The a an mea culpa…

The English language, no matter how proficient you are, can confound at times and cause you to transgress unerringly.

Exactly like life itself.

Nouns are the Pashas’ of grammar and most other parts of speech dally around describing it. Articles are placed lower in the strata and may seem to be insignificant but are incredibly powerful in giving the noun a definite/ indefinite character.

Overthinking can cause one to blunder in using the right syntax and ruin a sentence. When you believe you’re a savant, the slippery slope leads to arrogance especially when you refuse to apologize or discern the damage.

Exactly like life itself.

Strive then to upgrade knowledge and keep abreast with the reconnaissance of the art of language, the dictionary adds new words every year yet grammar stays constant. Fundamentals remain like our character as we add new skills that morph us. The secret is to never lose touch with the bedrock of one’s true self.

Exactly like life itself.

Words are powerful, when they’ve caused lacerations remember to use all articles there are for reparation. 

The a an mea culpa…

Buyer beware...

When you’re a reader you’re essentially a loner, I’ve always escaped into a world of my own where I’m immersed in the plot, rhythm, characters, storyline and the volatile emotions I flirt with incessantly.

There are however books that asphyxiate and you seek desperately to surface from the terrible emotion that grips until you feel the desperate need to bob up from the mire and breathe unadulterated air, fill your lungs with pure oxygen and shrug violently the devil seated on your chest. If you’re lucky. To happen upon a book like that.

Hanya Yanagihara’s, ‘A Little Life’ is like a fist around your heart, gripping insidiously at first and then its iron clad grasp chokes you and the lump in your throat moves to a vice around your brain till you’re sure you will explode.

When I read the reviews of this book I was amused to read that someone suggested  a support group for the readers of this book. I now wish there was.

While I’m trying to resurface let me tell you why I love this book. It’s about friendships and love. It’s central theme is dark and filled with such terrible pain yet the treatment of this isn’t preachy or judgmental.  This is a voluminous book, 718 pages of which over 200 hundred you will read with clenched fists and helpless despoliation. Morbid really, you want it to end… moth to a flame yet you’re entrapped, unable to stop. Sadism at it’s best. Not the book. Your treatment of it.

This is when you fling the book and go do something mundane, futile, stodgy. Only because your sense of self preservation finally kicks in. When you reach the final page and you know you’re reading the last sentence there is a sense of relief. Finally you are set free. So you think.

The joy of the book is many. It’s set in Manhattan and I could identify almost every avenue and street. The story is about four friends who met as students and their struggles through the years, their relationships with others, with each other and their careers. It struggles with the anxieties of our lives and leads you to a better understanding of human nature especially of mental illness and foibles which we as an ambitious progressive culture fail to comprehend. Against your will you are forced to forgive Jude St. Francis’s decrepitude, waffle between wanting to whack him on the head and hide him in your arms.

Finally what gets me is the lack of recriminations and labelling when there could have been another 200 pages alone on this. My takeaways are too many to mention, let me just say my soul is wrung out of me and I will carry this book for weeks to come and if fortuitous, recover. Don’t want to though. It’s gift abundant.

Read it, Caveat emptor.

Eli Eli lama sabachthani

The seven sayings of Christ on the cross are part of the liturgical meditations of the Lenten season. The parents being devout Protestants ensured that Manny and I had an upbringing which included Sunday school every Sunday, twice if you please. 2 hours in church after the service and 3 hours post lunch at a family friend’s home. Methinks this was a ruse to ensure we weren’t underfoot more than a religious endeavor.

 The Lenten season was special, besides the Sunday service we would go to church on Wednesdays for special service and the holy week beginning with Palm Sunday was solemn as we recollected our many transgressions and tried hard not commit any, at least for that week (nope, didn’t work with me).

Maundy Thursday was when we were most contrite and our penitence was heightened as we partook in the repasting of Christ. Good Friday was spent in church in a three hour service and seven preachers would deliberate on the seven sayings of Christ on the cross and this is one of my best memories of the church I grew up in.

Most of the sermons were by laymen and I loved their interpretation as it was a fresh perspective and not as full pious pomposity of the men/ women of the cloth. These lay preachers made Christ seem more real, more human and someone I could relate to. He sounded more like my friend the Lamb and I would have long dialogues with Him.

Of these seven sayings, the one that affected me most deeply was Christ crying out “Eli Eli lama sabachthani” in Aramaic translated into English “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” I would hurt for Him and find myself mired in sympathy mingled with grief and terrible anguish.

To many people there are many verses from the Bible that are the cornerstone of their faith. To me it is this… “Eli Eli lama sabachthani”, simply because I could identify with the vulnerability of this powerful Lamb who shed all inhibitions to display his lacerations instead of justifying the greater cause.

Methinks I’m shaped by this as well, I connect better with those who aren’t afraid to share their pain and adduce their scars like I do mine. And I’m never afraid to get mad at Him and lament sometimes in rage sometimes in agony, “Eli Eli lama sabachthani”

Until I hear a voice say can it, drama queen!!!

Filigree dreams...

I’m no stranger to metal or mettle. The former since my dad ran a fabrication workshop and the latter as his art spoke for itself. Dad was an artist at creating the most intricate designs. Going to the workshop was always great fun. I loved the sounds, sights and smells, the electric flame of welding, that began as gold, turned blue and violet and then white and the sizzling crackle as the metal smote in rebellion as it connected (while it should rather rejoice at the mating) with fire.

As is common with Protestant men from Mangalore, mechanical, structural, electrical works are almost second nature to them and they owe this to the influence of the Basel Mission via Hebich Technical Training Institute run by KACES in Balmatta. Which meant that I had an entire family that dabbled in the similar line of business and technical terms of welding, lathing, milling and the like were thrown around carelessly like flecks of lint you brush off hand.

Women of the community weren’t encouraged to pursue this vocation, they either ended up as teachers or nurses, once again owing to the Basel Mission’s Mission hospital and Schools. No no! this isn’t a lament about lost opportunities, my track record in school wouldn’t afford me dreams of any sort, even ‘fabricated’ ones.

As fate would have it, I began as an English lecturer (true to form) and now work with a manufacturing unit and our foundry and machine shop adopts best in class technology. I walk into the shopfloor and am assailed with memories of daddy’s ‘Indian Industries’, feels somehow more like home than in the sterilized office space.

As sometimes reminiscence does, while transported from a white washed sterile hue into one of vibrancy that colors and admonishes your every sense, you stagger at the impact and flounder trying to find your foothold lest you fall flat on your roman nose (mine is a pale imitation) or on your back (mine is the real Mc Coy!) and steady yourself with whatever is handy and I found strength in filigree. 

Filigree the definition - then delicate work of fine wire, tiny beads or twisted threads formed into delicate tracery soldered and artistically arranged. Filigree the allusion.

Ah! This peregrination… from fabrication to filigree!

Prolific profit

So read this post today from the second Gospel in the New Testament.

Mark 8:36 "For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?"

It has also been extensively to denote anguish in plays, movies and literary works like Oscar Wilde's 'The Picture of Dorian Gray' and a few thrillers... and has always bothered me, like it’s supposed to I guess.

It evokes the deepest thoughts and most dire thoughts, apocalyptic.

But now, it gets me thinking… lose my soul… hmnnn. Let me count the ways.

Just saying...

I am a mass of confusion, like a ship without a mast wildly flailing

Hold that thought for just a minute, you see I know exactly where I’m going

I’m the chaos and cacophony when the school bells rings to signal recess

The flower bed that’s decimated when the gale has blown the deluge to distress

The tortured monogamist who seeks solace in the arms of his mistress

And yet I’m the peace of the restful baby’s fluttering eyelashes

The solace of the cadaver lying cold before it is burnt into ashes

Dark and light, devoid yet bright, competely wrong but perfectly right

Lift and Elevate…

Watching life is a much loved avocation. The elevator never ceases to provide riveting opportunities. Specially the one to my office on the 22^nd floor in a busy building. It’s forever crowded with people entering and alighting constantly and the lift is never free. Too many people, too few lifts.

I watch, sometimes unobtrusively, at times voyeuristically and when occasion demands, brazenly the milieu that I’m trapped in an enclosed space with. Sometimes endlessly it seems (body odor people, body odor!) it’s wonderful to be in a multicultural society, having the fortuity to absorb different cultures and subtle and overt nuances.

There’s a new outfit that has taken up six floors of the building and this lot is the most interesting. They’re in real estate and they are dressed to kill. Like literally! The men are all in three piece suits and the waistcoat is colorful, the cravat, neck tie, pocket square brightly patterned silk that screams garish glamor. The folk are like their garb, loud and ostentatious.

Not much to comment about the women since they are much like the other of their ilk, impeccably turned out with the apparel, bags, shoes, watches, jewelry and sun glasses flaunting brands. Such a feast for the eyes. The ones who walk in solo fiddle with their phones or adjust their hemlines and necklines in the mirror that frames one wall of the lift. The men are pretty much the same minus the fiddling.

Those who enter in groups have loud conversations and I know the P&L of their companies as well as their bonus schemes too. It’s like they’re in their conference rooms discussing company policy. Completely oblivious that they are in a public space.

Earlier this week, as I was leaving office after a long day and even longer wait for the lift I entered an already full elevator. A quick glance around showed that I was the only female and I pulled out my phone, better finger than fiddle!

Obviously it was a cohesive group by the body language and banter. I didn’t bother with my usual scanning and resolutely kept my attention private until I heard someone say, “This morning I woke on the bitch”.

In a flash my nonchalance vanished, my interest piqued, I glanced upward and before I could glean the perpetrator, I heard someone else from across ask, “On the bridge?” By now I’m teeming with curiosity and there’s no way I’m going to miss out on the action here. The endless possibilities flashed quicker Haley’s comet as my imagination ran amok.

If they were going to discuss this in public, why should I pretend I’m deaf? So I raise my head and look around and there’s this Jamaican guy with big beautiful eyes that sparkled with honesty looking at the rest of them who are agog with curiosity and mouths open wide in wonder and some envy for sure and his expression changed visibly. You could see the understanding dawn on him and he enunciated verrrry slowly, “This morning… I Walk… on the Beach”.

An almost giggle escaped me and I quickly nosedived into my phone. The charged atmosphere dissolved in that instant of anticlimax and the lift reached the ground floor and we walked out and I overheard a few of them saying, “Dude, what were you thinking” and the repartee, “Like you weren’t”.

I carried the memory of those few minutes and continued to smile… lifted and elevated.