ATALA by Francois-Rene de Chateaubriand

Christmas Eve I sat down to a dinner of roast turkey, plum cake, and this delicious little novella, and savoured it all thoroughly. I had never heard of Chateaubriand before, but am so glad I found him and picked up his book. It's so different from much of what I read. A lot of the author himself seems to overflow into the story: his religious beliefs, his fascination with the native Americans, and an almost gluttonous devouring of nature. If you are a lover of nature, you too will wolf down - smother yourself - in his luscious descriptions of the American land.

It's an odd, strange little story. A bit Romeo-and-Juliet-ish, but also, not. Atala is the name of a young Indian girl, and the story is told through the words of her love, Chactas. Given my peculiar fascination with all things Native American, I thoroughly loved getting drawn into the story, the ambience, the words. Of course, it's a translation, but even so, I found beautiful lines to hold on to. Here are a few:

"Why do I mourn for you in your cradle of earth, O my newborn? When the little bird becomes big, it must look for its food, and it finds it in the wild bitter seeds. At least you have not known sadness; at least your heart has never been bared to man's destructive breath. The bud which dries up in its encasement passes away with all its perfumes, like you, with all your innocence, O my son! Happy are those who die in the cradle: they have known only the kisses and smiles of a mother."

"Happy are they who have not seen the smoke of the stranger's celebrations and who sit only at the festivities of their fathers! If the bluejay of the Mississippi said to the finch of the Floridas, 'Why do you weep so sadly? Have you not here beautiful waters, refreshing shades, and seeds of every kind as in your forests?' 'Yes,' would reply the finch, 'but my nest is in the jasmine .."

"Take courage, son of Outalissi, rebel not against your fate. The heart of man is like the surge of a river, which sometimes swells with muddy waters when the sky has troubled them. Has the river the right to say, 'I thought there would be no storms and the sun would never be burning hot'?"

"Men, my son, especially those in your country, often imitate nature, and reproductions are always trivial. It is not so with nature, when she seems to be imitating the works of men, she is actually offering models."

".. age, like maternity, is a kind of priesthood."

"It becomes you, young man, hardly grown up, to complain of your misfortunes! Where are the marks of your sufferings? Where are the injustices you have sufered? Where are your virtues, which alone could give you some right to complain? What services have you rendered? What good have you done? Eh? Wretched one, you offer me only your passions, and you dare storm the gates of Heaven!"

"Jealousy crept to the grass altar on which the kid was sacrificed; she ruled under the tent of Abraham .. "

from
ATALA
by Francois-Rene de Chateaubriand
(1768 - 1848)

Once Upon A Sinking Ship

Once upon a sinking ship they cried, "Women and children first!" For the longest time, I thought that was because women and children were weaker, and needed rescuing, while men were brave and strong, and could take care of themselves.

But the other day I thought: in an emergency, what do you grab before you run? That delicate bouquet of roses? The soft white bread that would go moldy in a few days if left unloved? No, you grab what's most valuable to you, something you deem vital for your survival.

And it struck me that I had got it all wrong. It's women and children first, not because they are weak, but because they are more valuable. Men are going to hate me for saying this, but it really does seem to make sense.

I'm talking about the issue of survival. Survival of the species, the human race. In terms of procreation and keeping the species going, men are not indispensable. If you had to populate a new world asap, you'd be better off picking eight women and two men, than eight men and two women.

Women have the womb. That's where the creation happens. I can't help wondering if deep down, this is what is at the root for man's need to be in power, to show strength, to be "men"?

It seems to me a huge amount of misspent energy. I suspect women have also, deep down, known this. We do have a sense of being stronger - not in terms of brute strength - but of a sense of resilience. Men, perhaps, are never quite sure that they are truly essential. What a terrible insecurity that must be.

I know there are men out there who have seen beyond this, and I hope that there will be more such men soon. Men who don't feel the need to assert their manliness in the funny little ways they do. I'm waiting for the day when men don't have to be men. They just have to Be. That's the day when everyone lives happily ever after.

We will never forget?

There's been so much talk of this, ever since the terrorist attack on Bombay last month. But I just came across this - and I wonder - how long we will remember? I, for one, never even knew until reading this, that India Gate was a war memorial.

India Gate

Situated on the Rajpath, New Delhi, India Gate i.e. originally called All India War Memorial was built by Edwin Lutyens to commemorate more than 70,000 Indian soldiers who died in World War I and the Afghan Wars. The names of the soldiers who died in the wars are inscribed on the walls. Burning under it since 1971 is the Amar Jawan Jyoti (eternal soldier's flame) which marks Unknown Soldier's Tomb. India Gate, the 39.62 metre-high and 27.43 metre-wide arch commemorating the British and Indian soldiers who died in World War I and in the Afghan War of 1921. Each brick has the regimental number of the fallen hero and each tells a tale of the battles that were fought in France, Flanders Iran, Mesopotamia, East Africa and in the North West Frontier Province.
On a brighter note, I just found this.

"They went looking

I wrote this in the nineties, and turned it into my Christmas card for that year.

They went looking for a king,
and came across a baby.

They went in search of wisdom,
and came away with love.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

FORGIVING OUR PARENTS, by Dwight Lee Wolter

This is a slim volume I bought a year or two ago, but only got down to reading today - as part of my ongoing "decluttering" quest. Now the book itself can move on (to Enfold's library, if you want to read it!) but I wanted to save some of my favourite lines here, for me to come back to.

Forgiveness is an issue often juggled with by survivors of any sort of childhood trauma - and by "the experts". There are many different perspectives on what it is, and how important it is. And of course, many different definitions of what it means to forgive. I do recommend this book for any survivor of anything. I like the way he explores the progressing of feelings in the healing process.

"Forgiveness is not amnesia. It is not a drug we take to forget the pain. Dismissing the past as over and done with - and therefore not relevant to life today - is not going to make the problem go away."

"Cliches and slogans are intended as easy-to-remember summations of knowledge and wisdom, but they can be misused. Unfortunately, they are sometimes used to silence people or to deny feelings."

"Many of us who who were raised in dysfunctional homes use unforgiveness and resentment as a means of keeping us away from our true feelings. .. Rage, fear, and anger lurk within an unforgiving heart. Who wants to look at that? Many of us have had so much pain in childhood that, as adults, we avoid pain at any cost."

"Anger, sarcasm, and wit make a potent combination .. Anger became the fuel that propelled me through difficult situations. Anger became the passion that let me know I was alive! I didn't HAVE anger. I WAS anger. Anger was my first name. And blame was my middle name. Then I realised that it was not getting angry but remaining angry that had become a problem for me. .. If someone hurt me, I would get angry instead of feeling the pain. It was difficult to let go of my attraction to blame and anger."

"I want to wear my anger like a suit of armour to spare me from the pain. But I can't. I never had a childhood. Now I am losing my anger about never having had a childhood. What I am left with is ... sadness. And facing sadness is not easy. All of my life I would rather have been dragged across a field of boulders by wild horses than to feel the immense sadness within me. Anger was so much easier to feel."

"I am now allowing myself to feel the feelings I have never felt before. I must listen to the child within me that was ignored. And if one of the feelings that comes to the surface is blame, then I want to feel all there is to feel about blame. Then perhaps I can feel the anger behind the blame. And then the pain behind the anger. And the sadness behind the pain. And the acceptance that is rumoured to lie behind the sadness. And the hope behind the acceptance. So that someday I may have a chance at leading a contented life."

"Ultimately, we have to forgive ourselves for being ourselves. Have you ever sat in your room, staring out through the window, feeling a little down, watching people walk by? Don't they look great? They are just chugging along, dressed so well, clean and fresh looking, on their way to their meaningful jobs, leading their meaningful lives. We imagine them with no holes in their socks, no blemishes under their make-up, no ghosts in their closets, no drunks in their families. We imagine them happy that it is Monday morning again, that now that they are well-rested from their weekends at the beach with their flawless lovers then can get back to being productive in their lucrative, high-visibility careers. And what about us? If we break a shoelace, we can trace it back to being from a dysfunctional family. If we do anything less than perfectly, we are flawed human beings, the objects of self-pity and scorn. If we make a simple mistake, it is a relapse."

"In order to forgive my parents, I must have already decided they are guilty of whatever I am about to forgive them for. That means I have placed myself in the position of knowing who is guilty and who is not. Then I decide who is to be punished or forgiven. I have adorned myself with a crown of resentments. I am the standard against which all goodness is measured. I am a self-appointed judge and executioner. I have relieved God of most of his duties."

from
FORGIVING OUR PARENTS
For adult children from dysfunctional families
by Dwight Lee Wolter, 1989.

DEAR ME: Life is ..

I remember this day, although I can't remember now who the bereaved colleague was. Feeling some of his pain, and going home to find those two letters in the mail, one for my mother, and one for us all.

Life is a young boy dying
and his friend
who can't cry,
and who won't leave the office
in case he does,
and who won't cry
until he is too drunk tonight
to hold it back.

It is opening a letter
and finding that your friend
died.
Three months ago.
And her daughter
could not bear to tell you
till last week.

It is opening another letter
and being invited to a wedding.
And seeing that the nikah
is on your niece's birthday.
And trying to recapture where you were
and what you felt
on the day that she was born.

(written on 17 March 1997, Bahrain)

MY NOSE IS BLOGGED: Clowning Those Ills Away

Found an article written by Archana Rai for Livemint.com, all about Docteur Clown India.
Click here to read it.
Incidentally, Archana and I were school friends! Some of you will know her - as Archie!

Blame

Every day, I find new things to be angry about. Yesterday it was the Kerala Chief Minister's over-inflated ego, that responded to a distraught father in such an immature and hurtful way. The father was Major Unnikrishnan's, killed in Mumbai while fighting against the terrorists. Perhaps he did not want politicians using his grief as a Public Relations opportunity. Perhaps he was angry at the people whose governance (or lack of) were partly responsible for his son's death. Whatever the cause, he was justified in asking them to leave, and, when they continued to push on, to shout at them to get out.

CM Achutanandan's response, on camera, was to state that he had gone to the Unnikrishnans' house only because of Major Unnikrishnan's death, and that "even a dog" would not go to visit them otherwise.

Achutanandan is an old man. He proves delightfully the adage that while growing old is mandatory (unless of course you are gunned down in the name of duty), growing up is clearly optional.

When will India learn that respect must be earned? Whether it is the politician with an over-inflated sense of his importance, or an incestuous grandfather - age does not and must not buy respect that is undeserved.

Another adage: When you point a finger at your neighbour, there are three more pointing back at you.

India, wake up. We can rave and rant about our politicians and our messes, but at the end of the day, we need to look at ourselves honestly and see what we, the individuals, have done - or not done - to help create the mess we are in today. To borrow a quote from I-forget-who, we are meeting the enemy, and it is us.

DEAR ME: How dangerous to love ..

This is a poem I wrote about a decade ago, the day I heard the news that my nephew Sameer had been killed in a motorcycle accident. I found it in my papers and wasn't sure if I wanted to share it, but after the recent events in Bombay, I thought there may be someone out there who needs to hear these words.

How dangerous to love
to fill your heart with hope
to invest in dreams
to care
to share precious moments
and create happy memories.
How dangerous to gamble with joy
that sorrow can snatch away,
when death, that one surety of life,
can take in one swift move
the hopes the dreams the moments -
and all one is left with
is the love and the memories,

and the fear that one cannot forgive
the Hand that moved
against the one you loved.

I cannot hope to understand
so how can I explain?
I know only that life is here and now
and so is death
and their balance follows no law we know.

With one Hand He gives us life.
With the same, He takes it away.
This Birth is Mine, perhaps He says.
This Death is Mine, perhaps He says.
Between the first wail
and the last breath,
is My gift to you,
and your gift to Me.
Live it well:
love, hope, care, share, create.

I dreamed Him once (and this is true)
and He told me:

There is a Hereafter.

Perhaps it was an answer
to a question I haven't asked yet.
We can ask Him for time and for love
and for mercy and strength.
But we cannot ask Him: Why?

So I still cannot explain,
and I still do not understand the answer.
But I know that He does,
and I can take comfort in this.

Infinity is everywhere
Before the first breath, beyond its ceasing,
Before the seed, beyond the sealing,
is a secret arc we may not know,
till we gather our gifts and
step forward into His reality.

Symbols

I have a lot to write about. Ever since the terrorist attack on Bombay, the words, thoughts and emotions have been swirling round my mind. For some reason, I haven't been able to bring myself to put the words down on paper yet. Today, though, I think I'm ready to write, at least just a few lines. I happened to look up at the sky this morning, and noticed a large puffy grey cloud being slowly pushed across the sky by the wind. It had the most glorious, brilliant silver lining I've ever seen. For today, that's enough.