Perfectly Imperfect

It’s been 60 days, or more. And I sit, distracting myself with other work, strategy games, non-strategy games, books, papers, posts, cooking, cleaning, weeding, and such, except getting to what I have been procrastinating. My fear keeps rising, self-doubts mount, guilt flares, and resolution sparks, but it dies the next moment I intend to confront the task.  

It’s too precious. Too important. And needs to be perfect. And there, I shrivel right there, hearing that word. My anxiety to be perfect is so overwhelming, it consumes my energy to work on things. I dread even starting it, even attempting it, as my inner voice locks into the phrase - “If you can’t do it right, don’t do it at all”. And the more I sit, hearing my heart thump and my mind race with fear, the more time I waste, and the more farther I slip away from getting this work done perfectly. Vicious cycle. All I want to do is curl up into a ball and sleep into oblivion. I seem to have imbued my grandfather’s infamous philosophy - If you ignore the problem/task/illness well enough, pretend it doesn’t exist, it will just go away. People go away, but the rest don’t.

This is what the pursuit of perfection does to one. It cripples one from even attempting anything for fear of not living up to the standard of perfection one sets for themselves. I have tried all my life not to succumb to this paralysis, yet, the more I run away from it, the faster it chases me.

This is surely not healthy. I look back and wonder how I even managed to get this far in life. I think most of my turning-point moments were out of desperation, necessity, limited choices, and the absence of an escape route in sight. It’s not heartening to know that my “secret” to being where I am now, is not really the idealism of passion, hard-work etc., but because of fear of not wanting to fail or lose face. Well, there was hard-work involved, but it didn’t stem out of idealistic reasons. Perhaps it is reasonable enough, for life is not entirely made of idealism anyway. But I am not sure I can carry through the rest of life’s journey with this constant anxiety-driven work principle. My passion is rewarding till it meets its matron - perfectionism.

Kind people have offered me words of wisdom and insight. I see the light in their words and thoughts, but still can’t pull out the root of this nagging ailment. But I will have to break out of this. One step at a time. Today is the day. Now is the hour. And I have started...almost started. I will do my best without killing myself. I will not beat myself over not being able to touch the highest peaks of my “best” attempts. For anyway, I never have touched or even graced my version of the “highest” peak - it is infinitely tall and never ending. They say - reach for the stars and you'll at least end up at the tree-top. For people like me, I say - just reach for the tree-top and get there. That's enough.

I begin my task of not being a perfectionist. Of allowing myself imperfection, and shutting my ears to voices real, and imagined. I repeat - Doing “something” is indeed better than doing “nothing”. After all, this blog is a good example - I've continued writing imperfect posts with imperfect language and half-baked, amateurish thoughts, but despite all the imperfection I remind myself of, despite cringing at every previous post, I can't deny that it has been extremely rewarding.

I represent many lessons to be learned - on how not to live life :).

Just Me

I have this perplexing, odd, childish feeling of possessiveness towards those which are obviously not my property (well nothing really is, except for me, however....). For instance, I am possessive about certain places that are dear to me, books that have special meaning to me, authors that I adore, movies that I connect with, sentiments that I strongly believe in, thoughts and ideas that I naively assume to have originated only from me, fields of study I am passionate about, and even some of my “signature” dishes. It’s nice to bond with someone when they share a huge subset of the above, but sometimes, I feel a twang of possessiveness as if someone is encroaching into my identity, and this feels completely immature, irrational, and silly. But this is only with selective people, though. I have dear friends that I am so grateful and thrilled to have around, purely because our interests and wavelengths resonate so harmoniously. But with some others, I am not too excited to squeal, “Me too!”.

Not sure I’m making sense here. But I will plod along and write a little more and see if some clarity appears. I think I have a very personal connection, bond, relationship with thoughts and sentiments that are dear to me. If I love a city, I connect with it so well, it almost becomes who I am. My appreciation for it and interactions with it are deeply personal. But when I come out of this reverie and notice thousands of others who share an identical rapport with the place, my feeling just becomes yet another, and that bothers me. I believe it to be special, and want it to be meaningful, unique, and rising above the rest - and something that only I experience. I understand this sense of possessiveness with objects and people, but with a place, a discipline of study, and an author?! Seems extreme! And the funny thing is, I am not as possessive of people or material objects. Or so I think.

True, a bond or a strong feeling towards something is not devalued in its meaning or significance if it is not unique to me. But it strips something off me by its statement - “it’s not just you”. Shouldn’t it create kinship, camaraderie, knowing I’m not alone? Yes, yes, it mostly does, but for sentiments that are very closely associated with who I am, it doesn’t. Again, it’s only with selective people - I guess those that I don’t expect to have anything in common with me, and those I don’t hold in high regards. It’s jarring to realize - “They are like me?!”, “Then, who am I?!”

But I’ve gotten better at it...at handling this weird form of egoism. It shows up very rarely - these days the sting strikes me when I find that my bonding with my research or particular field of study isn’t unique. And I have to calm myself, before I lose fire and enter into an existential whirlpool.

I don’t think I am being threatened by competition, I am just sorry my relationships aren't totally unique and irreplaceable, and there are a million others just like me. I guess I can understand and empathize with all the cry surrounding intellectual property rights.

My mantra everyday is - You are not unique. You are part of a species. For every thought, idea, sentiment, belief, and feeling, there’s someone in the vast universe who matches yours. Revel in the understanding of this astounding magnitude, for you are just a speck. A speck who will still leave a tiny imprint. Work on creating that imprint. That imprint may not be unique, but it will still be yours.

P.S. - By "imprint", I don't mean genetic imprint :). I am against leaving such imprints to assuage the ego and its sense of immortality, uniqueness, etc.

Reflections: Room

Jack is a five-year-old who has lived all his life with his young mom in Room - a single 11 by 11 feet room that has a bed, a TV, a wardrobe, a table, a lamp, a bath tub, and sink. To him, anything outside Room is Outerspace, filled with unreal objects and people, like the ones he sees through TV. Room is his sole reality. But when his mom tells him there is more to the world than Room, and that they should try to go out, his precocious little brain turns topsy-turvy. He no longer knows what is real and what is not, what is right and what is wrong, what has rules and what are free, who he is and who he is not. He can’t even comprehend that there are plenty of other humans who share his name in Outerspace. This riveting novel documents Jack’s experiences.

I don’t want to share too much about this book, for part of what makes it special and gripping is its ambiguity and novel (albeit disturbing) plot-line. So, if you would like to read the book (and I highly recommend it), it’s wise to skip the rest of the post, for I may inadvertently spill a few spoilers.

The whole book is narrated by Jack. Emma Donoghue perfectly takes the voice of a confused and innocent five-year-old, who is markedly different from kids his age. Jack is surely developmentally challenged in some ways, and advanced in some other aspects due to the circumstances of his bizarre upbringing. Donoghue beautifully incorporates his unique personality into the narration. I never believed I would read and appreciate an entire novel narrated by a child who is still learning his rules of grammar; even the grammatical errors have been researched to match a five-year-old’s linguistic development (and of course, Jack’s special case). There is so much attention to detail, yet the sentences flow naturally, totally masking the careful effort and research.

You might wonder how a five-year-old’s stilted narration would have captured the dense themes on identity, and existential crisis. Well, that’s the reason why this book is brilliant! I don’t know how, but through Jack’s endearingly simple and honest questions and thoughts, Donoghue has covered a whole gamut of interesting phenomena that isolation causes. Everything about the book is simple, but very deep. I am also amazed that through a few vague, yet vivid descriptions of Jack’s, all the other characters are given their distinct personalities. It’s a feat! Jack’s psyche is completely and realistically fleshed out.

The book is all about how much we take our minds for granted. It’s a reminder that the minds of children are especially sensitive, malleable, and impressionable that even the most subtlest of things alter their ways of thinking. Even our identity as human beings is intrinsically tied to the ways in which our mind shapes, learns, and grows. Although most of our instincts are ingrained, they fizzle out, or are grossly misplaced if they are not cultivated through structured rules that the mind learns and revises through every interaction in the world. Any hitch to such learning and natural interaction, and it’s nearly impossible to re-learn the fundamentals of life and existence. Nearly impossible, not entirely. The mind is so fascinatingly flexible, elastic, and adaptable, that the process by which it reformulates itself to survive and make sense of the world is simply incredible.

Metaphorically, many of us live inside our own version of Room. We each suffer from different forms of the-frog-in-the-well syndrome. Our reality is tightly constrained by what we believed in at one point in life, and what we choose to selectively believe in. It’s not healthy for us to limit our thinking and understanding of the world to a very small fraction of one side of reality.

The book is a moving and fascinating read. It’s a very interesting psychological study. I am so impressed that the book packs so much emotion and thought through a child’s voice. It's one of my most unique and impressive reads.

Reflections: Anthill

Dr. Edward Wilson is a professor of Entomology at Harvard University, and the co-author of the Pulitzer prize winning book, The Ants. Dr. Wilson is regarded as one of the foremost authorities on everything related to Ants. I have been wanting to read his award winning book for a long long time. My interest in the intelligent and altruistic little insects resurfaced while watching an episode of the award winning documentary, Life, that featured the intelligent ways in which ants built their colonies. That was when I also heard that Dr. Wilson had recently published a book of fiction that incorporates the details of ant colonies, and emphasizes the importance of conserving Nature and its varied little seemingly insignificant creatures to maintain the delicate ecosystem and biosphere. So there I was, checking out this book.

You may wonder why I chose to dedicate a whole paragraph for the prologue. Well, the prologue says it all. The book is by an accomplished academician and expert naturalist. In an interview with NPR, Dr. Wilson stated that he wanted to write a book of fiction in order to spread awareness on the importance and magnificence of every single minuscule creature on this planet, and the ways in which they affect us, if their habitats are senselessly destroyed. He hoped more people - adults and kids would pick a novel that has facts diluted in a story, than read his papers or other non-fiction books. A noble intention, for sure. But an academic can only “dilute” so much :). I really liked the book, and was fascinated by the facts, but I don’t think it would appeal to the “lay” reader who wants more story. It is only for (crazy) people like me, who are interested about Ants and the ecosystem. It is unfortunately not an easy read for young adults, as Dr. Wilson hoped.

This is the synopsis - Raff is a young boy who grows up being highly curious and fascinated by insects, animals, and Nature. Lucky for him, he lives in a small town in Alabama that adjoins dense forests that abound with several different species of reptiles, birds, and insects. He spends most of his time in the Nokobee tract, home to a unique species of Ants that builds remarkably huge and complex colonies. When it’s time to head to college, Raff realizes that the Nokobee tract is under a threat to be destroyed. He vows to save it, and dedicates his life’s mission to preserve it.

Dr. Wilson’s prose is sharp and intelligent. He takes his time to provide a background and story to all his characters. The book addresses the vociferous debate between the Naturalists and the religiously conservative groups, on whether the environment, the birds and the animals are meant to be conserved, or whether God intended us humans to use them to suit our needs till He arrived on Judgement Day.

Although the story is predictable, the whole section on Ants was the highlight for me. Dr. Wilson shows how similar Ant colonies are to human civilization - there are the same territorial wars, similar defenses, and the familiar pressure to survive and procreate. However, we differ on one crucial aspect - ants are far more altruistic than human societies have ever been and will probably ever be! He shows us the glorious strategies of Natural selection.

It was also interesting and informative to learn about the various laws and morally dubious loopholes that lawyers and agencies use to fight over a piece of land.

In all, it was an interesting read that has only increased my awe and interest in Ants. I hope to read his award winning book soon. 

Deception

I have far too many thoughts jostling inside my head, my fingers itch to type out plenty of words, but I don't have enough time to give vent to those thoughts and words. Well, I shouldn't be complaining. Anyway, I couldn't contain myself from sharing this (and I will try to keep it as brief as possible). 

I happened to watch a new program that premiered on Discovery channel last night, called Deception. And I was bursting with excitement and mini "revelations" all through the show. Those of you who are fans of the movie, Inception, should definitely try to watch this show (it airs at 10:00 PM on Wednesdays). It is mentally exhilarating!

Ok, so what is so fascinating about this show that I am jumping about like an energizer bunny? The show is hosted by the mentalist and illusionist, Keith Barry, who claims he can "hack" into people's minds, "read" their thoughts, and implant thoughts! No, no, he is not someone like David Copperfield, or other such illusionist/magicians. There is no "magic" to his approach, merely science - the science of the human mind! In his first show, he visits a car dealership, and demonstrates how salesmen persuade people into buying cars, how they read body language and other behavioral cues to understand the customer and use the knowledge against them, etc. In parallel, he shows how he can read the salesmen's "thoughts", how he can "implant" numbers, ideas, colors, brands, and words into their subconscious and make them think of the resultant thoughts as their own, etc. 

Again, why does this excite me?! Because, Keith Barry offers logical, scientific reasons behind his mind-reading abilities! I am thrilled because, I can finally, FINALLY, come close to understanding so called psychics and religious men who predict our thoughts, who can guess numbers, dates, and names from our past, who can even retell our past, predict our future etc! It was flabbergasting to me that these men could mention things from our past even without us giving them any clues, but now I realize (as I have intuitively felt), we do give plenty of clues! In terms of body language, subtle manner of speech, and our physiological responses (subtle muscle movement, eye movements, heart-rate, sometimes lines that appear on our palm etc.). Besides, plenty of scholarly articles have demonstrated how irrational the human mind really is! For example, we suffer from confirmation bias - we set out to collect evidences to prove what we believe in, comfortably neglecting evidences that threaten to disprove our belief. Slight changes in the environment influence our thoughts, seemingly casual words thrown out by clever salesmen and psychics settle into our subconscious, and even without us realizing it, it gives rise to thoughts and ideas that corroborate with the "predictions", and we believe them to have solely originated from us, out of our free-will. But not so! Not all the time, at least. Again, those who have watched Inception will hopefully see where I am going with all this. 

Anyway, there's more to come from the shows, and I can't wait to watch them all! I am sure to chime in when one of these shows sparks another wave of excitement in me!

Reflections: In The Convent of Little Flowers

Indu Sundaresan’s book of short-stories is markedly different from her other books. She shows a whole new side to her ability and talent as a writer. Through nine short stories surrounding India and its varied forms of customs and traditions, she makes the reader confront some of the most difficult and controversial topics; topics we prefer to brush under the rug, fervently hoping they will dwindle with the following generations that promise to nurture progressive attitudes. In the author’s words, “they all deal with that intense moment in which people confront disturbing events in their lives...”

True to her style, Indu Sundaresan relates these stories with sensitivity, grace, and insight. But her writing style in this book took me by surprise for it was quite different from her other books (the ones on historical fiction). Her prose is clear and sharp, and has a quiet, mystical element to it. All her stories are crafted with an element of impending tragedy, and her writing style works really well with the themes.

Regarding the stories themselves, she discusses the pangs of adoption, the bottomless pit of poverty and struggle for survival, the rigidity and horror of ancient practices such as Sati, caste-system, and dowry, the clash of western ideals with the norm of tradition, the almost imperceptible (but very much existent) notions on the superiority of males, and the complex relationships and expectations between Indian parents and their children. The stories come at you strong, and almost cut your soul. Each one leaves you with an uneasy recollection of a similar story and of real-life characters. Your mind sighs and gasps, wondering and retreating in denial at the incredulity of it all. One story in particular is quite hard to believe and digest - it seemed one-dimensional and a little stretched. But the rest of them, sadly, are not as hard to believe.

The characters are beautifully and meticulously defined. Every character in each story has a personality of their own. The stories yet again demonstrate that people’s intentions are often good, but the numerous constraints and complexities put forth by rituals and customs, shackle their minds from discerning right from wrong. People are lost in their own bubble of self-imposed rules on right and wrong that their judgments are clouded, and their attitudes seem primitive, even barbaric sometimes. But despite so many rules and customs (which are practised in the name of maintaining a morally smooth-functioning society), basic morality and humanity seem to be lacking in many aspects of our social functioning. An irony indeed.

Digested Thoughts: I quite liked the book. I was pleasantly surprised by the writing and characterization. Hope the author explores her talents with more such books!

All Things Bright and Beautiful

IndiBlogger is currently holding a writing contest, open to all members of the Indian Blogging Community. The topic is - What does real beauty mean to you?

I glanced through a few submitted posts, and was blown away by the immense talent and the wonderful writers. All these bloggers have done a great job at defining what beauty is, and I am humbled by their posts. I really hope all these people believe in their words and hold true to them always :). In this obsessed era of physical perfection, such reflections are indeed necessary from time to time.  I have often thought about what beauty is, and have even rambled on my thoughts now and then, but I have nothing spectacularly different or insightful to add to the burgeoning views on beauty that IndiBlogger has garnered. However, I was still tempted to write about it - more as an exercise in writing and expressing my thoughts on a topic that always feels incomplete and hard to verbalize. But I don’t plan on submitting the post for fear of marring the beauty of my imperfect expression with the pressure of competition :)

Nature has wired our basic instinct to notice and appreciate that which is helpful to our survival and to the proliferation of our genes. We love flowers because flowers help bees, bees help flowers, and the flowers, the delicate, helpless looking wonders help the ecosystem, and in turn, us. This delicate, yet robust and marvelous chain of support that sustains the planet is beautiful. The unfailing rhythm of Nature that masterfully orchestrates so many interconnected cycles of energy transfer is beautiful. Everything about Nature and its wired instincts in us follow symmetry as the benchmark of beauty. The symmetry of seasons, of night and day, of shapes and sizes, of colors and textures, of movements and sounds, even the fury of disasters - is beautiful. The lesson that Nature teaches, that of Karma, of the unforgivably generous effect of every single minuscule activity - is a beautiful lesson to ingrain. Nature - its specimens, its rhythms, its harmony, its symmetry, its evolution, and its endurance - embodies real beauty. Nature is as is - truthful, quiet, elegant, simple, unadorned, and yet gorgeous.

But this definition is an ethereal one, one that cannot be used in every day practical scenarios, when one tries to understand beauty to live life contently and meaningfully. We often grapple with the question - what makes a person beautiful? When I was very young - as a kid of six or seven, I believed that anyone with fair, creamy skin was beautiful. Cliched, yes. But it was a revelation to me, then. It was my first ever comprehension of the term “beautiful”. Going by the remarks of family, friends, and teachers, I narrowed it down to skin color (or lack of one). And realizing the absence of that precious attribute in me, I spent the following few years retreating into shadows of self-doubt and vanity as I became keenly aware of the unspoken attitudes of those around me. I started hearing this phrase far too often - “This color will not suit you”. So I found myself shrinking into subdued colors, slinking behind vibrant girls who could wear bold colors. But surprisingly, I accepted myself more easily and readily back then - the beauty of being a child. Thanks to my parents for nurturing my interests, and teaching me the value of inner-beauty. Good manners, grace, piety, and purity, my mom said. Intelligence, hard work, undying spirit, and altruism, my dad said. And I clung onto these values, which were mere words to me, hoping I will one day come to understand them and their beauty better.

Today, I do wholeheartedly realize the value of those words. A person is most beautiful for the humility, kindness, empathy, compassion, and generosity they exude - both within themselves, and outside themselves, showering others in their brilliant radiance. They are even more beautiful human beings if their minds are sharp, intelligent, curious, and most importantly, open. The human body can never be perfect in terms of the shallow definition of physical symmetry and flawless skin. But one might still keep aspiring for these in little ways, for somewhere buried in our subconscious, Nature’s instinct lingers, and it flares up now and then. Such mild feelings are harmless, I say, even inevitable really. The need to present oneself as a clean, sheen, and fit individual will always reside. But it is not a quest for beauty, it is an expression of the self to indulge in fleeting “feel-good” moments, when the task of beautifying the soul gets too difficult and abstract at times. Those who have conquered the difficult task of beautifying their inner-self are magnificently beautiful people for sure. Such beautiful individuals learn to accept and love themselves and those around them, for who they are.

Finally, when it comes to my perception of beauty in inanimate objects, I have two metrics - one is color, and the other is emotion. I love colors, and cannot live without them. I’m mesmerized by everything that reflects a bright or pastel glow. I’m glad I’m born a female, for I can lavish myself in so many colors without being scorned or judged. Why color is associated with gender, I don't know. But I live and breathe in colors. They are my reprieve in the daily routine of stress and work. They define beauty in a very materialistic, at the same time, ethereal sense.

Finally, anything that evokes a pleasant feeling, emotion, thought or memory, is beautiful to me. I love Art for the beauty of its varied expressions. And some objects, no matter how ragged and decrepit they turn with age, are souvenirs of memories and feelings we want to hold on forever. Their beauty increases with the number of experiences they share with us in life. These objects become keepers of the treasures of our life experiences. But sentimentalizing on material aspects should be kept on check. It’s beautiful if the mind develops sufficient detachment to merely outwardly recognize the beauty of these objects without getting sentimentally attached to them.

It’s beautiful to see how we coexist with Nature and with each other; that despite the squabbles, the violence, the intolerance, the competition, the greed for power, control, and the immense amounts of ignorance, we connect over the need for love and survival.

Reflections: East, West

The book is a collection of short stories - stories from the East, some from the West, and finally a few that touch upon the amalgamation of East and West. Rushdie, in his characteristic style, tries to bring out the core elements that define the Eastern and the Western sides of the world, and in what ways the two sides come together, resulting in some successful communions and some disastrous ones.

Why this sudden interest in books by Salman Rushdie, you may ask. I have made up my mind to read the Booker of Bookers, his masterpiece, Midnight’s Children. I need to find out for myself why the book is so hailed. But I am extremely intimidated to start it. So, I am “easing” myself into his style of writing by first picking all the “low hanging fruits”, so to speak. I was a little disappointed with The Enchantress of Florence, although his writing was wonderful. But I am sorry to say that this book disappointed me in both the content, and the writing. Although, a short book, I took more than a week to read it, because my attention struggled to cope with the words and the story. However, I did like two stories - the first and the last, especially the last one. The last story deals with the fusion of East and West. Rushdie tells the story of immigrants torn between their homeland and their adopted home. His characters are sharp and distinct, and his words are sparse, yet strong.

His assertion is that while the East teems with mysticism, spiritualism and organic, rustic culture, the West primarily struggles to get a grounding on all the former elements in order to anchor the abundance of freedom and liberty they are lavished with. Both sides long for the attributes of the other side - well, the grass is always greener on the other side. Reaching a middle ground is easier said than done - people usually resort to extremes, or unfortunately end up mixing those aspects that are not meant to be “fused”. The dilemma regarding what to adopt, and what not to is as prevalent in the West, as it is in the East.

While the themes are interesting, barring a few stories, the majority of the stories were vague and a little too dense for my liking. 

If the glass is full...

Don’t make someone a priority in your life, if you are just an option in their life.

It took me years to come to terms and accept this piece of advice. But my dearest and closest, still struggle with it. I am frustrated with all the hours of talking, cajoling, and more stern-talking. I want to shake them and scream into their ears, in the hope that they will let go. But I can’t. But I can scream into one other space. This space - which is like the highest peak of the highest mountain. When I cry and scream, I have the feeling of venting to the whole world, yet I know there is no one but me in this vacant and still space. I can hear my words and screams echo down the silent spaces, but I know an ear or two will eventually pick up the ripples of sound, and I’m grateful for the mock-belief of shouting into the ears of the Universe.

Me and my dear ones have always been the “unpopular” ones, among family and friends. We try to fly under the radar, blend into the surrounding, and never make a splash. I, for one, am happy being so. That’s who I am. But trouble is, it isn’t pleasant to be ignored all the time - or most of the time. Especially when one wants to, nay craves to, share their love, affection, and hospitality with someone who has far too many adoring friends and family, that they are forced to pick and choose. When they choose, it is not us, surely not the unpopular, low-profile ones.

Trust me, I feel your angst. But you need to understand this, accept this as the way of life, and let go. It is not a reflection of your self-worth, it is not a reflection of their regard for you, nor is it a matter of hue and cry that you need to so fiercely compete over. We don’t know how to demand the spotlight on us, and it is not worth the clumsy effort of trying to. You can even bring down the moon, and I can stand by your side and help you collect all the stars, but it is still not enough - for they have already made their choice! Why such a choice, you ask, over and over again. Because their plate is too full, I keep saying. 

And the more harder you try to capture it, the faster the sand slips out of your closed and strained fist, right? Does that image help?

A person once told me, when you try too hard to share your love and affection with someone who is not keen on receiving it, you descend to the state of a beggar - down on your knees begging someone to receive all the things you can offer. When ideally, the person who gives should only give to those who are willing to receive. Or even more ideally, we should give without even expecting someone to receive it, let alone reciprocate it. Expectation is the evil which ruins the value and beauty of giving. If the latter is too philosophical, stick to the former practical saying. Besides, it is not fair to demand or force your offer on anyone.

There are far too many people in the world who are in dire need of the love you can so generously offer. Channelize it their way, instead of forcing your way through the current channel, which is fortunately, already brimming and bursting! If the glass is already full, find another one to pour your love into. 

Make peace, please. Spare us the agony, the unwanted negative energy. This is not a competition. Even if it were, it is not worth winning.

Political Correctness

I'm not sure if this is a cultural phenomenon, or something related to individual traits. Many don't realize there is a difference between being frank, and being brutally frank. One can be frank and honest, yet convey their thoughts in a refined, politically correct manner that targets the problem to be solved to the mutual satisfaction of both parties involved. However, I come across many Indians (I may be wrong) who literally speak their mind out and hurt people, or put their foot in their mouth with a politically rude/incorrect remark, when they attempt being "frank". Their remark takes the attention away from the core problem. In a professional setting, it is embarrassing when you see people do this time and again, albeit in a harmless fashion. It is even more bristling when some others inquire if this trait is cultural. Although my first reaction was to argue that this was just yet another personality trait, further thought has made me wonder if the roots are indeed cultural.

Before people start pouncing and tearing at me, let me clarify. I am not stereotyping. My thoughts are probably shaped from the experiences I have had while growing up in my city, neighborhood, and family. I welcome your thoughts to broaden my perspective. 

In my family and the place I grew in, people usually refrained from direct confrontation. Maamis and uncles are astute in the sly game of subtle slights, and indirect comments and allusions. The receiving party either broods in the hurt, buries and nurses the grudge, retaliates in an equally cheeky manner, or complains and gossips to the so-called sympathetic "friends".  A disagreement  is never resolved in a direct, honest fashion. Due to the game of indirect and behind-the-back gossips and repartee, even a small and inconsequential disagreement builds up and blows out of proportion after years of accumulated grudges. When people eventually confront - the scene is pretty nasty. People will be frank - but crassly so. This is the model of "frankness" we build in our head.

Culturally, we are taught to not be rude, or speak up to "elders". However politely we address concerns to "elders" or even neighbors, the fact that we open up a problem so directly and expect a solution, is taken as an affront. The norm is to let the problems fester till it cannot be tolerated anymore. Basically, we are brought up to be coy and "nice" (often by faking it), and have little training in being honest and direct.

Here comes the problem. When we are put in an environment where people are painstakingly politically correct AND direct, we poor people are lost. We realize the need to be direct, but we have no training, and no clue on how to present and word our direct remarks in a polite, constructive manner. Unfortunately, to us, direct means rude and blatant. And that's how we spit out our words, and claim on being "frank".

I admit that even I have been tongue-tied in the past. I have taken hours to compose a tough email. I would marvel and collect professionally worded emails that demanded improvements, out-rightly rejected, or addressed an important concern with the party's work, with such polite and honest flair. I tried to fit it all into a formula so that I could assimilate it, and emulate it (for instance, talk of the positive aspects, the potentially positive aspects, then mention the unpleasant in a direct but polite manner). But diplomacy cannot be squeezed into a formula. It is a gradual cultivation of your thought process, speech, and mannerism. 

Smooth-talkers are blessed indeed. And I realize there are Indians who are savvy and glib speakers, as there are Americans who are rude and blunt. But, I'm not sure if my experience with the role played by culture has any influence on most people I see straining their professional relationships. If so, I'm wondering if we need to hold a special orientation on diplomacy and political correctness.

Or, as many are bound to say, let's not bother about the fluff, and keep calling a spade, a spade, and not care a hoot about the relationships soured and severed.

Unheard Melodies

The past weekend, we watched the movie The Bridges of Madison County. For the very first time.

Yeah, I do have the distinct feeling of having spent the majority of my life under a rock. And as expected, the husband censured and lamented over Francesca’s “shocking” promiscuity and resignedly resorted to playing Angry Birds. I also surprised him by not entering into my usual "righteous" discussions on morality. Instead, I was weeping.

I wept for many reasons, but none of them has anything to do with the film resembling my life in any way. A cautious disclaimer ;). For seeing my tears, the husband was rattled and was rethinking his decision to leave me all by myself during his upcoming official trip. So, yeah, I cry because the world’s sorrow is my collective sorrow and all that.

I wept in appreciation of Meryl Streep’s performance - tears of awe and respect. Next, I wept that I was grown up enough to understand infidelity; to not judge or scorn it. I shocked myself by even empathizing. Anna Karenina did that to me. And now, this movie. Finally, I wept because the notion of romantic love is indeed fickle. The only sure way of preserving the fire of passion is to leave it stranded, and unattainable. Just the memory of not being able to attain it, elevates the romanticism and sustains the longing. As Keats said, “Heard Melodies Are Sweet, but Those Unheard Are Sweeter”.

As much as I long for peace and harmony, I see that our lives are indeed more interesting and fully lived when the horizon is always colored by some challenge, or smudged with some imminent uncertainty. Life in general, becomes more worth living because we then cling to a “purpose”- an idealistic one. We try to savor the best of what the present offers, focus on bigger elements, realize with clarity the most fundamental things that truly matter, and those million and one extraneous things which were previously picked on, but that don’t count in the harsh light of impermanence.

That said, I still strive for Happily-Ever-Afters. The more the challenge, the more tenuous the certainty, the more the idealism.

Reflections: Bombay Time

I’m sure someone has noticed my recent trend in books. While previously I was guarded and lukewarm towards books written by authors of Indian origin, these days, I’m making up for my indifference by diligently scanning the library for the very same authors. I have to say that I am pleasantly surprised, both with myself and with the authors. Looking back at the books I have enjoyed and admired in the last few months, I’m thrilled to find that most were written by authors of Indian origin. I have been stirred and awed by the stellar writing prowess of Manil Suri, Abraham Verghese, Anuradha Roy, Salman Rushdie, and Indu Sundaresan. I’m proud of them, and of their beautiful writing that inspires and teaches. Therefore, I find myself in a quest to seek out books and authors that I have ignored for so long; to explore a genre I previously shunned out of the fierce protectiveness I felt towards my own country, home, and people, of the agony of reading about them in a less-flattering light, and of the fear of unearthing uncomfortable memories.

I’ve heard plenty of glowing praises for Thrity Umrigar, so I picked this book of hers. Let me cut to the chase before I embark on my rambling and state that Umrigar is yet another author I would go hunting for in the book racks.

This novel follows a different style of story-telling. It tells the stories of the different occupants of Wadia Baug, an apartment complex in Bombay, housing a well-knit Parsi community. In the throes of their late middle-age, the members of the community nostalgically look back at their lives and wonder at the early dreams, hopes and happiness their lives held, and the detours and disappoints that fate threw their way to break their wings of hope. Despite the uneven bittersweet journey they traveled, they were grateful for one robust pillar of support - the friendship of the Wadia Baug community. The novel is a seemingly simple story of the importance of community and companionship. But the stories are heavily layered with so many aspects of life, especially of life in Bombay.

This is a character-driven book, as some people would classify. The book teems with interesting characters, reminiscent of people we know, of people we probably are turning into, and of people we have struggled to understand. What I respect and marvel at is Umrigar’s honest and insightful psychological appraisal of these people. Despite the characters’ numerous flaws, she shows us the true person they are at heart. She articulates my hypothesis that people are inherently good, and even, simple. Yet, they become complicated, and sometimes reprehensible, because of the disappointments, tragedies, and painful experiences they are forced to go through. They continue to live life as their vulnerabilities, insecurities, guilt, regrets, and wounds threaten to never heal, and fester just under the surface.

For instance, we admonish and hate the gossipy, old woman in the neighborhood, but have probably never taken a moment to consider how her life had been before she became so; why she seems to unfailingly provide food and help when you need it; and why your parents implicitly trust her with their house keys, despite her petty talk and inquisitiveness. Or why the “apartment board” never fires the inefficient, ill-tempered, weak, watchman. Every person has a story, a reason for why there are they way they are. With a little empathy, and a little consideration, we look into the unsoiled person within them. Although we will continue to resent their flaws, their stunted maturity, their cloistered thinking, their intrusion and comments on your life, we need them just as much to establish a community and rely on their basic (sometimes, well hidden), harmless, good nature. We realize, grudgingly at that, that our quintessential Indian neighborhood does indeed do more good than the secluded islands of the western residential communities.

Digested Thoughts: Although at times I felt there were a tad too many characters and stories to keep track of, Umrigar beautifully unwraps the stories of six different Parsi families, and their connection to the Wadia Baug apartment complex. The stories cannot be more real, and honest, and they each involve the role played by Bombay - its boisterous, harsh, unforgiving part. They also shed light on subtle Indian customs, traditions, and its social and political dynamics that complicate life needlessly. As much as Umrigar emphasizes the benefits of being part of a community, she also brilliantly and subtly shows the flip-side. If we wrap ourselves too very tightly and comfortably in the safe cocoon of our little ethnic community, we remain ignorant, indifferent and callous towards the rest of the world operating around us. Secluding oneself within a community is just as bad as being intolerant of other communities. We all need to realize that we are part of something bigger than just our tiny community. It is important to connect with all of humanity, as being part of one big society. This is especially true of India, where there are a million different sectarian groups, that we tend to see ourselves as total strangers if we so much as move to a different religious neighborhood within the very same city. This feeling of being an alien if we step two streets away from our community, is the cause for communal tension and violence.

Anyway, to wrap up, I enjoyed reading this book, especially the character analysis, and will definitely recommend it. Umrigar's writing is simple, but evocative and insightful.

 

Reflections: An Atlas of Impossible Longing

Seeking solitude and a niche for himself, Amulya moves to the idyllic village of Songarh, and sets up a factory that manufactures authentic herbal potions from the unique plants of the region. As much as Amulya appreciates Songarh, his family, especially his wife, dearly misses the bustling life of Calcutta. Her loneliness is an implacable longing. The longing starts there. Each person has his or her own deep longing, and grapples to fill the void caused by it. Due to the stringent rules imposed by a complicated social structure, the characters realize that their longing is almost impossible to be quenched. So, they move on and live through life, trying to swim against the currents, until they resign themselves to the path charted by destiny. Anuradha Roy has crafted a moving story and real-to-life characters that leave a strong impression on the reader.

My thoughts on the book are sparse, but the feelings it has evoked, and the images it has burned in my mind, are far too many. The story takes us through three generations, spanning from the 1920s to the 1950s of India. Roy delicately weaves the political and social shifts in this time period into the story. It is subtly and expertly done to vividly show the marked changes these bring about in the lives of the characters. I loved the tight-knit integration. And the sheer breadth of social and political issues she seamlessly covers, is remarkable. She covers caste system, the pitiable treatment of widows, the hindu-muslim rivalry, the cut-throat nature of survival in Calcutta, the impenetrable distance between the English and the locals, the colonial hangover, infidelity, and the dynamics of an orthodox family. It might seem like she went through all the essential check-list items on India, but her execution is impeccable and everything neatly and naturally falls into the story. Nothing is over-done. Her prose has an under-stated elegance in conveying these heavy themes. Through her precise and sensitive descriptions, she captures the heart of India, and Indian families.

Her writing is beautiful - it has a quiet flair to it. Her words are used sparingly, but aptly, to draw her characters and emanate their thoughts and feelings from the pages. Her characterization is brilliant. Although it’s been two days since I finished the book, I still retain crystal clear images of the characters and the settings. And I’m sure I’ll carry these quaint images with me for a long time to come, even if my memory of the story fades.

Digested Thoughts: I loved the book from beginning to end. There was never a moment when I lost interest, and easily continued reading for hours together in the wee hours. The book touched a chord in me. The main characters were personable, and the writing was sublime. I thought long and hard about what rating to give this book, for I realize I’m a bit of a tough-cookie when it comes to giving the highest rating. But I guess the real test of a good book is in its capacity to touch you, and live with you in your thoughts, even after the last pages. When such a book sits on my shelf, I would often pull it open to randomly read a few passages and revel in the writing and setting. For these simple reasons alone, I think this book merits the highest rating I can bestow. 

Reflections: The Thing Around Your Neck

I started reading Adichie’s Purple Hibiscus a couple of years back, but given my mental state then, I couldn’t stand the distressing nature of the story and abandoned it half-way. But I did like Adichie’s writing that I sought another book of hers - something that didn’t have to do with wars, and I was left with this book of short-stories. I quite liked the book, but back then, I hadn’t yet stumbled into the phase of recording my thoughts on every book I read, so I just shelved my thoughts. However, I was reminded of the book when recently, I came across this TED video of Adichie’s talk.

Just a short while ago, I had written about my curiosity to know about the person behind the pen/words. Quite surprisingly, Adichie’s voice and speech were exactly as I had imagined. I was impressed by her confidence and measured words, which made clear she was of substance. Her speech was on the dangers of stereotyping and narrowing one’s perspectives because of the kinds of stories the media (books, television, movies, Internet) chooses to concentrate and perpetuate. All through her talk, I was reminded of the many different insightful stories she had written in this book. So, although this post is about two years late, better late then never, I told myself.

People in developed countries have certain common images and impressions about developing countries - poverty, unrest, illiteracy, disease, violence, and corruption. They are not wrong. It is indeed true that cows languish on Indian roads, and every street corner is likely to have a crude little temple teeming with superstitious people. But to latch onto just these, and assume that the country is made of cows and superstitions, is gross ignorance. To eradicate people’s stereotypes, their ignorance, misunderstanding and oversimplification of Africa, Adichie presents twelve different stories of Nigerians.

Through a host of well-defined and different characters, Adichie shows that there are Nigerians who are well-educated, well-read and refined, who own good cars, travel abroad, are distinguished authors, journalists, university professors, and doctors. She also writes about those who are riddled with poverty and struggle to make a living as shunned immigrants in the US; those who stray from education due to the ravaging influence of war, violence and communal disputes; those beguiled women who find themselves as dependent wives to their partly Americanized, over-bearing, chauvinistic husbands; those ambitious immigrants who succumb to the illusion of milk and honey; those young girls who grow to hate their own brothers because of the excessive favoritism they receive; those well-meaning elders who cloister themselves with misguided notions of culture, and end up oppressing and subjugating women.

Every story is honest, and speaks volumes. The stories on immigration, the conflicts between cultures, the dilemma of  going back home, the violence, communal riots, and deep-seated belief in complex values, go across borders and ring true to anyone from a developing country. I could relate to almost every story, but my most favorite was The American Embassy. It says a lot when you get moved to tears by a single short-story. I thought it captured Africa (or rather Nigeria), and the relationship between the US and developing nations, in a nutshell.

Although some stories might seem a little abrupt and incomplete, what impressed me most was the simplicity of Adichie’s words, and the vivid, and perfect characterization that the stories achieve despite the parsimony of words. I can never do that, and I commend authors who can powerfully capture the insights, and the million and one hues of the characters and the story through simple, honest words.

Digested Thoughts: I enjoyed reading this book of short-stories. The stories are simple, honest, and powerful. They truthfully speak the unheard stories of Nigerians. Adichie’s simple and solemn writing does not try to dim any rough edge. 

Reflections: Shadow Princess

To the uninitiated, Shadow Princess, is the third book in a series that fictionalizes some of the powerful, albeit, hidden personalities of the Mughal dynasty. The first two books - The Twentieth Wife, and The Feast of Roses, narrate the colorful life of one of the most influential and impressive women of the Mughal Empire - Jahangir’s twentieth, and most beloved wife - Nur Jahan (or Mehrunissa). In this third book, Shah-Jahan (Jahangir’s rebellious son) is the sovereign ruler of the Mughal lands, who is shattered at losing his dear wife, Mumtaz Mahal (Arjumand). He struggles to cope with his heartbreak, and diverts his sorrow to the construction of the most spectacular tomb for her - the Luminous Tomb (or the Taj Mahal). At his time of distress, he banks on his strong and clever daughter, Jahanara, an uncanny reminder of his wife. Shah Jahan’s dependence on Jahanara is so immense, that the pristine and loving bond between father and daughter gets besmirched due to treacherous rumors. Yet, the bond never wanes, and Jahanara resolutely stays by her father’s side, till his demise. Although Jahanara has receded into the shadows of history texts, this book pulls her out and spills out her story.

Although I read the first two books last year, I had no curiosity or interest in reading the third (and I think, final) book of the series. The deceit and greed of the Mughal time period tired me. I knew what to expect from this book - the repeat of events. Greedy Aurangazeb snatches the throne, imprisons his ill father and kills his brothers. History surely repeated in the Mughal dynasty. However, what re-piqued my interest was the last book I read - The Enchantress of Florence. Salman Rushdie’s descriptions of the Mughal era made me thirsty for more, and who else but Indu Sundaresan can deliver astounding descriptions of Mughal life.

And so, I grabbed this book. The writing quenched my thirst suitably - more than adequately. Almost beyond the point of satiation. I think Indu Sundaresan has mastered the art of writing about the Mughal era - her words are poetic, romantic, and extremely elegant and beautiful. Her florid writing seems to make any scene, even the most mundane, scintillating and interesting. This is partly due to the artistic and poetic touch she gives to every detail - be it a landscape, a person, a building, a tiny artifact. Particularly, her prose shines with the meticulous details she carefully and artfully uses to describe the Taj Mahal, and its construction. I am a person who usually never pays attention to details (well almost, never). I gather the big picture and then move on. But writers like her, kindle the romantic poet in the reader. The words make us skew our rigid (boring) perspectives just a little; to slant our eyes to see the cast of colors and shadows thrown by a plain oil-wicker lamp, or to squint at the afternoon sun lighting up a garden in a million different shades.

So yes, having dedicated a whole effusive paragraph to the writing, let me get to my quibbles. I hate that I’m starting to sound like a pompous, pretentious, know-it-all book critic, but I have to say that while the writing was impressive, it didn’t capture the characters or the story well. Jahanara was described almost identical to how Mehrunissa was. I find no difference between the characterizations of the two women - both were smart, strong-willed, beautiful, influential, and bold enough to go against tradition and create scandals. If at all someone clipped a section from one of the books and asked me to identify the woman being described, I would be at a loss. Almost all the characters had the same “voice” of the narrator - all their dialogues were erudite and poetic, and it was unrealistic to me. There was no distinct characterization, except probably for Aurangazeb; even Shah Jahan started resembling Jahangir.  This might partly be due to the domination of third-person narration in the book. This may have still not been problematic had the narration not focused excessively on the romantic details. The story itself was like a small fruit, sitting inside layers and layers of flowery, extravagant husk. For instance, the description of Jahanara walking down a corridor in the palace easily ran up to (and sometimes more) than two whole pages, while Aurangazeb’s final coup and displacement of Shah Jahan and his brothers, also comes to around two pages. Since there was so much narration and little dialogue or interactions in comparison, parts of the book sounded like a history text - a lyrical one, though.

Despite my quibbles, I surely appreciated reading about Aurangazeb and Jahanara. Until now, I hadn’t paid attention to the fact that Aurangazeb was a staunch Muslim, who went against the principles of tolerance and secularism that his predecessors had embraced. In stark contrast, Jahanara was ahead of her times, well read and balanced in her views. However, it is ironical that Aurangzeb, a man who was so steeped in social and religious propriety, committed categorically callous and amoral deeds by killing his own brothers and snatching the Empire from his ailing father.

Digested Thoughts: It was interesting to read about Princess Jahanara, and the construction of the Taj Mahal. Indu Sundaresan’s writing is always a treat, but I wish the lovely writing was wielded to give more depth and flair to her characters and the historical events.