Hidden treasure

Its changed me. And its an ongoing process. This treasure inside me.

I hate sparrows. Always have. They make this constant,irritating chitter and they nibble on everything in your balcony.But for the last 4 days I have been watching this mother sparrow and its young one on our terrace. The li'l one can't fly yet, it just keeps hopping all over the place while the mother comes and feeds it every now and then. Something about that baby sparrow exudes restlessness. It seems to bother its mother more than most baby sparrows do. I say so with confidence because I have often watched sparrows in the past as they chew away and destroy our plants and return undeterred no matter how much you try to frighten them and hence, my resultant hatred. But this particular one seems rather disinterested in nibbling or the usual activities. All its been doing is distressing its mother. Its very evident. The mother has been as facilitating as she possibly can but I suppose she could take it no more when she finally decided to abandon her young one yesterday. She never returned. And all of yesterday the tiny little deserted bird has been hopping and chittering without ceasing. But all of this "was". This morning I found it dead on my balcony. Dead from fatigue, dead from abandonment. Ordinarily, the sight of a dead sparrow would have given me much joy but not today. It has depressed and scared me no end. To know that the cold, uncaring heart of a mother is enough to kill a young,tender soul. And then there was the movie "Grand Canyon" last night where Claire has sleepless nights after she discovers a deserted baby under the bushes.

Its difficult to explain really. I can relate to Claire. Things distress her. The state of the world and the depravity, the nonchalance. And yet that baby renews her hope even as it gives her something more to worry about. Like Rob Thomas sang, "All night Hearing voices telling me That I should get some sleep Because tomorrow might be good for something. I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell I know, right now you can't tell. But stay awhile and maybe then you'll see A different side of me."

But yet, amidst all of this conflict in my head and heart, that treasure, that little bundle inside me right now gives me this peace and sweeps over me with inexplicable love and anticipation.

Yes, my child to be, you are already changing me, confusing me, exhilirating me, distressing me, all at the same time. My already mangled head, for the 1st time, is looking forward to every part of this new conflict.

Because I love you already and love understands no reason.

Revised Edition

Someone I hold in very high esteem has given me some advice. Turns out, I have mentioned my age far too many times across various posts in this blog. It seems like I'm trying to almost rub it in? Well, I did that because I believe that understanding something in the context of age adds a whole new dimension to the experience. A 9 year old's response to witnessing a murder would be very different from that of a 32 year old. Nonethless, I have decided not to mention my age anymore.
While I was going through each one of my posts to figure out how many times I've made mention of my age, I happened to read "Mutant", posted on Friday, November 23, 2007. And I realised that I need to make a few very significant changes to my views expressed there. I could have edited that post itself but that wouldn't do justice to the fact that I really believed those things when I wrote them but have changed my mind since. A garish eye opener in the time that has elapsed between November 23,2007 and now.
Following are the revisions in my views:
1. The women are not necessarily stifled and suffocated. If anything, they have more opportunities here than anywhere else to express their "skills" and "talents". On most days its bordering on cabaret performances.
2. 85% love the fact that they are living the life of a page 3 wannabe. I had overlooked the fact that most women everywhere, by nature, would give anything for so much glamour.
3. 95% don't mind that all things formal translate into a saree.
4. They also love that the partying, socialisng and things begining and ending with the letter "A" are neverending. Its the ideal place for cut throat competion while you get also get to look drop dead gorgeous at the same time.
5. The ass licking will never end because the lickers love the ass.
6. They will all crib all the time about how much they hate it. But make no mistake, its all a superbly executed act. They love doing all of the above and if possible, will create more "avenues" for healthy interaction or was it cut throat competion or perhaps outlet for projection or whatever.
7. You must watch and guard yourself at all times from them. Its a gruelling, ruthless race and we all know what the prize is.
8. I'm digging my own grave by saying all of this.

So, as I learnt, I'm a misfit and I'm probably the only one who feels suffocated and stifled. But I was born here and I will probably die here. The sound of the bugle in the wee hours of the morning and the mangled mahindra jeeps and the spirit of the selfless jawan is what will keep me here. That's what brought me here in the 1st place.

I know I sound like an absolute hypocrite.

P.S. The only thing I seemed to have judged correctly back then was the fact that it is indeed, nothing short of a feudal set up. Only difference being, the peasants in this case adore tilling the land round the clock. The fruit, oh well, we all know what it is.

Stuck

I miss my room in that red building. I miss it in winter. I miss all those autumns and winters on weekends where the whole place would be empty and I would run down to catch that last plate of breakfast before I would come back up and have a hot, hot shower before 9 am. I miss walking down that beautiful boulevard with that glorious winter sun in my face with that last hint of fog before it completely disappears at 11 am. I miss meeting her on that crowded bench and just talking. I miss watching and imitating those giggly, mindless women that walk past us. I miss watching movies with her. Walking around aimlessly in Sector 18. Those chicken rolls just outside the gate. Dancing to the horrid bollywood music playing in the background as we would walk down that slope of sector 18. I miss socially embarassing her. I miss those getaways to that pastry shop next door as that lady would waltz in and ask the guy behind the counter for her favourite chocolate MOUSE. I miss laughing our heads off as we try not to choke on our truffle cake.
I miss her. I miss those winters from that red building.

And I also miss you and how we were when I was a part of that red buliding. That one glorious winter and spring. I miss your messages on my phone on those cold mornings under my quilt. I miss that 1st coffe with you down the road past the two red lights. I miss holding you as we thundered through traffic on your machine everyday. I miss how you smelled for the 1st time when I sat behind you and tried to keep from freezing. I miss the endless cups of tea we had at that little run down tea stall. I miss being the 1st and probably last girl to ever dine at Shambu's dhaba. I miss how Shambu always knew that you would ask for an extra "makkhan ki tikiya". I miss feeling extra cold with you everyday when we would cross that particular stretch on Ridge Road. I miss you wearing your windcheater the other way round so I could shove my hands in and feel warm as we rode on your bike.

I miss me in that red building in winters. I miss waking up and washing buckets full of clothes for hours. I miss watching One Tree Hill on my 14" telly. I miss walking down to Gole Market to buy toiletries. I miss walking down there for a haircut. I miss Sunday Mornings where I would run up and down the stairs for breakfast and then hope to get hold of that last bit of hot water for a shower. I miss doing all of that in a tearing rush to make it to church just seconds before 9 am. Oh I miss those services of DBF. I miss their worship. I miss the discipline and order there. I miss haggling with the autowalas over 5 bucks. I miss buying chappals from Janpath. I miss just being alone, with myself as I meander through countless bookshops with a cup of hot chocolate in my hand.

And then I miss that other world. I miss waking up and seeing the entire valley from my corridor. I miss the cackle of those geese. I miss listening to the Lohit River gushing past the bedroom window. I miss all those faces. I miss saying "Tagra Raho" and meaning it. I miss that little tin church. I miss their beautiful soulful Mizo voices as we would sing our hearts out. I miss those services that had no order. I miss that I was one of them. I miss that feeling that overwhelmed me when I finally knew where I was from and that this was home. I miss my people. I miss the convoy we travelled in. I miss the incessant rain. I miss that they loved me and I loved them back so effortlessly.

I miss that both these worlds, of the red building and my roots by that river in the opposite side of the country co-existed. I miss it so much. All the time. Everytime I lie awake in bed.

I have been everywhere and nowhere until these two worlds happened to me. I have had wonderful, glorious times everywhere but they all seem unreal after these two worlds came and swept me away.
I never knew that fond memories could be so painful until now. As my heart quietly moans to be in those two worlds again, it has to learn to accept that it can never be.



And then she, from that bench, said, "Hard to understand how a part of us can just live and carry on,actually thrive on the fact that somewhere,somehow we are stuck!! stuck on to things that make the present just fade away sumtimes...stuck on to things which just come alive when everything else seems so dead...stuck on to things which give us wings when others just pass us by...stuck on.....Painful as it is....i live by the sound of that laughter.....laughter that just echoes in my ears...i live by the memories so alive in my head...sometimes i fear they may spill out into real characters....i live because i know that someday we'll be sitting here again..just to start off from where we had left..not once feeling the absence of time gone by..so i choose to be stuck to this world in my head..i choose to bring it to life...i choose for now to let the tears fall.i choose to live and relive what we share.....i choose to be stuck.....as i sit on that bench..................now alone..

I wonder what you , with your turned around wind cheater and they, from the river, will say.

EVOLUTION

Most people I know are convinced. And also determined, to make me admit that I am rebellious at all times. That hostility and resistance are what primarily characterise me. I don't argue with them or try to make them see the truth about how they're completely wrong about me. Maybe I should. Somehow I don't feel the need to.

Today is one of those days I felt I should do some justice to myself and set the record straight with the world just for the sake of doing it. And, since 'for the sake of it" is the key phrase here, I chose this insignificant blogspace.

I am small. Undoubtedly, unmistakably. That's the 1st thing you would notice about me. I look like a teenager and as a teenager I looked like a child. This, I have been reminded of all through my growing years by my friends, my peers and almost anyone I interacted with. Sometimes it was because they felt affection owing to my miniature size, sometimes out of sheer surprise..like an exclamation, "Oh, you're such a tiny li'l thing". But a lot of times, reminders were just cruel jibes.

Of the many schools I have been in, the one that supposedly educated me in my 3rd grade had to be the most horrifying and significant, both at the same time. It was there that I was bullied to no end. Every moment was replete with absolute submission and humiliation by these 3 girls who were my classmates. The ring leader was a gargantuan daughter of an obscure teacher, where the latter had no dealings whatsoever with the 3rd grade. But the fact that she was a teacher was enough to instill absolute fear and demand complete allegiance to the next of kin. We shall refer to the bully queen as the G- Woman as an ode to her "gargantuan" size. And no, G-Woman wasnt just seemingly massive in relation to me. She was larger than life by any reasonable standard of measurement. She took advantage of my pixie proportions and made me do everything from picking up her left over crumbs to cleaning her muddy shoes with my hankerchief to always making me the thief in every game who everyone else chases to pound. No, it wasn't even remotely amusing then, though it is now. The slightest hint of resistance would promptly earn me a tight slap or have me go home with a completey ripped shirt. As you would have gathered, on more occassions than one, I would go back in tears, narrating my tales of woe to my mother and grandmother, whose house we were living in at that time.

At first, my tears were met with oodles of sympathy and lots of cajoling. After a few days, my mother couldn't take it any longer. She threatened me. This is what I was offered:

A. I was to sort out my fights at school itself. I was to stand up to G-Woman and fight back and take no more nonsense.

B. If I failed at option A, then I was to dry my tears before I returned home and never whine again. If I ever came back home and cried about being pickled by G-Woman and her gangstas, I would be awarded double the inflictions at home by my mother.

Wow, that had to be the most cruel thing a wee girl could possibly hear from her own mother. At that time it crushed me. But in due course, it achieved what my mother had intended. It changed my life. No, I didn't turn into spiderkid or one of the power puff girls the next day who went back and wham bammed G-Woman and the Monsters. I was still tiny and still very vulnerable. I continued gettin bullied and and would wipe my tears before getting back home. But in a while, I taught myself to be smarter and elusive and stay out of G-Woman's sight till I reached a point where I could just refuse to listen to her. Ha! No, I didnt reach a point where I could actually give her a flat big NO. We got posted out and changed schools again before that dramatic, historical moment could grace the 3rd grade. When I reached my new school, I had changed. I was always on my guard. I bullied the bullies before they could bully me. And I soon learnt and saw the wonderful truth that size had nothing to do with power or intimidation. With the passing years, I went from active aggressive to being Robin Hood of the bullied, downtrodden lot. Do you get the picture? I was the crusader who would protect and stand up for the losers in school. The evolution kept getting more and more pronounced till one fine day at 15 I stopped and said, No More. I was tired. But more than that, I didn't need all that anymore. It really was one fine day. Just like that. I was sure that I was secure and fully functional and deep inside I wasnt too fond of company. Maybe that's what got me into trouble in the 1st place. My size and the fact that I was aloof is what increased my vulnerability as that 3rd grader. I realised it after 8 years. But now, I was fine. I had arrived and I was happy and at peace. I went back to my pre 3rd grade self. Loving my own company and restricting my sociability to being an aqcuaintance to most people.

I had evolved into being what I was always meant to be. A recluse. No, I'm not a rebel and neither am I hostile. I just love to be on my own. I don't want the limelight. The so called crusader or rebellious monster in me awakens only when the world tries to tinker with me and tries to tell me what I ought to be doing. I have no complaints if I'm a mere shadow, a silhouette in my immediate universe. All I have ever wanted is to be just left alone. And I have had to change myself completely in those 8 years to just achieve that. Its such a paradox. To be alone, I've had to take on the world. Those small, local worlds which are, to us, the whole of this planet. I have come a long way since then.

Most of you must be quite disappointed at the seeming incoherence of this tale. Perhaps it is. Incoherent, frivolous and just plain bland.

But to me, its my evolution and my identity.

Just to let you know, conditions DO apply here to me being a recluse. Whenever fingered or disturbed, the Loch Ness Monster will most certainly emerge.

This was suppossed to be an entire chapter in my imaginary book which, I would like to believe, will be a reality some day. Damn, I shouldn't have written this blog.

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.