My books this year and the highlights therein

Covers that catch your fancy or titles that grip your brain,
It’s a pursuit in which there’s nothing to lose and everything to gain.

It’s a list that never comes to an end,
Whether I buy them, borrow or lend.

The authors of classics, the legends of yore,
The writers of today, new on the fore.

Paperback, hardcover or on virtual device,
Read them as you like, in any crevice.

With a cup of hot brew, or cold if you wish,
Or if you’d much rather, enjoy with a dish.

My friend Mehak has written eloquently about the merits of an e-book reader, in particular, the Kindle Paperwhite. So I’m hoping that it will suffice for me to say that it is one of the most convenient products ever made and instead write about my reading list for this year.

The following are the books I’ve been fortunate to be able to read this year:

1.    The Perks of Being a Wallflower, by Stephen Chbosky: a worthwhile read to remind yourself what it is to feel young and vulnerable, yet infinite.

So I guess we are who we are for a lot of reasons. And maybe we’ll never know most of them. But even if we don’t have the power to choose where we come from, we can still choose where we go from there. We can still do things. And we can try to feel okay about them.

I think that if I ever have kids, and they are upset, I won’t tell them that people are starving in China or anything like that because it wouldn’t change the fact that they were upset. And even if somebody else has it much worse, that doesn’t change the fact that you have what you have. Good and bad. It’s just different. Maybe it’s good to put things into perspective, but sometimes, I think that the only perspective is to really be there. Because it’s okay to feel things. And be who you are about them.

2.       The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath: What I learnt from this book is that it is not delusional to be unhappy and feel dissatisfied with your lot in life, even if you don’t know why.

After nineteen years of running after good marks and prizes and grants of one sort and another, I was letting up, slowing down, dropping clean out of the race. The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along. I simply hadn’t thought about it. The one thing I was good at was winning scholarships, and that era was coming to an end.

I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks or a champion college footballer suddenly confronted by Wall Street and a business suit, his days of glory shrunk to a little gold cup on his mantel with a date engraved on it like the date on a tombstone.
I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig in the story. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground by my feet.

3.       The Book Thief, by Marcus Zusak: anybody who has ever enjoyed reading must read this book.

When she came to write her story, she would wonder exactly when the books and the words started to mean not just something, but everything. Was it when she first set eyes on the room with shelves and shelves of them?

Certainly, her brother practically died in her arms. Her mother abandoned her. But anything was better than being a Jew.

4.       The Fault in our Stars, by John Green: because even though love is without hope, we can all be hopeless romantics sometimes.

The oblivion fear is something else, fear that I won’t be able to give anything in exchange for my life. If you don’t live a life in service of a greater good, you’ve gotta at least die a death in service of a greater good, you know? And I fear that I won’t get either a life or a death that means anything.

I would probably never again see the ocean from thirty thousand feet above, so far up that you can’t make out the waves or any boats, so that the ocean is a great and endless monolith. I could imagine it. I could remember it. But I couldn’t see it again, and it occurred to me that the voracious ambition of humans is never sated by dreams coming true, because there is always the thought that something might be done better and again.

5.       The Outsiders, by John Clements: because it's never too late to read a coming of age book.

Rat race is a perfect name for it, she said. We’re always going and going and going, and never asking where. Did you ever hear of having more than you wanted? So that you couldn’t want anything else and then started looking for something else to want? It seems like we’re always searching for something to satisfy us, and never finding it. Maybe if we could lose our cool, we could.

6.       Looking for Alaska, by John Green: you like one title, so you have to read others, simple.

‘I go to seek a Great Perhaps.’ That’s why I’m going. So I don’t have to wait until I die to start seeking a Great Perhaps.
Jesus, I’m not going to be one of those people who sits around talking about what they’re gonna do. I’m just going to do it. Imagining the future is a kind of nostalgia.
You spend your whole life stuck in a labyrinth, thinking about how you’ll escape it one day, and how awesome it will be, and imagining that future keeps you going, but you never do it. You just use the future to escape the present.

And what is an “instant” death anyway? How long is an instant? Is it one second? Ten? The pain of those seconds must have been awful as her heart burst and her lungs collapsed and there was no air and no blood to her brain and only raw panic. What the hell is instant? Nothing is instant. Instant rice takes five minutes, instant pudding an hour. I doubt that an instant of blinding pain feels particularly instantaneous.

7.       Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy: it was a worthwhile and moving read, despite the length and mundane parts.

It’s the truth I’m telling you. I do value my idea and my work awfully; but in reality only consider this: all this world of ours is nothing but a speck of mildew, which has grown up on a tiny planet. And for us to suppose we can have something great – ideas, work – it’s all dust and ashes.

In his father’s opinion, he did not want to learn what he was taught. In reality, he could not learn that. He could not, because the claims of his own soul were more binding on him than those claims his father and his teacher made upon him. Those claims were in opposition, and he was in direct conflict with his education. He was nine years old; he was a child; but he knew his own soul, it was precious to him, he guarded it as the eyelid guards the eye, and without the key of love he let no one into his soul. His teachers complained that he would not learn, while his soul was brimming over with thirst for knowledge.

8.       Norwegian Wood, by Haruki Murakami: Glad to be finally reading his work.

Memory is a funny thing. When I was in the scene I hardly paid it any attention. I never stopped to think of it as something that would make a lasting impression, certainly never imagined that 18 years later I would recall it in such detail. I was thinking about myself. I was thinking about the beautiful girl walking next to me. I was thinking about the two of us together, and then about myself again. I was at that age, that time of life when every sight, every feeling, every thought came back, like a boomerang, to me. And worse, I was in love. Love with complications. Scenery was the last thing on my mind.
Even so, my memory has grown increasingly dim, and I have already forgotten any number of things. Writing from memory like this, I often feel a pang of dread. What if I’ve forgotten the most important thing? What if somewhere inside me there is a dark limbo where all the truly important memories are heaped and slowly turning into mud?

I tried hard to forget, but there remained inside me a vague knot of air. And as time went by, the knot began to take on a clear and simple form, a form that I am able to put into words, like this: Death exists, not as the opposite of but as a part of life. It’s a cliché translated into words, but at the time I felt it not as words but as that knot of air inside me. Death exists – in a paperweight, in four red and white balls on a pool table – and we go on living and breathing it into our lungs like fine dust. Until that time, I had understood death as something entirely separate from and independent of life. The hand of death is bound to take us, I had felt, but until the day it reaches out for us, it leaves us alone. This had seemed to me the simple, logical truth. Life is here, death is over there. I am here, not over there.
Becoming serious was not the same thing as approaching the truth, I sensed, however vaguely. But death was a fact, a serious fact, no matter how you looked at it. Stuck inside this suffocating contradiction, I went on endlessly spinning in circles. Those were strange days, now that I look back at them. In the midst of life, everything revolved around death.

“Of course life frightens me sometimes. I don’t happen to take that as the premise for everything else, though. I’m going to give it 100 per cent and go as far as I can. I’ll take what I want and leave what I don’t want. That’s how I intend to live my life, and if things go bad, I’ll stop and reconsider at that point. If you think about it, an unfair society is a society that makes it possible for you to exploit your abilities to the limit.” “Sounds like a pretty self-centred way to live,” I said. “Perhaps, but I’m not just looking up at the sky and waiting for the fruit to drop. In my own way, I’m working hard. I’m working ten times harder than you are.

May we always have a friend in need,

And if not, a book to read.

Until next time.

Dedicating a rhyme, for a dear friend of mine

This rhyme is written for Mariam, my dear friend,
To who I am grateful, to no end.

Before she took matters in her hand,
Rhyming was something I could never stand.

The only rhyme I could ever write,
No matter how much I would fight,

Were the following two lines,
From the scores of literary mines:

"A merry month is December,
Though we don't have much cucumber."

I'm sure you understand my plight,
When at the mention of rhyme, my brain would be halfway in flight.

The credit of this fire, my friend, goes to you,
My rhyme is colourful and no longer blue.

Summer lovin'

What to do on waking with a bad mood?
Break your fast and have some sinful comfort food.

But are those early morning calories going to do you any good?
Perhaps just slide back into bed and lower the hood.

You fear if it's going to last all day,
Especially in the tiresome heat of May.

Whether outdoors or indoors, you profusely sweat,
The trick, I realise, is not to fret.

Eat, sleep, drink and be merry,
And when the heat goes down, let's go on the ferry.

Unfettered

Faded jeans and superhero tee-shirts
Clipped nails and no makeup
Wearing flats, carrying a backpack,
I’m ready to take on the world.
There’s nothing I can’t do,
No limits that I know of.
To take the step, to accelerate,
The time is now.
Now, more than ever!

I am three and twenty years young,
As yet unmarried.
Further disinclined, rather uninterested.
A major concern for the parental units.
And all those of my kin, far and near.
Each of them wanting nothing but The Best for me.
Undoubtedly.
The best that they will decide.

Wham! Unanticipated road blocks and sudden breaks!
Tears, fights, stalemate.
Autopilot on, follow the road,
Present my best profile to the expert’s lens.
Feel comfortable, but strike a pose.
Stand straight, but not too much.
Everything in moderation, nothing in excess.

Albatross

For the nasty words I've spoken,
And the well-meaning ones I haven't.

For the thoughtless things I did,
And the well-planned ones I didn't.

For wanting what I wanted,
And refusing what I didn't.

For holding on when it was harder,
And letting go when it was needed.

For doubting what I know,
And knowing what I doubt.

For just being,
And sometimes not being enough.

I plead guilty.

Guilty, for feeling.
Guilty, for not feeling guilty.

A number in history

History was one of my most favourite subjects in school. And I especially enjoyed reading about colonialism and the conscious process of nation-building. How kings indulged a greed for more, how empires felt the need for power. During successive years, I saw that many of my friends did not share my curiosity for the past, some of them in fact felt otherwise. Things were said and done and it has all been long gone, so we should forget about it and live in the present, they argued.

Mastery of Zen Buddhist philosophy by twelve year olds? Or just a marked dislike for the study of history? I didn't know then and I didn't attempt to find out. But I like to think that many of us have since realised that studying the past does not necessarily mean that you are reliving it or cherishing a sense of unhealthy/unproductive nostalgia. A consciousness of events and influences past can guide us to a better understanding of who we are, which is much bigger than ourselves, our immediate surroundings and our societies. It is also very likely that this knowledge might change our present or shape our future (if that's what we're looking for). And of course, like Steve Jobs said, we can only connect the dots looking backwards. So there, live in the present but do not be afraid to look back. In so doing, we construct a certain aura about this day, that time. 

Today happens to be one among my many "days to remember". Today, five years ago, I bought the SIM card to my first, personal cell phone. This meant that I could finally be in touch with my friends. Anytime. Everytime. Always. 

I would no longer need to plead with my mother to borrow her phone or sincerely demonstrate our mutually agreed terms of fair usage. Neither would I have to feign apologies on keeping the landline engaged for long. Further, the far-fetched notion of speaking to friends on birthdays as the clock struck twelve was now real. 

Quite a big deal, that.

I finally had an identity - ten digits which would represent me as much as (or in some sense, more than?) my name. How would I choose those numbers? Should I ask to be in serial with my family? That way, there would be just one, or at the most, two digits that would differentiate us from each other. Or should I do what my peers did -- incorporate the digits of my birth? Or perhaps try to rack my brain a little, use some creativity and request for a meaningful set of numbers? 

That wasn't all -- there were a whole range of service providers, offering these fancy-sounding terms like top-ups and talktimes and whatnots. All basically providing the same things at similar prices.

Hey Bhagwan, this was getting more and more complicated. I didn't need to be in serial with my family, in order to memorise their numbers. And maybe, just maybe, I did not want to merge my soon-to-be-mobile self with the familial units. The birth-digits option would have made sense if I was a schoolgirl. But I was in college and I felt quite above such childishness. And I couldn't think of any set of meaningful numbers because I had hitherto lived a simple, uneventful life. 

I was anything but average at math, preferring always the qualitative over the numeric, so I was getting too lost with all this preoccupation with numbers. But my mind insisted that it was necessary, because the digits once chosen, would become my identity and I would have to live with what I had created. 

I invested a few days of my winter vacation in this quandary. The answer came to me one afternoon while watching an old Hindi film on tv. Listen to this song, and you'll know (and please don't judge me).

As to what I did? Well, I went to the store and let them do their job. I got a number and an identity I am quite comfortable with. 

Two years later, the government of India came up with the Mobile Number Portability scheme, allowing existing users to change their service provider without changing their ten-digit phone number. So, that was one of my concerns already taken care of. They're also trying to work on eliminating the roaming charges in the country, so I wouldn't have to worry about altering my identity at all, as long as I lived in India :)

On ever leaving the country... I'll cross that bridge when I come to it and create whatever avatar I then feel like.

What is home?

My family recently moved to a new place, a place I’ve wanted to live in for years. It was being bought when I still lived in my childhood home. (Tries very hard to not indulge in self-righteous nostalgia – those were the merry sunshine days of eternal bliss, et cetera). I realise now that in the functional sense, we will always be a joint family, but the things that this house promised seemed too far-fetched to ever be realised: the thought of actually living as a nuclear family, for instance.

It’s been a little over two months since we moved, but it still feels so unreal. I had gotten so used to the noise and laughter of little cousins, the comings and goings of relatives, the ways and means of everyday life. Back then, you needed to be very careful with your books and papers, lest any loose sheet find itself in the hands of an angry parent or under the feet of a naughty kid. But now, we have our valuables in every room such that, you can never be sure what imperative you have left behind when you leave the house. Earlier, if you did something wrong, the entire house would know about it and would participate in corrective action. But now, it would be incredible if you could just get yourself to place your finger on any wrongs. Also, in the old days, your mobility was conditional, and as a result, the only way you got things done was by making and sticking to your meticulous plans. However, as you grew older, you also outgrew those conditions (which were replaced by other ones) and learnt how to be spontaneous, but then, never seemed to get anything done.

Can it be said that when people want something for very long, they cannot handle it when they actually get it? Perhaps it feels too good to be true. Or rather, they no longer want the thing the same way. Or worse, they prefer to want it in their dreams but not as much for it to really be manifested in their lives. But see, I overdid it, again. It is quite possible, that all they need is time (with a capital T, the kind that no one ever seems to have or get enough of). We need Time, to embrace and accept any change in our lives, even if it is a change we have actively sought and aggressively pursued.

So what do you do with this Time, I wonder. Do you wake up one morning and suddenly feel at home in your new place? Or must you make a conscious effort to accept the new, each day, and numerous times, every day: because home is made up of and represents so many things?

Home is a place where you learn and explore the possibilities of all that you can do and be, like your school or college. Your workplace even, if possible.

Home can be a person who accepts you truly and completely, like your best friend or partner; or a couple of persons who will always want the best of everything for you, like your parents.

And of course, the place (or the places) where you have lived.

This advertisement shows coming home to so many things, although it’s selling a completely unrelated product. In his book Go, Kiss the World, Subroto Bagchi talks about homecoming in an insightful way: “Home is the place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to go back to.”

So if home “is where the heart is”, and your heart is in many different things, does it mean that the feeling of “being at home” is divided between that many things/people, or is it multiplied? Do you then feel that much more? Or do you feel marginally less every time you find a new home, so to speak?