Palat vs. Salt

For all of us who've watched DDLJ, the word 'palat' rouses memories of SRK, banjo slung carelessly over his shoulder, eyes dilated with breathless anticipation, lips quivering as he mouths the word, repeatedly. Bloody hell, the moment Kajol turns to look over her shoulder, the theater erupted like a restless volcano.

As a cinematic effect it's been used prolifically in both Hollywood and Bollywood, remember Ingrid Bergman as she walks away from Humphrey Bogart in 'Casablanca'.

Life is supposed to be a lot like movies right, perhaps that's why most people long for that look, the shoulder check/ the palat.

Interesting, having failed the driving test three times ten years ago in the UAE, while desperate for a license, my instructors would tell me I failed 'cos I didn't do the shoulder check which is a mandate here. I could never explain to them that I'd driven for 15 years in India and dared not take my eyes off the road to do a shoulder check or any check for that matter, except eye candy of course for the ever present threat of landing into an auto rickshaw or under a bus. I remember practicing this until I cleared the test and I'm glad I did, this has saved me more times than I care to cite as I change lanes.

Ah, the shoulder check now, mandatory while driving, necessary at goodbye's, is mired in disgrace. Permit me to introduce you to Lot and his lot.

Lot was Abraham's nephew and the poor sod had a raw deal I guess, not only did his wife turn into a pillar of salt but his two daughters seduced him when he was in an inebriated state and had babies too. Lot's fate has not been lamented upon as much as his wife's is, well her fate isn't really repined except used as a warning. Why did she morph into a pillar of salt? Well, she looked towards the city of Sodom and that shoulder check sealed her fate. The city of Sodom was immured with impenitent sin and yes buggery, in case you were wondering why the name sounds familiar. Genesis, the first book of the Old Testament.

Back to the poor salt obelisk, apparently her venial desires spurred the palat and she paid for it and how.

Dilemna is, now what, should we or shouldn't we? If you think carefully, all the shenanigans with the shoulder check/ palat have been concupiscent from then to now. Is this terribly wrong then?

A friend of mine keeps repeating, there is no reverse gear in life and one should always look forward. Being the frail, faulty and frivolous individuals we are, a peek over the shoulder is part of who we are. Rather than view the action as flagitious, I'd like to use it to thwart dangers unseen. A recce of past actions and outcomes are vital. Doing a shoulder check may also prove to allow us to see beyond a twenty twenty vision, a wider periphery then, a panoramic view. We should learn from mistakes, eh?

Oh yeah, now if your eyes beam licentiously while you're doing that, go right ahead. It's better to be sagaciously salty than sickly sweet.

So go on... and palat...

You’re guilty, yes you…

When I ponder over my actions and my thinking, I’m predominantly assailed by pangs of guilt over the things I did and didn’t, said and shouldn’t have, over feeling happy and satisfied, over unbridled laughter, at achieving something , basically over things that have brought much joy. Immediately guilt comes calling along with a sense of foreboding.

As I gouge a little deeper into the recesses of my mind and memories, I’m certain that these insidious thoughts are a reflection of the coalescence of religion, family values, upbringing, environment and people who have influenced me. No this isn’t remonstrance nor is recrimination against anyone, just thinking out loud, this blog my confessional (in my defense).

The society and faith that I grew up in somehow ingrained it into us that we had no right to enjoy the pleasures of this world since we were reason for the cross on Calvary and every nail and thorn that pierced the Lamb of God was our doing. Oh and this world is a passing fancy, the real McCoy was Paradise and we’re better off suffering in this temporary dwelling since infinite joys await us yonder.

What stemmed from this thinking went deeper and touched almost every aspect of our character, from being treated differently according to our gender, the norms on what we could and couldn’t do to and in our roles as we became spouses and parents. Even now, when we do something solely for ourselves and spend that extra penny on a simple pleasure we feel like we’ve committed a grave sin. I’m not going any further with this, I’m pretty sure each of us can identify.

Is this a bad thing then, if we didn’t feel remorse would we be a fractious and unruly people who lived without morals and values and let our base instincts get the better of us enabling a violent society. If all of us lived by our own norms would it be anarchy?

Would we on the other hand be more creative, open, vulnerable and human if we didn’t?

Tell me what you think… I love a good debate... guilty as charged!

To be a new born…sigh!

Having married and gone to live in the coffee plantation I was an eager beaver, wanted to learn everything about coffee, from brewing a perfect cup to growing the perfect beans (none I can claim glory or adequacy over!!!)

So my lessons begin, coffee is largely two varieties, Arabica and Robusta which have diverse sub species, the former a dainty plant with narrow trunk and narrow leaves and the latter true to its name, a robust and sturdy plant with coffee growing in clumps making it a pretty sight.

One of the first tasks we did as a young couple was prepare the nursery, not for our offspring but for the plants that we needed to grow as we were replanting the estate. The best looking coffee beans of the previous year’s yield would be encrusted with ash and preserved as we would fill soil into little plastic pouches, use a twig to poke an indentation and drop the seed in gently.

Great prudence was exercised in the care of the plants and the health of the sapling was vital. In about a year or fourteen months’ time, depending on its sinew, the plant would be transferred into the real world, i.e. into cavities dug in the earth within the plantation and it would embark on its journey of being a ‘great’ contributor to the harvest.

The plants from the previous years which hadn’t begun yielding yet would be pruned and I was taught which branches were rogue and which defined promise and the top of the plant as it grew used to be shorn off!  And I used to be pissed.

My argument was, why circumcise the plant every year till it frikkin bloomed (maybe something that can be tried on the human genus?) Ok! I get the parasitic branches bit but the beheading was a bit much.

So I would argue with whoever I found on the ‘bonsai’ zation of the coffee plant and oh the cruelty of it all! If the Good Lord had wanted to make dwarf plants he would, what right did we have to mutilate His creation to suit our avarice??!!?

Oh yeah, it was an exercise in futility and after a few drinks I would forget whether I was for it or against.

Karma is NOT my friend, the turnaround time is too volatile. Like w**king into the pot and as you shake off the last drop, the stork delivers to your doorstep a parcel wrapped in pink/blue. Seriously!

The rebel in me recognized that some pruning and paring is a necessary evil even for our own growth and development as I became a parent. (if you can wipe that grin off your face, Mother?)

It’s been a while since the pruning shears have come a calling. For me.

But not today, the bubble I floated on, you know this I’m too sexy for my boots, too sexy for my sh*t, too sexy for my @#$% ditty that plays on loop in your head, that one. Now that one was ripped out. Sigh!

One of the worse quirks of my personality is that I am a ruminator and I have an enviable memory. So when I meditated on the ‘Oh you’re 45 and yet what do you have?’ I’ve been Sinatra ing on feelings varying from defeat, defiance, fear, sorrow, failure and then again to who is to judge what I have and have not achieved and by what standards. 

So, this roller coaster has been spinning furiously.

What helps balance is the fact that I need these reminders, to keep me humble, to aim higher, to prune my branches and clip my wings, perhaps grow more feathers for a longer flight? I need to bugger off from this wagon of self-pity I’ve been traipsing around. Snipping that ego is imperative for the soul.

And oh yes, to walk down memory lane and connect it to my outrage at what I thought was the cruelty of coffee bonsai. 

To be trimmed like a new born…sigh!

Cult Cher?

I’m a lazy oaf and don’t have much energy to expend on controversies, digressing here now, I’ve been told it’s important to take a stand even if it means leaning left. I’m most amused by the ‘culture protectors’ of Indian society and even more tickled to see that many of them are among the ‘educated’ masses.

How we’re going hammer and tongs at preserving our culture and having bans from moral codes to dress codes to lynching cow slaughter houses and beef eating communities, destroying churches, harassing minorities, stooping down to inhuman and disgusting practices for the greater cause of preservation of course. Such cowardice that stems from such fear.

On our 14 day trip of Italy, in every place we went to, whether a big city or major attraction to small villages we found tour groups of young Italian children, varying from ages 9 to 18. In hordes. All of them with guides, probably organized by schools or their ‘culture gurus’. They were made to trudge along and every place allowed them free access and priority. The guides spent much time going through the marvels of the vista and you could see the glow on the kids faces. Even the older ones.

Simple methinks. 

You want to preserve your culture? Your roots? Ensure that the next generation nurtures, adores and perpetuates it, then take them to the places we’re proud of. The wonderment I saw on the children’s faces, to me was like a solemn oath they took. I’m sure these young minds and hearts will have such deep pride in their country and who they are and it’s here to stay for always.

Religion? I doubt it matters anymore to them. They have grown above petty matters of who believes in what faith. They are united by the love for their homeland. A lesson we can take as Indians you think?

Catch them young, instill a love for the country not by reciting a few lines or encouraging differences but by allowing them to see, touch and feel the masterpieces of our temples, museums, architectural marvels… those that have captured the essence of our culture and you may never have to beat the culture drum no more.

Finally Rabindranath Tagore’s  prayer may ring true.

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high

Where knowledge is free

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments

By narrow domestic walls

Where words come out from the depth of truth

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way

Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit

Where the mind is led forward by thee

Into ever-widening thought and action

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake 

unquote

Now let me go drink myself silly! phew!!!

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!!!