I’m curled up on the sofa, looking out at the rain falling steadily down. The weather outside – rainy, overcast, ominous – reflect the thoughts swirling around my head.
There’s an inner turmoil that’s been brewing within me since a long, long time. A problem that seems to have no solutions. No matter how much I try, or how often I upbraid myself for failing, it just doesn’t seem to work out.
And now I’m convinced there’s more to the problem than meets the eye. It’s not a simple case of do X to achieve Y. There’s something buried deep within; this problem has spiritual roots.
I’m curled up on my favorite spot on the sofa. Legs up on the ottoman, laptop balanced on my knees. As I look through my old posts, at some saved drafts for blog post ideas, I realize I’ve let fear paralyze me. Fear of being not good enough, of my voice not being powerful enough. Fear of what people will think if I post this or that. Fear of being inadequate to the expectations I set for myself. So. Much. FEAR.
Their cries filled the car. Going from pitiful sobs, begging for mercy, to whimpering and then urgent cries of protest. When that didn’t improve their lot, they cried in indignation and then in full blown anger. “You think we are helpless?” those screams seemed to say. “We’ll show you! We have some tricks up our sleeves too.”
Ai iz takinz a joy ridez. This be the only joy ridez ai likez.
It was relentless. Without pause. When one piped down to draw breath, the other would keep the tempo going. Mid-way through, their howls became ominous. And then there was a sudden silence. To be broken a few seconds later by the sound of newspaper being mercilessly tortured. And then the smell of fresh cat poop assailed our nostrils.
When was the last time you wrote a letter? Or received one?
I received two in the span of two weeks. The first was from @raghavmodi along with a book that I won at the end of The Sunday Book Club Twitter chat. (More details on the chat to come soon, so watch this space for more!) The second was from Random House India, with a really cute jute bag they sent me.
And both times, I felt an irrational urge to sit down with paper and pen and write a letter back. But in this digital age, when I’m connected with everyone “real time” through email, What’s App, Facebook and Twitter, there’s no real need to write anymore.
Lost are the joys of receiving letters…of watching out for the mailman to drop the mail off…of sitting down with a pen poised over a blank sheet of paper, gathering my thoughts before I begin to draft a response. Now things are immediate. As soon as something of note happens, my sister in New York knows about it through What’s App, my parents in Pune are given all the details breathlessly over the phone or via SMS, and friends get updates through Facebook and Twitter.
In a few years more, letter writing may indeed be a lost art. And wouldn’t that be a shame?
But there are some noteworthy initiatives out there. Like the Daily Rumpus’ Letters in the Mail, through which subscribers get letters from famous people three to four times a month for a fee. Some of the letters were typed, others handwritten. Some include illustrations, all were signed. They are then photo-copied and sent to subscribers.
The real nostalgia that I feel is for actual letter exchanges. The ones where you can see where the writer hesitated, where they crossed out an unformed thought, where their pen ran out of ink, or leaked out and blotted the paper. Spots where tears were shed or water was spilled. Little flourishes like a quick sketch or a trellis decorating the margins.
In my nostalgia, I sat down and went through the letters I exchanged with my boyfriend (now the husband) when we were dating. I was in Mumbai he was in Delhi and those letters were our primary way of keeping in touch – along with phone calls and emails – but the letters were still diligently written. Each one was sent with something – a pressed flower, a card, small mementos such as key chains and once even a box of potpourri.
Then there were the letters I used to write to my father, a Chief Engineer in the merchant navy. Little girl’s letters, young teen’s letters, young adult’s letters, until finally these were also replaced by emails.
Then there were pen pals. People I met on my travels abroad who were fascinated with the little girl from India. A few letters were exchanged. Some friendships were forged and then forgotten in the sands of time and due to the faulty Indian postal system.
But now I can’t remember the last time I wrote a letter or received one. Until I got these two notes after a gap of years and years and years.
What about you – do you still write and receive letters? Or do you, like me, sometimes feel nostalgic for old fashioned, hand written letters?
I hate despise detest hate really really hate don’t like summer – never have, never will. At least as long as I live in Delhi and have to endure 45 degrees of heat with gusts of hot wind thrown in for free.
But as much as I may hate summer, there are barely any a few moments I’d can stand like to revisit.
Like a friend’s impulsive decision to gift herself a puppy on her birthday, which falls in April, right at the beginning of summer, before the fear of being roasted alive in the heat becomes a reality. That impulsive decision led to an impromptu lunch plan that allowed me to meet her adorable golden retriever as a pup before he became big and huge and all dog-ey. I’m not a huge dog fan, as I suppose you can guess. Pups though, I love.
As the mercury rose and it became impossible to even stick my hand out on the balcony (don’t ask me why I would want to that, I’m sure I won’t have an answer!), I spent all my weekends laid up in bed or curled up on the sofa with the air conditioning on, reading like there was an imminent ban on books. I must have read about 25 books between April and July, and then I wonder how come I have nothing to blog about except book reviews and, let’s see, even more book reviews!
The other thing I really like about summer is ice cream. There’s nothing like a large scoop of the delectably creamy, cold, sweet, flavorful stuff to cool you from the inside-out on a hot, sticky summer night.
And when the heat became too much to bear, this year, I switched loyalties to roasted corn on the cob. Why, you ask? Because a friend told me that she was eating one every day hoping to please the Rain Gods. What’s the connection? Damned if I know! If eating an ice cream everyday would make it rain, I’d do that too, and to hell with my waist line!
(Note: it doesn’t work – monsoon didn’t start in earnest until last week, and we’ve been stuffing our faces with corn since about a month.)
When all else fails, I just hightail it out of Delhi. Last year, I took off to New York, and I fell truly, madly, deeply in love with this vibrant, energetic, crazy city.
This year…
I evidently went nowhere. Which is what leads to a totally snarky, bitchy blog post.
I love traveling…discovering new cities, cultures, people, architecture… sometimes I think travel is in my blood. I also love the thought of escaping to a cottage nestled in the heart of nature. So when it comes to a vacation home, there are two very different kinds of homes that set my pulse racing.
The first is a cottage by a lake. Imagine an arched gate covered with bougainvillea, a cobble stone path leading to a cottage that looks like it’s straight out of a fairy tale. Surrounded by trees and bursting with flowers, with a river (or even a lake) flowing nearby. A place where you can sit and listen to the chirping of the birds, the chirruping of insects and the tinkle of water. Where you can escape the hectic pace of modern life.
The rooms are airy, with huge french windows opening out to scenic natural beauty, with a lot of natural light that allows me to set up an easel in any room and paint whenever and wherever I like. A warm and inviting living area, filled with fresh flowers, with soft music wafting through the house. A shabby chic kitchen, one that invites friends in to sit down and have a hot mug of coffee over spirited conversations. What bliss!
My second vacation home is one on wheels – a gypsy caravan! {It shouldn’t come as much of a surprise, considering that my online avatar is Modern Gypsy! ;)} Just look at these beauties – don’t you wish you had one of your own? If I had a house with a garden, I would definitely get one of these built in my back yard. But alas, I live in an apartment complex, and all I have is a balcony.
The charm of a caravan, of course, is that I could hitch it to the back of a station wagon and just hit the road when fancy strikes. No hotel reservations required! Being a gypsy caravan, the interiors wouldn’t be soothing and serene – they’d be colorful and eclectic, bright and completely over-the-top. Like this:
With a place like that to call your own, do you really need a fancy-shmancy hotel room? I think not!
But alas, these shall remain just dreams. India has no camping grounds, no concept of RVs, unless you want to go out into the jungle – and who knows just how safe that might be? Even a vacation cottage isn’t something that I see myself buying, because when it comes to vacations, I’d rather take the road less traveled.
But then you know what they say…you should never censor your dreams…
1. My personal well-being: I’ve realized that when I am mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually well, I am in the best position to live my life to the fullest. This includes being my own best friend and loving myself unconditionally, even when I stumble and fall; replacing my inner critic with positive and encouraging self-talk; eating healthy and exercising, even if all I can manage is a 20 minute walk; time to connect with a higher power; and to meditate.
2. My self-respect: There may be times in my life when a friend or loved one walks all over my sense of self, damaging my self-respect under their hob-nailed boots. I’ve learnt it the hard way to never, ever, no matter what the circumstances, let anyone walk all over me or treat me like a doormat. My self-respect is the most important thing. Period.
3. A home that feels like me:Note, I didn’t say a magazine-perfect home. With all the amazing home interiors I see on Pinterest, in magazines and on blogs, it’s easy to look around my pad and hate everything about it. But when I stop and analyze, I realize that I love each object in my house – it all has a history, a story. It’s warm and welcoming and lived-in, which really isn’t something I can say for a lot of those picture perfect “white houses” I see online. If I’m able to keep my home clutter free for long periods of time, more power to me! I am open to change, to better my surrounding, but I refuse to give in to internet envy.
4. Allowing myself to dream big and DO big:There are no limits to imagination. I’ve found that it’s very important to allow myself to imagine a live that fills me with joy, and then go out and work towards achieving all that my heart desires! I may win some and lose some, but I know what I’m working towards and why. When something no longer resonates with me, I drop it, instead of living up to someone else’s idea of perfection. Since I am a procrastinator, I keep reminding myself that the only thing standing between my dreams and reality is action.
So, what’s non-negotiable for you? I’d love to hear from you in the comments!
I grew up with music…surrounded by it, immersed in it…I would go to sleep with a cassette playing on my tape recorder and wake up to the sound of music. I played with it in the background, danced to it, cried with it, laughed with it, sang along with it. Music filled me. More than that, it was almost a tangible part of me – like my heart, or coursing through my veins mixed with my blood.
During my formative years, my music choices were influenced by my parents. Musicians like Perry Como and Tina Charles ruled in our house, as did old hindi film music and ghazals by Jagjit and Chitra Singh. During my rebellious teens, I rocked Bon Jovi and Pink Floyd, fell in love with Madonna and Michel Jackson, and sashayed to Right Said Fred. As those erratic hormones loosened their hold over me, I learnt to appreciate the classical notes of Beethoven and Mozart, Yanni and Kenny G.
These days, music’s all about rap and hip hop, which I don’t dig that much, and somehow, it’s losing it’s tangibility. It’s now something I listen to while driving the car and occasionally at work, when I want to tune out the rest of the office and focus on what’s in front of me. Or for a few hours when I have the house to myself.
This loss of tangibility isn’t all about me. It’s also because the husband and I have very different musical tastes, and different listening styles. I like music to envelop the air around me, fill the house with it’s melodious strains. The husband prefers to get lost in his own private world with his music, blaring it straight into his ears through his headphones. It’s been difficult, almost impossible, to get these two worlds to meet.
On the few occasions when I’ve tried to initiate him to music my way, it’s ended in dissatisfaction. He turns the sound down until it’s little over being background noise – I mean, who listens to Another One Bites the Dust with the volume turned down? That song is meant to be blasted through the speakers. I like listening to each song on an album in full and in sequence. He listens to a bit of the song, then suddenly remembers another great track on the album and skips to it. This back and forth continues, leaving me unfulfilled….unable to immerse myself in the music.
And so I’ve given up on him coming over to my side, and sadly on music. Listening to it on headphones isn’t anything like listening to it on a music system, with the volume turned up, the thump of the drum underlining your heartbeat, the strains of the piano taking you through a whole range of emotions in one magical piece.
Sadly, the music has…not died, just faded away. Leaving me unmoored, if you will. Adrift in the sea of life without my constant companion.
