The Doubtful Narcissist..."Was"

There are days I write well and then there are days I sound like one of those awful eassay writing enthusiasts.

But I love writing. I don't know if I'm any good. But I do know that I'm not bad and am reasonably interesting. Most people have encouraged me. Except Mike Andy (name changed to protect privacy). Yes, he writes very well and works for a leading tabloid and has, on more than one occassion asked me to give up the whole thing and admit to myself that I'm quite lousy with the pen. No, I don't hate him for that. No resentment whatsoever. On the contrary, I'm afraid that he may be the only one who's right and all the others, wrong. You see, I don't like bad writers. I firmly believe they should just stop and move on. My fear is I'm one of them and living in denial.

So, for a while I considered just putting an end to the whole lie and stop this obsessed relationship with writing. Only emails.

I'm trying and not succeeding. I can't stop. However, it has taught me a few things. For one, my writing is worth something only when I'm in an intense state of mind and when I feel a heightened sense of emotions. When my mind is a calm and placid place, I'm no good. I'm worthless. Not just with the writing. A satiated and complacent mind to me is a mediocre mind and if I accept living as a candidate of mediocrity, I render myself useless in every sense of the word.

This, in turn, has made me realise that my love for writing has nothing to do with my possession or lack of any literary prowess. Its got everything to do with me, the recluse, trying to escape from being bonded by that mediocrity and in the process, having found a real friend in the pen.

It's a fair deal I think. I won't, like I never have, try and sell you my ideas, my dilemmas, my conflicts, my demons; in other words, my bad writing. I'm beginning to get quite convinced that I am a misanthrope and a happy one at that. My writing, regardless of how good or bad, is probably one of my only tools to continue escaping the clutches of the mediocre mind I so dread. In other words, deem myself worthwhile. So, No, I'm not quite prepared to seperate myself from writing yet.

Mutant

A few things have changed since my previous blog...I'm no longer 22..I'm 23 now and I married the love of my life... now with that, a lot changed...

I felt like myself after a long time yesterday. Just being wild, getting dirty and going on a wild goose chase. Yes, I do that most of the time but that's where the difference was yesterday. It was all done PUBLICLY. That's the whole damn point. And without any dress code or of conduct which is becoming of a "lady wife".

The social life as an Army Officer's wife is cruelly stifling and suffocating. I or rather, you, have to do everything that you don't want to and you can't do anything you want. For what?
I don't get it. Just don't. And I don't want to either.

I don't know but perhaps I'm a hypocrite too. I call myself one because I know for a fact that I definitely would frown upon a loud, brazen fauji lady. In other words, anyone who's uninhibited. I wouldn't though, if she were married to a civilian. So then if I'm allowing my behaviour and conduct to be "controlled", I'm doing exactly what I wish for others to do as well. But that's what confuses me. Because you see, it's precisely what my whole crib is about. Why are we governed by a different set of rules as women in civvie street? Why must there be any rules to begin with.. All we did was marry these officers, not enlist ourselves in the Army.
It's such a gross contradiction. Life in the Army is defined and pervaded with adventure, exploration and spontaneity among other things. And yet, those are the very pleasures that an army officer's wife is so strictly forbidden from indulging in.
While I call the social life stifling and suffocating, it also happens to be exhausting at the same time. The events and parties never end. And they will never end so long as the insecurities of the senior officer's wives (in the guise of whims) exist, which we all know will probably exist beyond the end of the world. Its mind numbing how while you are suppossedly partying and socialising, you are literally on a leash of all kinds.Its almost a robotic existence, even if I may say so at the cost of sounding extremely dramatic.Just drape your Saree; all other civilised attire is out of bounds for social purposes, smile at everyone, take a bow, lick some ass and call it GRACE and REGIMENTATION.

I'm not prepared to play this hideous game.It's almost like being a Page 3 wannabe. It's far too ridiculous for my pride and dignity. I just wanted to be my man's wife and that's all I am ready for.

Yesterday was one of those rare days of me being myself and actually loving the Army after a long time. Sitting in that noisy, mangled mass of metal called the Mahindra Jeep and riding aimlessly on endless expanses of sand, dust and gravel in search of a dam. The destination which definitely didn't justify the pain and rigour of the journey was FUN all the way, for the simple reason that, for a change, we did something we wanted to and not something we had to. The experience, HENCE, was pleasurable regardless of whatever it entailed.
Yesterday was the Army I fell in love with as a kid.

The Who in the Me

Its time to say goodbye yet again. The umpteenth time in my life. It’s always been this way. The only thing constant in my 22 years of existence has been the adieu. Schooled in ten different cantonments, moving onto someplace new is something I always looked forward to. The end of each tenure; that was always the highlight in my otherwise low key upbringing. Newer pastures to roam, new horizons to explore. Every time.

I was proud to be a nomad, a vagabond with no roots and no place to call my “childhood home”. I still am proud of it. This, however, seemed to worry my father quite a bit. Of course, there was nothing he could do about it given the fact that my so called “rootlessness” (I don’t’ think that’s really a word) was all owing to his being in the Indian Army’s Infantry. He wondered and tried hard to make me feel one with our great North East and take pride in the fact that I was Assamese and that ours was the only part of India that the Mughals could never invade. Yes, I took pride in this fact which was of historical reckoning. Did it make me feel that I was indeed a child of the impenetrable, wild, nonchalant and yet superbly passionate soil of North East? No, not quite.

I could never fathom how or why I was expected to feel a sense of belonging to North East or any other place for that matter when right from the time that I was conceived, I have never been in a place or a community long enough to find any sort of permanent footing. Yes, I have developed into a fully functioning human being and evolved into a secure and “thinking” individual but no, I don’t belong anywhere. There was no place to call home. Until now.

I found home. I found my people and I love them and they love me. A kind of love that needed no reasons, no explanations and no time to evolve. It was just there.
I landed up in my North East. By default, like every other time. 4 months is all I have spent here. The shortest. Ironic. There are places I have been in for 7 years and yet it never, not for a moment, made me feel like anything other than the nomad that I always felt like. And now, 4 months. That’s all it took to realize where I come from.

For someone who always awaited “the posting order” with bated breath, my heart is broken. For someone who never could comprehend the tears that farewells bring to most people, my eyes have been welling up every day at the slightest sound of someone speaking in Mizo.
Yes, I have felt pain on separating from loved ones every once in a while and yes, I have cried on a few lonely nights when I missed a friend or two while reminiscing about the old glories. But I have never felt the kind of crippling, spirit numbing pain that I did when WE my long lost people, sang together in church one last time. “ What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear….”, we sang and I could faintly relate to the pain one goes through at the death of a loved one while with the quiet reassurance of peace and promise. And then we sang, “God be with you till we meet again! Till we meet—till we meet--! Till we meet at Jesus’ feet…”. Yes, we sang those words and I was no longer relating to pain.I was already dead.

There was no mistaking it. From the moment I set foot on my soil and smiled at them, I had every answer to why I am the way I am. Defiant. Quirky. Fiercely Loyal. Randomly nonchalant. Inexplicably wild and yet more tamed than the most domesticated. I know exactly why. Because I am from here. Right here, right this moment I know I am home. Even though, the nomad is moving on again. My mother always called me a “wild, wild angel”, one of her favourite tracks by the English Glam Rock band Smokie who found success in the 1970’s. She was right.I know now why I am a wild wild angel. It is because I belong here. The blood of the land runs through my veins. I am them and therefore, I am.

The Assam Regiment. 82 Mtn Bde. All its jawans and their families. THAT is my definition of North East. And THEY are what this land and my roots is all about for me. And they are all that signifies North East and home.
Tagra Raho.

The Monk, Chaang and the Hypocrite

I have been trying to quit drinking for quite some time now. For 12 years.

I am 22. I had my 1st beer at 10. It wasn't intentional. We had a "local fete" in the colony where we lived. I won the RAFFIL..is that how it's spelt? It was a beer bottle. A big 650 ml Sandpiper bottle. I lived alone at the time with my mother. My dad,in the army, being an infantry officer was away as usual. And strangely, he was and is a teetotaler. And yes, for an army officer to be a teetotaler is almost absurd if not abnormal. But he was. Nevertheless, I decided to give him the beer bottle as a 'Father's day' gift. So I did. He was touched but didn't really know what to do with it. He felt the pressure to drink it or at least try. I was looking up at him all starry eyed..I still do. A few very disgusted sips and he asked me to help him with it. Well, it was supposed to be a few sips but I, ended up finishing the whole thing. I thought I would throw up but I did manage to finish that entire 650 ml of sandpiper. Well, actually 500 ml if we are to assume that my dad managed to consume at least 250 ml of that ochre liquid which both, smelled and tasted, like urine. No,I haven't tasted piss but I have a feeling it would taste like beer if one were to try it. Maybe that's why Morarji Desai willingly drank his own piss for the sake of everlasting youth.
Few months later, Captain BS Negi (now colonel), one of my dad's favourite comrades from the days of fighting militancy in J&K, introduced me to Old Monk...I never saw myself as a girl who would "drink". This brilliant human being whom I, Indian as I am, chose to call Negi "uncle" even though he is not related to us in any way, used to come for the regular "call ons" and "regimental parties" to our house and I would watch in awe as he would guzzle peg after peg of "neat" rum, sometimes an entire bottle, in just about 2 hours. He had a reputation of being the only one who could hold down an entire bottle of Old Monk and you wouldn't even realise that he had anything to drink at all. Well anyway, amidst all that noise and chaos of partying, he noticed the curiosity in me..as to how he "managed". So he gave me my 1st rum..with water of course. And that was it. Within a couple of years I found myself wacking rum at every 'fauji' party. I was a kid and I wasn't even allowed into the bar but I managed somehow. I tried everything I could get my hands on but nothing, I believed, came even remotely close to the Monk.
My dad had and still does, a rather well stocked bar at home for his guests. He is a good host. Never drinks with them but that doesn't stop him for catering for special liquor from all over the world, to appease the specific tastes of his guests. I was 12. Being a girl, it wasn't possible for me to walk upto a liquor store and buy some. Moreover at 12 I looked 8. I had wild friends. Wild is to put it mildly. But strangely,none of them cared for alcohol. So then my only hope was to whisk some from the bar. I say whisk because I don't want to admit that I actually stole it. I realised that if I "whisked" rum from the bottles in the bar and replaced it with gin, my dad would never find out because the quantity would look the same. So that's what I did. He doesn't know till today. And never will. I realise now, the guests who were served that gin diluted rum must be wondering why it was always in our house that the Monk tatsed not so monk like.
In college, I would carry rum in my bag. Drink all the way to college while I walked the distance in winter. And no, no one ever found out. It was an all girl's college and they all thought I was on homeopathic medication and hence smelt weird. And yes, my rum was ALWAYS neat. The great Negi was my role model after all. I had to live upto it.
I even went carolling on Christmas with rum in my rucksack. And for the record, I am a very serious and devout Christian.
But in all those years, I was never happy about my addiction. I never got caught. I knew how to hold my drink and knew exactly how to just shut up and be a recluse whenever I did get tipsy. Each year I would promise that this would be the end. But it never was. There is one thing that gets me sozzled dangerously. Whisky. So I choose not to EVER drink it. Its easy since I detest it anyway.
I give up drinking every 6 months. Then I take it up again. I honestly believe that its something I can do without. It burns a hole in your pocket when consumed outside and it makes you fat and attracts attention for all the wrong reasons. So I decided never to drink ever again. And it wasn't difficult. Then I discovered something else....
I was trekking up a mountain with my dad in 2006 in Arunachal Pradesh in the North East of India. I love trekking so I willingly went up 8 kms just to visit a Buddhist village which happens to be under our Infantry Brigade..I'm glad I did because in the dark, dingy kitchen of the village headman's Buddhist home, was nectar..White...looked exactly like milk. Boiling in a pot. They offered me a taste. I took it gladly since I love milk. The 1st sip and I realised it was not milk. If you were to ever wonder what paradise would taste like if it were edible, then this would be it. They call it chaang and to me it tasted like champagne mixed with vodka. I don't know how many I had in the 10 mins that I was in that kitchen. Perhaps 2 glasses. Its been over a year now and I can't get it out of my head. And no they won't give you the recipe and if they do, its never the real recipe. Its closely guarded against us outsiders....
I am a forlorn soul now. Like in shitty movies when they meet their soulmates on a train or a flight and they know that THIS IS IT...but then they part ways and never see each other again and they keep wondering for the rest of their lives "what if"...that's what has happened to Chaang and me.

And now I confess that I have no bloody clue why I wrote this. I really don't. It's out of sleep deprivation and incessant reminders from my beloved mother that I'm a useless piece of turd..of course, expressed in more polite and civil a fashion.
I assure you that the other posts on this blog are more meaningful.
God bless you while I writhe in pain that Chaang and I shall never be one.......
By the way, I am a hypocrite. I don't like people who drink and I choose to judge them.

RAIN

...The Background...
I was inspired to write this after watching the movie "Monster's Ball", the movie which got Halle Berry her 1st Oscar. Its the last scene of the movie that made me write this. Just a muse, an inspiration. It, however , has nothing to do with the characters of that movie. Just that it made me reflect upon, how, complete strangers can heal each other because they have one common thread that ties them together...that of unspoken human pain..

Let me know why you think I chose to call it 'Rain'.

RAIN

She wakes up early this morning
to spring clean her house.
Old trunks and boxes.
Memories untouched for years,
buried under the debris;
now sift through the dust laden air.
The old rag doll with buttons for eyes,
those lifeless eyes tell the tale of...
a lost childhood
of innocence robbed and desecrated.
A child violated..not caressed
Abused and not loved
Rejected and not cherished.
...............

Across the road lives he
Photographs on the wall....
of the family lost forever..
Echos of the blood curdling screams
ring clear, still.
..................

She and he.
Two seperate lives.
Strangers till yesterday
Brought together now
By the pain
Those years between then and now
Of...
dignity striving to be found again
faith to be restored again.
They needn't share the pain...
of the yester years that haunts still......
Their souls are connected now

She looks at him today
"We'll be okay", he says
She smiles and looks away...at the horizon
Comfort
And hope..
dawns on them this morning.

What's this about?

This is an ordinary blogspot, written by someone who possesses no literary prowess. Maybe for most,this is going to be a waste of time. I am not Salman Rushdie and neither am I of Somerset Maugham's lineage. This blog will not save the world, or the ozone layer or the starving millions in Somalia. So, do not curse me for wasting your time.
On second thought, maybe this blog isn't all that bad. Maybe its damn good. I wonder...or maybe I don't. I used to but I don't anymore. Because I don't give a damn...ever since I realised that I will never be at my own book launch, since there won't be one. So then, it hardly matters how good or bad this blog is..Because, in the end, its in vain...its futile.

Do I sound pessimistic to you? Maybe I am or maybe I'm not. I mean it when I say that I feel pretty stoned most of the time. And that's without any drugs. Is that a good thing? Maybe it is since it means I will never have to spend money on dope or hash or weed. Or maybe it makes no difference...whatever money I supposedly saved from not doing any drugs...where is it? I don't seem to have any extra money..its not like I could build a bigger house. I don't even have a house. So then, what difference does it make anyway?

Maybe this blogspot should be called Perspective.