just obsessed with adding unnecessary punctuation that infuriates the shit out of readers.

But the beauty of the comma lies in all it stands for. Comma is hope, just like semi-colon is (the better) alternative to a full-stop. It’s an appeal to pause and to look around, to not get lost in details when they overwhelm, to wait and remember all that makes life beautiful.
Because there’s always details, all day everyday. And when they appear larger than life, remember to ,

For instance, this whole year I’ve wondered how in the big picture I’ve spent my 25th year on earth without eating good meencurry while staying away from people I love. I ask myself everyday, is anything worth that? For now all I have are questions. Also I think that was a bad example.

My brother and I talked about (terribly) longer sentences the other day – how they often creep up in my writing, how he thinks the work is badly edited when he comes across one in a news article/report, to which we discussed and decided (or I did :P) that it’s cool if it isn’t formal writing, and it’s cool if the statement is still coherent.
I have stretched out so many sentences into whole paragraphs made possible only by the comma – and maybe a hyphen. 😀

And while it might sound so much like an inferior sibling to the semi-colon, in a lot of cases, comma suffices. It gets you through. It’s for daily use.

And it does its job pretty damn well too, no?

An evening of sad songs

Ah the good songs and places and things people ruin for us

I wish I didn’t have a headache from lying in bed
Listening to sad songs
Crying
About the old lover, over an estranged parent
It wasn’t meant to go far
But you know how it is on Saturday evenings
One thing leads to another
And before you know it, you’ve taken it one too far.

Ruined what could have been a perfectly nice night
Sipping sweet lime soda with no bubbles in it
The way I like it

This song here, he hated how everyone was singing or talking about it
And I knew I’d ruin it if I translated for him
We’d both hate it in fact.
So I told him it was a nice song
Not how it sounded like us.

Ah the good songs and places and things people ruin for us
The old lover, with his unnecessary soft singing between kisses
That you swoon over, only to break your heart in later
And a parent with their loving lullabies
That later turned too cold and distant and everything in between

The songs come back sooner or later, when one day you think
To revisit the goodness that once was
That you’re ready.
Perhaps not never though, on a less sad note –
Maybe just not tonight.

So it could’ve been a perfect Saturday night sipping sweet lime soda
The way I like it with the bubbles all out
I simply got it all wrong, again.

Featured image : Bawra mann