Jump in with both feet tangled...

It’s been yonks since I’ve posted and I truly did believe the words had deserted me until I railed against a post this morning on my college Watsapp group. Living away from India I have been watching the drama in my hometown of Mangalore for the past few months develop into passionate frenzy the past month due to the State elections, with a nonchalant eye, half closed really.

The shit storm of politics never interested me, even though Mother is a fire brand supporter of the Congress party. I think it had more to do with Rajiv’s good looks than ideology and of course his death, which gave him unwarranted hero status. Mum would write to newspaper and magazine editorials, very passionately about her beliefs, most often as counter arguments (now you know where some of this keeda germinates from) and Heaven help us when they were published.

When young we rolled our eyes behind her back, as we grew we rolled them in her face and when we grew balls we asked her to buzz off (Mother… I am your oldest child and you know by now that I’m inappropriate, ill-mannered and irreverent, don’t disown me yet, serves you right for making us endure all those odious political debates and news… you should have allowed us to watch Krishi Darshan).

Yeah so, politics and me??? Unlikely bed fellows. I hate politics, hate politicians and hate to waste my time on the dumbf*ks. I think ALL of them are cut from the same miserable sackcloth that is driven by greed for either power or wealth and those who are not aren’t worth their salt since they are impotent. This is my personal opinion and I do not want to hear about the “clean” politicians. If you know them, hallelujah! good for you.

The past few years have married religion and politics in India and history has proven how dangerous this liaison can be. World history has taught us about the damaging influence of the Church as a sovereign, Martin Luther and his band of prostitutes have damaged the world forever. Ok ok! Protestants. (How do I keep mother away from reading this post?). 

How much unnecessary bloodshed has the world seen, how many innocent lives were lost? To what end? Look at Europe today, most of it is either atheistic or agnostic. But will we learn??? Ah no!!! what is a popular dogma today will be dust on a history book on a long forgotten shelf in a few years.

 

What unleashed this torrent of words is this terrible feeling of utter helplessness and despair as I watch the path of self-destruction our society is headed towards. For someone who tears up every time our national anthem is played and wore a red bindi to church on my wedding day, lights diyas for Diwali and draws rangoli, don’t tell me my identity is connected to the religion I was born into. 

Do not automatically assume I have any allegiance to a particular political party and for sanitary pad's sake don’t expect me to blindly beat the Modi drum. I have nothing against the man personally. The vermin that have emerged from the woodwork under his regime is who I want to piss on. (err.. chill!)

I get it that using Hindutva is a political strategy by the party and most people are falling like nine pins for it, going as far as to ‘rewrite’ history since the books we read taught us a distorted version of history apparently. What exactly did those lessons teach us and how did they influence us and our thinking? Methinks, I would still be this gruesome piece of shit no matter what.

Ok, confession time… I’m frightened shitless, like seriously crapping in my chaddies, heart beating wildly types (nopes, not ogling at Milind) as the thinking of my ‘elite and intellectual’ friends seems to have left the room. One even went on to say, “we Hindus have taken so much shit, we are done, our patience has run out and you better watch it.” 

Eh??? When did I become ‘you’ and when did you become ‘we’.  The bourgeoisie has its brains between the nuts, understood… but those with grey cells that I admire and respect, how does the obvious Fascism escape their notice. 

This is just a political gimmick to divide and rule, by playing into religious sentiment, they have mired rational thinking. If you repeat a fallacy thrice, the fourth time you say it, you will with conviction. Your brain, enslaves you, why do most people who commit suicide with a gun shoot themselves in the head? They have to silence the master. All these posts (by each political party) are insidiously altering our cerebellum and so craftily. Should we lose our rationale too??? More importantly our humane selves??? (Mother… say nicely for me)

Hell yeah!

Woke up to umpteen posts on Sridevi's demise and had to vent.

While we should respect the dead, and I do, her immense talent and the joys her movies brought... to me she was India’s finest female actor. Thanks to social media we will mourn her, cremate her and dissect her life and also make grand proclamations of how she should have led it. We know it all.

There are so many posts about her surgeries and the need to look young and "beautiful" including holding her husband responsible, why couldn’t he have stopped her apparently!!! ... from which angle did she look like she needed to be told and stopped, we insult our own intelligence by giving anyone else the right to dictate.

But, a great time to revisit our own thinking on beauty and appearances and the lengths we go to achieve this. Just last week, my 28 year old Lebanese colleague shared the contacts of a clinic where she had been to. For collagen injections on her lips for the perfect pout and chemical peels. I’m not ashamed to admit I was tempted, not for the pout but the lines between my brows and around my eyes. I want to look good too.

Whose definition of good is what I’m questioning now.

How simple life was, I remember the days of my parents, not too long ago and yet prevalent in their psyche that voluptuousness was true beauty. Our genetic makeup is essentially of a full round figure, look at the illustrations of the Kamasutra, the temple carvings all over India, our Goddesses and Ravi Varma’s paintings to the actresses we so loved and to the women in our families. Did they get flack for fat?

I’m first to admit that we are not our mothers and though in our mid-forties, our spirit is way younger. My mother was 41 when I got married and I remember thinking that she was old! I’m 46 and God knows I don’t feel my age, is there a set norm for that too? You’re supposed to feel and think and look this way because you are this age?

Ah! Coming to the crux of the matter, we don’t not want our physical appearance to mirror our age especially since our mind and spirit do not conform to the physical changes of the body. A dearly beloved friend who is 60 but has the body of a 20 year old tells me, I don’t want to look an age I don’t feel. Another tells me, you’re either beautiful or lazy. Such tremendous emphasis on being well turned out. I am desperate to stop hennaing my hair and going grey yet balk at the thought, I will look old methinks and a despairing sense of gloom sets in.

We talk about preserving our culture from the cow to the cowards, of women’s emancipation and equal rights, of a forward society. Bullshit. The first thing we do when we meet each other is comment on how much weight we have lost or gained. We talk disparagingly about those who are ‘fat’. Looking like you’ve given the entire world and its cousin a blowjob with sunken cheeks and pallid skin is fine. We’ve got cosmetics to take care of that.

We, us, we are the harbingers of change, not the eighties, nineties or the millennial kids. It’s us. Coming from the sleepy town of Mangalore, we ventured out, from the education to the professions or even being home makers but all of us have a voice and an attitude. Let me repeat we are NOT our mothers. We are the bridge between the complete disconnect of our parents and children’s generations.

True freedom is freeing the mind from shackles and misconceptions and someone else’s idea of what acceptable should be. It may not be the curves our parents admired or the planes our kids do. We should be allowed to age gracefully wrinkles and all and why do we need to hide them exactly? I have lines around my eyes and mouth from laughing too much and those between my brows from frowning too much. I’m short staffed on patience, hell yeah. Each line emerged as my inner self expressed itself. They are my badges of honor and dishonor.

Stay healthy, walk your butt off, work out, stretch those muscles with yoga and whatever the hell gets your goat. Do you need surgical intervention to craft a body that someone else will glance at for a few moments, exclaim and then promptly forget. People are too busy with their own shit to give you more than fleeting thoughts and this is whether you’re fat or thin. Loose talk drifts faster than pee after a bladder ultrasound.

When you see a woman in a saree with love handles popping out, don’t snicker but look into her eyes, feel her verve and if you are inspired, go tell she’s beautiful. Every woman is. And yes you women, who claim to be intelligent, modern and responsible, behave like you are. Don’t ever let anyone else tell you what and how you should be.

Hell yeah!

Woke up to umpteen posts on Sridevi's demise and had to vent.

While we should respect the dead, and I do, her immense talent and the joys her movies brought... to me she was India’s finest female actor. Thanks to social media we will mourn her, cremate her and dissect her life and also make grand proclamations of how she should have led it. We know it all.

There are so many posts about her surgeries and the need to look young and "beautiful" including holding her husband responsible, why couldn’t he have stopped her apparently!!! ... from which angle did she look like she needed to be told and stopped, we insult our own intelligence by giving anyone else the right to dictate.

But, a great time to revisit our own thinking on beauty and appearances and the lengths we go to achieve this. Just last week, my 28 year old Lebanese colleague shared the contacts of a clinic where she had been to. For collagen injections on her lips for the perfect pout and chemical peels. I’m not ashamed to admit I was tempted, not for the pout but the lines between my brows and around my eyes. I want to look good too.
Whose definition of good is what I’m questioning now.

How simple life was, I remember the days of my parents, not too long ago and yet prevalent in their psyche that voluptuousness was true beauty. Our genetic makeup is essentially of a full round figure, look at the illustrations of the Kamasutra, the temple carvings all over India, our Goddesses and Ravi Varma’s paintings to the actresses we so loved and to the women in our families. Did they get flack for fat?

I’m first to admit that we are not our mothers and though in our mid-forties, our spirit is way younger. My mother was 41 when I got married and I remember thinking that she was old! I’m 46 and God knows I don’t feel my age, is there a set norm for that too? You’re supposed to feel and think and look this way because you are this age?

Ah! Coming to the crux of the matter, we don’t not want our physical appearance to mirror our age especially since our mind and spirit do not conform to the physical changes of the body. A dearly beloved friend who is 60 but has the body of a 20 year old tells me, I don’t want to look an age I don’t feel. Another tells me, you’re either beautiful or lazy. Such tremendous emphasis on being well turned out. I am desperate to stop hennaing my hair and going grey yet balk at the thought, I will look old methinks and a despairing sense of gloom sets in.

We talk about preserving our culture from the cow to the cowards, of women’s emancipation and equal rights, of a forward society. Bullshit. The first thing we do when we meet each other is comment on how much weight we have lost or gained. We talk disparagingly about those who are ‘fat’. Looking like you’ve given the entire world and its cousin a blowjob with sunken cheeks and pallid skin is fine. We’ve got cosmetics to take care of that.

We, us, we are the harbingers of change, not the eighties, nineties or the millennial kids. It’s us. Coming from the sleepy town of Mangalore, we ventured out, from the education to the professions or even being home makers but all of us have a voice and an attitude. Let me repeat we are NOT our mothers. We are the bridge between the complete disconnect of our parents and children’s generations.

True freedom is freeing the mind from shackles and misconceptions and someone else’s idea of what acceptable should be. It may not be the curves our parents admired or the planes our kids do. We should be allowed to age gracefully wrinkles and all and why do we need to hide them exactly? I have lines around my eyes and mouth from laughing too much and those between my brows from frowning too much. I’m short staffed on patience, hell yeah. Each line emerged as my inner self expressed itself. They are my badges of honor and dishonor.

Stay healthy, walk your butt off, work out, stretch those muscles with yoga and whatever the hell gets your goat. Do you need surgical intervention to craft a body that someone else will glance at for a few moments, exclaim and then promptly forget. People are too busy with their own shit to give you more than fleeting thoughts and this is whether you’re fat or thin. Loose talk drifts faster than pee after a bladder ultrasound.

When you see a woman in a saree with love handles popping out, don’t snicker but look into her eyes, feel her verve and if you are inspired, go tell she’s beautiful. Every woman is. And yes you women, who claim to be intelligent, modern and responsible, behave like you are. Don’t ever let anyone else tell you what and how you should be.

Peregrinate...

Sometimes the keeda in my head is a word. This morning at the Toastmasters meeting that I attended, the word of the day was peregrinate. It won’t leave my head, has been playing on loop like a broken vinyl and not like it’s the first time I heard it.

My earliest memory of the word is Robert Kincaid saying “I am the highway and the peregrine and all the sails that ever went to sea” to Francesca Johnson during one of their deliciously long sessions, described thus: “The leopard swept over her, again and again and yet again, like a long prairie wind, and rolling beneath him, she rode on that wind like some temple virgin towards the sweet, compliant fires marking the soft curve of oblivion”.

Leopard didn’t stay but peregrine falcon did and is back with a vengeance today. The word "peregrine" means "wanderer" or "pilgrim”. This post is a meandering into my rabid mind, why does this appeal so much to me! After all peregrine, aubergine sound almost alike and the poor vegetable doesn’t beleaguer the duffer head, like ever. Ok so it’s not the consonance.

It is the visions that the word conjures, of the majestic hunter that the falcon is soaring above the skies, free and powerful. A terrible attempt at Freudian interpretation here, if indeed he had to, I’m sure he’d find a phallic association, kinky fart that he was.

The Peregrine Falcon is a very fast flier, and may reach speeds of 320 km/h (200 mph) as it drops toward its prey.

I like that. It’s fast and furious, businesslike, calculating and precise. But this ain’t it.

What appeals most is not the bird or the word but how it was used by Robert Kincaid to describe himself, offering it almost like an apology to Francesca and telling her that he was here, now and will be gone the next. For those of you who have read the Bridges of Madison County know that this was the greatest fallacy of the book.

He writes her a letter years later which reads thus: “I live with dust on my heart. That's about as well as I can put it. There were women before you, a few, but none after. I made no conscious pledge to celibacy; I'm just not interested.

I once watched a Canada goose whose mate had been shot by hunters. They mate for life, you know. The gander circled the pond for days, and more days after that. When I last saw him, he was swimming alone through the wild rice, still looking. I suppose that analogy is a little too obvious for literary tastes, but it's pretty much the way I feel.”

Technically I should now hook up on Canada geese after the bloody leopard and the falcon but no… peregrine stays and soars.

Maybe it echoes the wanderlust in my soul that although builds nests, seeks to peregrinate… all the time!

Ennui…Envy?

French word, pronounced ‘on we’ means boredom and lethargy.

Pretty close to the English envy methinks, not just in the pronunciation but also in the individual meaning. Idle mind being the devils workshop is such an oft repeated adage that it loses its pallor due to overuse.

Yet, isn’t it the vacuous mind that meanders aimlessly seeking a plausible excuse, so what if it’s a dull one, latches on like a cootie close to the booty on that something that the other possesses.  

Oh and both ennui and envy are one of the seven cardinal sins, which I think is a bit much. C’mon if anything, jealousy should wear that badge, not poor envy.

The difference between envy and jealousy are complicated but not. Envy is the feeling one has when they do not, but want to possess an attribute that another has. It is also called a two person situation, plain vanilla. Jealousy on the other hand is something that occurs when a third person threatens what we possess. Also called a three person situation, ménage à trois.

Capiche?  Not as simple since we use the two words often interchangeably. If asked to narrate an instance where one felt this not very laudable emotion, how would you answer. Once you have answered, lets dissect it. 

So was it something someone has that you wish is yours or does something you wish you could, then that’s envy. Was it when someone you believe is yours and they develop a yen for someone else and that gives you gut burn, now that’s jealousy.

Is it completely wrong then and should one suffer pangs of guilt for indulging in either. I’ve seen how envy at times has spurred an individual to achieve a goal and jealousy allowing someone to morph into achieving more.

A lotus arises from the mud after all. Why not a positive outcome from a negative emotion. As always balance, balance and balance is the mantra. Ennui though needs a kick on the butt and indulge if you may… for a brief bit and then give it the boot.

Oui...

Juxtaposition…

I love the word, it has nine phenomes! Phenomenal me thinks… not I’m not stoned. Yet. Seriously, say the word slowwwly… ja k s ta po zi sh a n. See!!!

I haven’t written for a while, thought it was writer’s block, truth be told it is the Florentino syndrome. 

Have to revert to the natural order of things since apparently everything comes, even the words.

Ok sounds good the word, what the exact meaning and how does one use it in common parlance?

Quote: Juxtaposition is placing two elements or words side by side and letting the reader or viewer compare them. This act compares and contrasts the two elements and can show irony, humor or sadness. Unquote.

Pretty much like oxymoron and paradox. Cold and heat, false and true, perfection and flaw. In a sentence: I grip you gently with angel’s claws. Being cruel to be kind.

Remember that chilling scene in the Godfather when Michael Corleone takes vows as his nephew’s Godfather in the church and the spate of murders being executed at the same time. Birth and death. Juxtaposition.

Pretty much the prevalent disposition. Nascent and ancient, weary and rejuvenated, thoroughly loving hating it. How I thrive in simple complication and contriving coldly sweltering tableau's. 

Must be my name, apparently means the bee’s expulsion. Sigh! Which explains why I need a buzz. No no, not the dutch toys. In the cerebellum and myocardium. Latter over the former.

Most likely that it’s just the position! No no, not switching hammocks. Much of the tragicomic scenes of this drama called life are created by the idiot self. Scenarios fabricated to entertain the dullard brain. What’s life without angst. What’s art without a muse. 

What’s a position if it ain’t juxtaposed!

Þetta reddast...

“Þetta reddast” the Icelandic philosophy of life can be translated to “it will all work out okay”. ‘Þ’ pronounced as ‘th’, almost. Those who know me will figure out why I felt absolutely at home.

Travelogues aren’t my style, I know, I know, I've been told too! Sigh! This isn’t one. At best is a simple recap of seven days of incredible experiences, insights and the dope on my shenanigans.

I guess it’s natural that we have preconceived notions and theories of a country and the people. Iceland as a country and people is fascinating and blows all prior perceptions to smithereens. So, they haven’t fought a war, have no history of battles except for the Viking led ones and they don’t have their army to date!!! It was hard to digest and I asked them many questions on the why and when and the simple answer was, who would want to live here and what would they aspire to plunder and lord over.

Which probably explains why there are no grand monuments, forts, castles and wartime memorabilia unlike the other European countries I have toured, nor do the people have any military background and maybe the discipline that comes from such experience? Their crime rate is one of the lowest in the world, translate crime to narcotic and finance based. Murder rate is 1.8 per year for the past decade. Education including university and health care is absolutely free for all. There are no private schools, which ensures there is social equality and the tax rate is at 37%.

Iceland doesn’t grow vegetables or fruits in its natural environs, the only vegetables they grow like potatoes, cauliflowers and salad greens are in greenhouses. They are very proud of their two banana plants which are a national treasure and they spend enormous amounts of money ensuring their sustenance. The only fruit bearing plants they have!

I spent six days running two workshops with the Icelandic and Norwegian people, touring the countryside, socializing, learning about our products and spent all of my coherent time and some incoherent time with them. The country is cold but the people are genuinely warm and giving, openly affectionate and completely chilled out, pun intended.

 I suppose I went to Iceland to impart learning and have returned with too many to count in one go and these are life lessons that inspire and elevate. Have learned much from each person I met and three gentlemen stand tall. They are part of the original team that built the business the company I work for recently bought.

The older of the two is the perfect example of ‘Servant Leadership’, gave me the spiel on the beer I should imbibe (beer was legalized in Iceland on 1 March 1989 and they celebrate the day as a national holiday!) to a grand tour of the offices and took us to the west of Iceland just so we could see the products in the fish farms and rivers… his thoughtfulness was incredible as he brought along massive eskimo jackets, scarves and gloves for the ‘hot’ chicks.

The other gentleman is a fitness enthusiast, hiker, off roader, adrenaline junkie and a photographer par excellence and drove us to the East of Iceland, aurora hunting and to sample the lobsters of Iceland called Langoustine, the yummiest crustacean and a smaller cousin of the lobsters we are accustomed to.

The third is a Scot married to an Icelandic woman, his sense of humor reflects the Icelanders, dry self-deprecating and if you can get it, hilarious! Loves his motorbikes, fitness and the people who work in the outfit. He’s the funny bone that tickles the ribs and keeps the human spirit alive.

Of the 39 member team, 5 were Norwegian and the banter n gentle ribbing between the Icelandic people and Norwegians was utterly refreshing. Each believed the other was affecting their salmon farming and is almost willing to borrow the current American president to build a wall in the sea! The conversations in the pubs after a barrage of barrels were riots of laughter.

If they have a national food, its Skyr. A cultured diary product like yoghurt but not and has been part of their cuisine for thousands of years. They are not accustomed to eating vegetables and are only learning the art now, sweet potato being the favorite. Fish is staple diet, salmon, trout, haddock and cod are consumed with great relish, smaller fish like mackerels are used as bait and never for human consumption. Lamb is the favored meat, beef comes second and none of the restaurants that I went to served any pork although pork ribs are part of the Christmas spread. Whale, reindeer and horse meat are common.

The landscape like I said before is desolate, stark, unyielding and barren except for clumps of moss that grows like an afterthought. There are plenty of volcanic mountains, lava fields, rivers, glacial rivers, lakes, geysers, hot springs, glaciers and glacial caves. The eye is trained for a certain kind of beauty that is lush and voluptuous with foliage and color. Minus the frondescence and you find everything else. Hunting, fishing, fly fishing, sailing and hiking are very popular and almost every Icelander does one, more or all of the above.

The northern lights or the aurora borealis is a pain in the you know where. She’s a fickle mistress, willful and erratic and is hard as hell to catch. When she does appear you feel like you’ve been blessed. A word of caution for all who want to behold her, she isn’t a movie show or theatrical act that you can expect a performance just ‘cos you paid for it. We hunted her for six nights and only caught faint glimpses of her twice. The picture I had posted earlier is not how I saw her. The camera captured her light far better than our eyes could, so yes keep those expectations really low and count yourself lucky if you do witness her grandeur but let it not be the reason for your Icelandic adventure.

Oh and save for the Icelandic experience. Like now. It’s expensive. The accommodation (Airbnb included) is at least 50 percent higher than other destinations and their public transport system isn’t great. In fact real bad. From the Keflavik airport you can take the Flybus which takes you to Reykjavik and to most hotels. Book online before you travel. You can drive or do the guided tours. Driving is the best option though. It’s packed with tourists, Americans and Chinese being the majority. Get to the airport four hours in advance. Keflavik airport is bloody crowded as it also connects North America with Europe and due Iceland’s own tourist activity. Food is expensive too and you cannot buy fruits off the counters like you do rest of Europe. You can, but it costs and arm and leg. If you're flying in to a Scandinavian country for a connection to Kef, ensure you have enough time between transfers as you have to clear immigration at the first port of landing. I had a two hour layover in Stockholm and it wasn't nearly enough! The queue was terrible and I had to beg and plead people to advance to the front.

The day before I was scheduled to fly out, happy in a pub, I was fretting over not having spoken to the hotel yet about my transport to the airport and a beautiful Icelandic woman, turned towards me and said, “Hey! Heard about “Þetta reddast”? I said yeah, that’s my life motto. She looked at me for a few seconds in silence and burst out laughing. “You have a bad memory then! What is the worst that can happen if you don’t get through to the hotel, you will walk in a little late on shaky legs and tell them what you’re desperate to now. You are neither living here nor there. “Þetta reddast” girl, always “Þetta reddast”. Happily, I took the advice. The hangover was anything but happy. Sigh!

So yeah "Þetta reddast" is me.