The things you find.

Lately I have been trying my hand at watercolour painting.
Mostly on my bedroom wall, using watercolour pencils
that I picked up in the kids' section of a stationery shop.
This evening I remembered I had a pad of watercolour paper
lying around somewhere. I dug it out, and discovered that I have
already tried my hand at watercolour painting. I'd quite forgotten.
I think it was some time in the early nineties, because this one
must have been done after one of those Indian Fine Arts Society shows.

For those of you unfamiliar with Hindustani classical music, the tanpura
is a stringed instrument that "drones" in the background and provides
a steady beat for the lead musicians.

From my sketchbook

Haven't been in the mood to write, but here's something I drew
this weekend, off a photograph of my cousin's daughter. I like
the way I got her expression: dreamy, shy, and pleased all at
the same time (I think it was a picture of her on her honeymoon).
I haven't succeeded in making her look as classically beautiful
as she is in real life.

Gandhi (The Screenplay) - by John Briley

It's Gandhiji's birthday today. He's been called Bapu, the Mahatma, the father of the nation .. his full name was Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi - and no, Indira, Rajiv, Sonia and Rahul are not related to him.

The first time I saw this film was at Lido Cinema, it was a night show and I will never forget the audience reaction, it was uncanny. The scene just before the intermission was of Gandhi and Nehru visiting the aftermath of the massacre by General Dyer at Jallianwala Bagh: They look into each other's eyes, the scene fades out and the word "Interval" comes up on the screen. This is usually the cue for a mad rush by the audience to be first to use the toilets, to buy coffee or popcorn or smoke that cigarette.

Nobody moved. We all just sat there. It took a few minutes before people started, one by one, to get up and leave the hall. Outside, there was no pushing and shoving, no chaos. Just people standing quietly in line for the toilets, letting others through to get a coffee, smoking quietly under trees.

It's something I've never forgotten.

Today, I'm reading the screenplay by John Briley. I just finished the introduction and wanted to share some excerpts with you:

".. I was certain that no one in the Detroit of my boyhood or my adopted town in semi-rural Englad would want to pay to see a film about an old man who sat on a rug in a loincloth and spouted words about peace and passive resistance. "

He goes on to tell how he ended up working on the project, and how hard it was to comprehend Gandhi's impact, in spite of all his reading and research, until he turned to Gandhi's own writings - his newspaper articles and his hundreds and hundreds of letters.

" .. gradually the personality of this open, questing, unpretentious man began to unfold for me. The well-springs of his courage, his humility, the humour, the compelling power of his sense of the human dilemma .. and gradually I saw too that Gandhi was not 'impractical', not 'idealistic'. His ideas were forged in painful experience, a growth of perception earned from a life far harsher than anything I have ever known.

"In writing Gandhi I have tried to make real the brave, determined man I discovered and to show his unsentimental honesty about the complexity of men and his unshakable belief that on balance they are marginally more inclined to good than evil ..

"Gandhi lived -- and I hope the movie of GANDHI reflects - the most fundamental drama of all: the war in our hearts between love and hate. He knew it was a war, a war with many defeats, but he believed in only one victor. That is what Gandhi has given me. I have tried in the screenplay to give it back in a way that I hope would have won his approval."

(from the Author's Preface of GANDHI The Screenplay by John Briley)

P.S. He won an Oscar that year for Best Original Screenplay.

Book Fair Junkie: THE MAGIC CIRCLE

(by Katherine Neville, 1998)

I'm still trying to figure out how it is that this book hasn't had the success of the Da Vinci Code. It's an absolutely brilliant intriguing thriller, and is much richer in content. If I had to compare the two, I'd say that the Da Vinci Code was eau de toilette, while this book is essential oil - thick with historical and mythical detail, rich and overpowering and overwhelming .. I LOVED it. I liked Dan Brown's Da Vinci Code too, don't get me wrong (although I preferred Angels and Demons) but as a person who really loves stories and words, I found this book far more satisfying.

It gave me glimpses into the lives and stories of so many historic figures - Jesus, Nero, Alexander, Genghis Khan, Hitler - to name just a few. It took me through times and cultures - ancient Greek mythology, ancient Greek history, early Christianity, the Roman Empire, Nordic legend, the Anglo Saxons, Nazism, the Cold War .. I went to Russia, Jerusalem, Rome, Scotland, Vienna, Paris, London, Syria .. so many little delicious side dishes. And through it all there was a story of adventure and intrigue, romance, treasure hunting, code breaking. It was like one of those really good chocolate chip cookies where the cookie part is delicious and chewy, and every bite has just the right amount of chocolate chips. Hell, it was more than just one cookie. It was a FEAST. It's been a while since I read such a satiating book! Which is probably why I keep comparing it to food: I felt very well fed by the time I finished it!

So how come there is no storm about this book? I think one reason it hasn't had the same commercial success is that it would be harder to make a movie of. And also that the print is smaller .. DVC is like fast food, this book is a nice satisfying meal for people who really like to read. Then there's the hero - it's a girl. And perhaps the touchy subjects it touches - or rather, prods - all the religions and "isms". And finally, the name: The Magic Circle. I'm not sure why, but I feel this is the wrong title for this book! But if you come across it, don't judge it by its cover, pick it up and take it home! I don't think you'll be disappointed.

I happen to write

Last night, while reading a book on writing poetry, I discovered that in this beautiful poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins, he had placed exactly five stressed words per line. I checked it for myself, and was amazed. It had never struck me before, the difference it makes, and I now want to go back to my old poems and see if what I consider my better ones, have a similar discipline in the stressed words. I have a feeling they will.

After reading two chapters of the book, I felt almost obliged to do some writing, and this is what I came up with.

I happen to write poetry for unsuspecting hearts
and tug them quite unknowingly down half forgotten roads.

Will my words remind you of what you were and weren't?
What you left behind you, or what you left unsaid?

(written on 6 August 2009, 11.20 p.m.)


Another thing I learnt yesterday from this book, was that in English, words tend to be either Latinate (e.g. residence, embrace) or Germanic (e.g. house, hug) and that there is a different flavour to each: the Latinate can sound more philosophical or highbrow, the Germanic more familiar and comfortable. Looking at my poem now, I'm wondering now if the first part is more Latinate and the second part Germanic.

I've never studied poetry this way before - as in looking at form, technique, metre. I find it fascinating. Perhaps good poetry needs to be more than personal expression and fancy words, to be an art form. A lot of my earlier poems - and perhaps most people's early poems - are an outpouring of teenage angst: all expression, but very little technique, that keeps them from becoming really good poems.

I used to think that a poem was a poem and that once you wrote it down, that was it. Then a friend and fellow writer shared this gem with me: poems, like any other form of writing, do need need editing and refining. That made a difference in the quality of the poems I presented (thank you, Rory!) and now, with this new book and what I learn from it, I hope to go further. Could it be that the challenge of structure, of fitting the rights words into the right places - without sacrificing expression - is perhaps what makes some poems stand out, and others remain in the pages of a teenager's diary?

I'm excited by all this! So you may see some of my older poetry reworked and re-presented here on the blog. And, I hope, more and more new poetry. If you like what you read, send your friends this way, share my work with others. That's the whole point.

And if you have written poetry, scrawled in an old school notebook, dig it out! You may find that an old, possibly somewhat embarrassing piece of poetry is really just the seed of something greater. And write on, write on .. keep writing. You don't need to wait for angst before you pick up your pen.

Silver linings.

I've been cooped up at home, dealing with the side-effects of my new medicines, one of which is feeling totally spaced out. As a result, I haven't driven my dear little car for about a month. So for yesterday's visit to the doctor, I travelled by auto-rickshaw, and that gave me the opportunity to look around me as I went to the doctor's and back. Not just see, but LOOK. And that gave me a lovely little bunch of snippets. Kind of like picking wildflowers, except that this is India, and the pickings are, well, Indian.

I read some interesting signs and graffiti:
"Waterproofing the nation since 1955" (proudly displayed above a small and rather nondescript establishment)
"MINDBLOGGING OFFER!" (on a shop that sold car accessories)
"We needs a republic in Nepal" (a thin sad scrawl on a wall)

I smelt some interesting smells:
The sweetness of pastries as I passed a bakery.
Somewhat disturbing and hugely overpowering odour of alcohol as I sat in the doctor's waiting room. Brought back memories of vodka.
Cigarette smoke (always delicious but not so pleasing when I am stuck in a waiting room and daren't pop out for a fag in case my turn comes up while I'm out).
Stale urine as I walked down to a bookshop after I finished with the doctor (pretty standard in this nation of men with small bladders and bad toilet training. I'm learning not to walk too close to the wall-end of pavements. )

I saw some interesting people:
A little old lady seated pillion on a scooter, resting her head on the broad shoulders of her brawny son, at a traffic light.
A Hindu priest, robed in brilliant saffron, beard, beads and all, with a nice suede pair of loafers on his feet (no socks).
Children (well, they're just plain interesting no matter what they do).

Why I am sharing this on my blog, I'm not sure. Perhaps to point out that life, even the mundane parts of it, doesn't have to be boring. And to remind myself that inspite of the inconvenience, bumpiness and pollution I encounter in an auto rickshaw - as opposed to driving myself comfortably in an air-conditioned car) - there are silver linings everywhere.

The side effects of my medicines should wear off in a few more days, and I'll soon be back to zipping around everywhere in my car. Or will I? Perhaps I should be taking an auto rickshaw once in a while, just to capture some of what I'd miss when I'm at the wheel.

I've just realised why I'm putting all this on my blog. If I'd been out picking wildflowers, I'd have come home and put them in a bowl of water, to enjoy for longer.

Red, revisited.

I recently discovered oil pastels. Basically, these are posh,
lubricated crayons that one can have hours of smudgy fun with.
And much fun have I had, largely on one wall of my home that
I allow myself to scribble on. Of late, though, I've been trying
it out on paper, and here's something I did this evening.













Recognise her? It's Red Riding Hood. She's grown up now,
and has made her way out:  unafraid of the forest behind her,
and unintimidated by the demons ahead that may try to whisper
fear and doubt back into her heart.

The moon wanes

The moon wanes
parchment yellow in an inky sky.
Crisp with age, come upon suddenly
like an old love-letter I never meant
to read again.

#

(Written on 24/9/1994 at 9:05 pm)

"I'm so depressed."

The world uses it too lightly. For a movie that's house-full. For a cancelled appointment. For an extra kilo on the paunch. For another way of saying, "I'm bored, I'm lonely, I'm pissed off."

So when I say, "I'm depressed," I can hardly expect people to respond with anything but the usual well-meant, unasked for suggestions, advice, and opinions: it's just in your mind, if only you'd pray, other people are worse off, you have nothing to be depressed about, etc, etc, ad nauseam.

Here we are in the 21st century, and yet very few people actually know that depression is an illness. And beyond knowing on an intellectual level, one needs to understand and truly believe - just because something is true and we "know" it, doesn't mean that we accept it.

In dealing with my depression, I'm like that. I often see it as a sign of my weakness or ingratitude. For all my reading, knowledge, intelligence - I find it hard to accept that this is a medical condition I have, an illness.

I'm working on it. I'm trying to tell myself that like diabetes or asthma it's a condition that requires a combination of medical treatment, professional help and lifestyle changes. That it's something I can't pretend does not exist, that I must be watchful and take enough care of myself to prevent those otherwise inevitable episodes that are so easy to fall deep into, and so difficult to climb out of.

I'm currently climbing .. and while taking some time off for just this, I did some de-cluttering at home. I went through a lot of old papers and journals, threw a lot out, kept some for keepsakes, some to rework and edit, and some to share. Here's what I had scrawled on a little scrap of paper some years ago when I was going through a depressive episode:

I grieve deep within
a place where
nothing grows
where there are no
beginnings
and just one end.

The Potion Master's remedy for broken souls.

Something for Richa.

I haven't been writing for a while, but my dear friend and die-hard blog fan Richa's Facebook comments made me feel like picking up my pen again (actually it was a pencil). I'd had a difficult couple of days, stressed out and unable to sleep. The thought of having to wake up at six to take Dad to hospital for his cataract operation was not a jolly one. The resentment of always being the one who gets roped in for these things, didn't help. I was tired and grumpy, doing my best to smile my way through and be pleasant, but I wasn't a very happy person today. Finally, this evening, I got away and took some time for myself, and that's when this bit of writing happened. It's not exactly a poem, but I think it's poetic. Thanks Richa, for pushing me to write!

Crescent

The day dawned ugly.
Anger, fear, grief, rage
dragged me through.
Bruised by irritation and guilt,
I crept away to be alone,
not hoping for comfort or understanding,
just silence, stillness and some semblance
of what it is not to exist.
But then I happened to glance up,
and found the moon was smiling down at me.

A visit to the world's tallest monolith

Sravanabelagola is quite a mouthful. In more ways than one, as my pictures will reveal. This quiet little town is home to the famous statue of Lord Gomateshwara, of the Jain religion. This statue is 18 metres high, and has been standing right here in Karnataka all this while - but I only discovered it on Monday. It is carved all out of one piece of rock and is the world's tallest monolith.


Needless to say, I could not resist using the zoom lens.

It took several hours to drive out here from Bangalore, but that's just the start of the journey. After arriving at the temple, there's still the small matter of climbing 1000 steps - great big granite steps in the side of a mountain. It is not as easy as it sounds, and I recommend warm-up exercises - my legs were in agony for the next three days. But it was well worth the climb, to finally find the statue towering over everything. (The railings you see in the picture below is a modern addition to help us unfit 21st centurians to stagger up those steps - and that picture was taken only about a third of the way up!) It really was a wonderful experience to add to my life.

A new blog for Gladys

Gladys is growing up. She's still seven years old, but is obviously going through some adolescent pangs, because she's been insisting she needs her own space. She also assures me that this will lessen my workload (yeah, right) because from now on she will be taking care of her own afore-mentioned space, hence leaving me free to do other stuff.

Did I say 'space'? I meant spaces.

Gladys now has her own Facebook profile. You can find her there with a quick search for "Gladys Tonsils". I must say she's doing rather a good job of it. I'm beginning to think her FB page is more interesting than mine. It's all that clowny information she posts. Good stuff to go through.

And as of today, Gladys also has her own blog - click on My Nose Is Blogged to visit it. Right now she's back-dating to fill everyone in on her history. She's been doing a lot of hard work, going through our old diaries and blog posts. She says it must all be chronologically correct for when she becomes a legend one day.

Is this space enough for Gladys? I think not. She's already making scribbles for her own website. I'll keep you posted.

MY NOSE IS BLOGGED: The Serious Business of Clowning

Oh those clowns just can't keep their red noses of the news these days! Here they are again in today's Deccan Herald. Of course the DH has gone and got totally confused and actually captioned the picture wrong. Nazu and Severine indeed! That's clearly a picture of Glad and Miss Rose.

Glad, you ask? Short for Gladys? No, not at all. That's Gladys' twin brother, Glad. He visits us infrequently, being quite a shy soft-spoken boy. In fact, he only seems to find his voice when Gladys loses hers. (Refer to Gladys' history with pharyngitis for more details).

HAIKU NOODLES: Gaza

*
Sometimes I kill ants.
How then dare I ask my God
why innocents die?
*

I confess. If there's a lot of them, I might wash them away with water, or spray them with a pesticide, if they happen to be on "my" territory. Sometimes I'll just be sitting there, and one little ant will come trundling along, going about its own business, and I'll squash it with my finger. It's so easy. It's so insignificant.

They say God made us in His image. I hope He's nothing like us.

SILENTLY SEDUCED, by Kenneth M. Adams

This is an uncomfortable book to read, as I can see not just myself, but a great many people I know, in its pages. It's about covert incest, which is apparently as common as, well, the regular kind. If not more.

Covert incest is not a physical violation, but rather more about parents enmeshing their emotional lives with their children to compensate for an unfulfilling relationship with their spouse.


Given that most people on this planet would rather gouge out their eyeballs than admit their parents seriously lack in parenting skills, I recommend this book to: EVERYONE. Needless to say, most everyone will refuse to pick this book up, for fear of what it will reveal. But the few of you who have the courage to, will find it an eye-opener (much better than turning away or the eye-gouging option, both of which just leave you blind). Here are just a few of the many lines I'd like to share:


"There is nothing loving or caring about a close parent-child relationship when it services the needs and feelings of the parent rather than the child.


"The boundary between caring and incestuous love is crossed when the relationship with the child exists to meet the needs of the parent rather than those of the child .. the child becomes an object to be manipulated and used so the parent can avoid the pain and reality of a troubled marriage. The child feels used and trapped .. over time, the child becomes preoccupied with the parent's needs and feels protective and concerned. A psychological marriage between parent and child results. The child becomes the parent's surrogate spouse.


"In a covertly incestuous relationship, the parent complains to the child about the difficulties in the marriage .. Both parents are active participants .. one is getting some needs met through the child and the other is relieved at not having to deal with the reality of the dissatisfied partner.


"As long as the abuse or neglect experienced in childhood remains buried within, we recreate our family all over again in adult relationships.


"Many of these families appear well put together, almost the ideal or perfect family on the outside. This makes it much more difficult to confront the past in an effort to find the roots of one's current struggles to grow and become healthy.


"It isn't always the abuse, neglect or abandonment one suffers as a child which later interfere with happiness, but rather the distortion in perception which results. The classic example is, 'I beat you for your own good'. Certainly being beaten is damaging, but being told it is for one's 'own good' is the factor that will haunt the child for a lifetime.


" .. it is a set-up for some some form of addictive or compulsive lifestyle. Because of the broken spirit, pain and discomfort of being objectified as a child and feeling inappropriate sexual energy, the adult covert incest victim has a difficult time being comfortable with his body. Addictions represent an escape from the body and a way to medicate feelings. Sexual addiction and workaholism .. food addiction, alcoholism, compulsive spending, shopping, gambling and drug addiction are also common.


" .. those people who give in regularly to their addiction (be it food, sex or gambling) are the ones who remain in denial about the root injury that opened the way to the addiction in the first place.


"Covert incest victims seldom experience life as spontaneous and guilt-free. Rather, they are burdened with a sense of never doing or being enough and are removed from the real or true inner life of who they are. Early on they realise their only source of self-worth rests in sacrificing their own needs and feelings to the emotionally vacant and seductive parent. For a child there is no choice in this - it is a matter of survival. Yet these children intuitively know and as adults are consciously aware of the murder of their souls.


"Real emancipation cannot be given. It must be taken. Emotional maturity cannot be realised until emancipation occurs. You cannot be an adult man or woman and simultaneously hold onto Mommy or Daddy."


from
SILENTLY SEDUCED
When Parents Make Their Children Partners
by Kenneth M. Adams, Ph.D.