I have tried to understand the word ‘friendship’ not because I wanted to but because I was forced to, by circumstances. Friends who push you on when you are down but what do you do when you are the last man or woman standing? Let your friends lie on the ground and groan in pain? What would a good friend do?

Instinctually my hands should go to the guns holstered on the sides of my cowboy pants and shoot down the assailants but unfortunately for one bred in Gandhi-land the hands go instead to pull up the fallen and stricken. Every heart that bled in your defense should find a new rythm if you are to conquer new lands. Therefore the friend in me would call a cease-fire and ask my friends to take time to heal themselves…knowing that I am just a call, a hello or an e-mail away. But friends, when I extend a hand to pick you up you must make that effort to give me your hand.

So make that effort. My hands are extended to all of you. I have a multi-pronged mind now to receive your signals like a multi-handed goddess. For a person who doesn’t distinguish between friends based on caste, creed, sex, intelligence,colour or religion I am pretty okay with being ‘just good friends’ After all we have a long journey ahead…

Baaa…biiii….boo…baaa…..boing! So, do you get me? No? Well, I was only speaking in baby language and yes, it does mean something. It means that I am going to write about communication. Simple, but completely non-sense to you, right?

When a mutation in a gene 200, 000 years ago enabled the speech function in the human body-machine, man must have started like a baby, with non-sense words, to communicate his ideas. Prior to that, mebbe he depended on sign language.( We still use this ancient form of communication). Everyone knows how love can be read in the eyes, curiosity– in a raised eyebrow and anger in a grim mouth. But speech evolved and we found sounds, onomatopoeic and otherwise to express ourselves.

When the limitations of sounds frustrated early man, he devised drawings to communicate his ideas. So, cave paintings, petroglyphs( drawing depicting an event), pictograms(drawings depicting a story) and ideograms( symbols depicting an idea)—all essentially ‘symbols’ came into existence. Then someone had a brighter idea—let’s make rules for drawing; let’s depict every sound with a particular symbol or something like that and lo! Standardized Alphabets were born. Thus, 7000 years ago, we created the art of writing.

Writing as a form of communication is my major area of interest. Even as I try to communicate here I am using writing as my method of communication and post inter-net, writing has indeed become an important tool of communication. Inter-net has brought it into prominence. Books were always there but like Socrates said writing helps in only ‘reminding’ those who already ‘know’. It cannot be used to teach; philosophers use it to amuse themselves. He said the reason was that writing cannot take questions or defend itself against criticism. But over the years, we have seen that our major source of knowledge has been people’s writings. Books are the tools to impart education. You listen to your teacher’s interpretation of text as a student but when you read the same book yourself you interpret your own meaning out of it which may be more evolutionary and progressive. So one can say writing speaks in different languages to different people. Everybody knows something and he is reminded of that special knowledge within him by reading someone else’s writing. So writing may not be inter-active, but will stimulate a line of thought in every individual, which may or may not be congruent with the writer’s original thought. And inter-net has in fact made writing inter-active as well. This is in itself a major step forward in the field of communication. So, Socrates, if he were alive today might have chosen the inter-net to teach his ideas but he would have soon realized you can only ‘teach’ those who already ‘know’ and didn’t I already say we all know something and depending on that something we ‘know’ we’ll choose our own teachers.

 

Dear readers, you can interpret the above paragraph as a metaphor to explain how blogs work and you’ll understand why you read someone’s blog and leave sycophant comments and why you ignore others.

 

 Writing as a form of communication may be all very good, and diary writing is a proven tool for self-discovery but is it any good as a self-motivator? Plato has said that one should not write down things of importance. And recently a friend remarked that writing from your heart leads to inaction. I am wondering if that is true. It would essentially mean that diary writing, where you open up your emotional flood-gates and write frankly about yourself might help you in your self-discovery process but will not let you take positive action as long as you keep at it. Therefore, after all the navel gazing, you have to ultimately identify your needs and embark on your mission. Yet, I guess, it is not wise to push away the need for diary writing entirely once you think you have discovered your mission because at the end of the day you are a changed person at each sun-set and if you want to stay in touch with your changing person some diary writing is essential, don’t you think?

 

Well, after writing, man discovered tele-communication as a form of personal and mass communication. So telephones, television and inter-net became like the pigeon-messengers of historic man to take his ideas farther and actually wider. Those who have mastered tele-communication in our era are the Kings of the world. They manipulate and orchestrate our thoughts and teach us what we may want to learn. And what do you think is the next big leap in the method of communication? Take a long wild guess, please. Did you hear someone speaking in your head?  You did?  Then mebbe you should recognize it as the next level of communication. Soon we’ll be talking through each other’s head—someone’s called it Tele-pathy. Master it and you’ll be a man for the future-a visionary-the God of small things! Because you say it best when you say nothing at all!

           

Coming to terms with one’s sexuality is an essential part of a human’s evolution. And it takes decades, even a whole lifetime to acknowledge, accept and finally revel in it.

 

 My first idea of sexual freedom was dressing up like a boy. At around the age of six years, I took to demanding shorts and t-shirts to wear instead of my normal girly frocks and skirts. My parents indulged me. I strutted around in nylon half-pants feeling free. Soon the charm wore off and I was back to demurely applying kajal and sporting bindis and wearing flowery skirts or at worst donning bell-bottom pants. When I look back upon that period of life I find it almost funny but I know it was only a form of expression for my emerging sexuality. Been friends with a tom-boy ever? A boy’s soul in a girl’s body? Yes, there is a ‘little boy’ in every girl and I sincerely believe that the reverse is also true. We feel compelled to hide our manliness if we are girls and suppress our feminism if we are men but it is there in all of us—the need to connect with it surfaces now and then; it depends entirely on us whether we give it a channel to express itself or ignore it completely. But I must say a perfect Raymond man is one who is in touch with his grace and a femme fatale is one who knows how to handle her aggression effectively.

 

Throughout our adolescence, teenage years and early adulthood we are either fighting the good fight or wallowing in the muck. It leads to a sexual awakening of sorts. We awaken to new sensations. We discover the pleasures and we face the shame. It is a process of learning the art; it is the urge to express ourselves and what excuses we find to do it is entirely our prerogative –be it for love, marriage or simply adventure.  And the more creative we are, the more inventive are our excuses.

 

Yes, creativity is at the root of sexual freedom.  Repressed creativity sprouts out into wild shoots demanding sexual freedom. Those of us clamoring for our needs to express ourselves in pot-bellied middle-age are many. We seek release of our pent-up creativity that has been trapped in the mundane chores of our daily life and we find the easy way out, the way that is naturally learnt and never forgotten—that of sexual freedom and expression. It’s easy to judge the neighborhood aunty who seduces a young boy or the lecherous uncle who is an exhibitionist but what they do is what they choose to do with their repressed creativity. It’s about time we accorded high importance for a human being’s need to cater to the seed of creativity that grows within him from his very birth and which if not properly channeled can express itself in pervert and criminal ways.   

 

I’ll leave you here with a quote by Sigmund Freud who knew what he was saying when he said this and I’ll end my blog by a few questions that arise out of my interpretation of whatever he said. You decide.

 

“Much of our highly valued cultural heritage has been acquired at the cost of sexuality” by Sigmund Freud.

 

My question is– does that mean sexuality is at the root of creativity? Which came first—creativity or sexuality? What should we be looking for—sexual freedom or creative liberty? Is that the choice that separates an artist from a common man? Isn’t every man inherently an artist?  

  

 

 

I do not know my dad. He is a stranger I lived with for twenty-four years. I don’t know what sustains him, what philosophies he follows or what secrets trouble him. Then what do I know of him? Of the man who raised me through my most vulnerable years…what do I know of him?

His discipline. Waking at 6:00 a.m. sharp everyday. Making tea for the women of the household- his wife and two dotters. Waking them up. Bathing himself in cold water through all seasons. Eating breakfast sharp at 7:15 a.m.Fretting and fuming when it is late. Leaving house for work at ten minutes to eight. Coming back for lunch at 1:30 p.m.– sometimes with bananas, grapes, or if it be the summers, a dozen of ‘baiganphalli’ mangoes–driving all the way back home ten kilometers or so to have ghar ka garam garam khana, simple fare–strictly vegeterian for him, a generous helping of yoghurt and the fresh fruits for dessert.

His disease. High blood Pressure. He quit non-vegeterian food. He wouldn’t tolerate salty food. He was a morning walker, though not the regular one, may be four months in a year.

His idea of fun. Family get-togethers. Booze. Yearly picnics. Organizing functions with members of his community. Restaurant outings with his family of four once in a while. A yearly trip of nostalgia back to his hometown to meet up with relatives but mostly to soak up the sights, sounds, smells and tastes of his native land up close in order to sustain him through the rigour of raising a family in another place, far off, where the soot of factories has almost given him anosmia and the machinery ruckus has made him hard of hearing.

His dreams and desires. Part realised but some cruelly broken by his own kith and kin. He survives still.

His love as a parent.I am glad he is still there.I am gladder he let me be. I may not really know him but I have been comfortable living with his strangeness and he with mine. That’s all that matters.   

Memories of first crushes turn bitter-sweet a few years down the line. Bitter because we cannot help but think ‘what if….’ and sweet because it is an acknowledgement of everything that was innocent and pure within us. A warm concoction that bubbled up within our hearts with the first exchange of glances and from which we drank in leisurely day-dreams of our confused adolescence.

In my case there is a twist to the story. My first crush turned into my first love and subsequently my spouse. Sweet…sweet…all the way–did you say? Well, this should come as no surprise to anybody if i say that marriage is that kind of spice which if dissolved into the love concoction serves to leave a bitter-sweet taste in the end. So though I realised my ‘WHAT IF…’ it is not without regrets.

My what ifs are a little bit different, that’s all.Yes, my what ifs involve all those little incidents of straying of mind that happened subsequently and inspite of my being in love with my first crush. Yeah, what of my second, third, fourth and fifth crushes? Were they any less deserving of my love or was it service meted out in a first come, first served basis? What if I had not crushed my first real electric arousal when I had locked glances with a handsome boy on a train journey that ended when we reached our destinations and he came over with the borrowed film-fare magazine, zipping it out of his T-shirt where it lay snuggled against his chest and handed it over to me with a smile in his eyes. I still think he was the most handsome dude in my town but I crushed my opinion effectively and had eyes only for my first love. Until…I receieved this letter, yes friends, a love-letter from an unassuming boy in my class. Yes, it was love at first write…I simply loved his expressions so much so that I think I read that letter innumerable times before burning it into ashes with the realization that it could become the bone of contention between me and my first love if I preserved it. Then a few years later a phone call…a handsome voice and tall claims that he was from one of the premier institutions in our country and had looks to match Tom Cruise’s ….bah! who cares! Not when I am still in love with my first love but I must admit he was interesting and I told him so…I think but I discouraged him enough to stop calling yet my heart did skip a beat when the phone rang in those days….expectantly. So my second, third and fourth crushes ended without as much as a gasp and I hung on to my first crush with my life not wanting it to turn into a ‘what if’ in case i did not realise it to its beautiful end.Marriage and two kids later I look back at the journey my first crush has made and I wonder…what if! And I think I am blessed to have guided at least one ‘what if’ through its incredible journey of ups and downs and though, today the concoction may not be tasting as sweet as it promised out to be at the very out-set, yet I am glad I dared take a chance at what I believed was right for me.

And as for my fifth crush, before I let him turn into a ‘what if’ let me admit that this time it has been simply mind-blowing! Alas! it is just only a figment of my imagination and I want to let it remain that way–a sweeeet delusion!

Need a break from back-breakin bloggin…

Need to sort out my livin….

Need to keep hopin…

The man sat on the rocking arm-chair of faded cloth and creaking wood. The afternoon sun filtered in through the lace curtains of the patio windows. He sat with a book, his reading glasses on , trying to focus on the words while his mind drifted into day-dreams and hovered on the precipice of a siesta. Finally he dozed off, his hands lightly placed on the book resting against his soft middle-aged paunch and the stillness of the warm, afternoon air broken only by the occasional chirping of the small birds and his softly escaping snore.

 

The body of the man was lying in a relaxed shape but some of his senses were yet awake. Mister Nose snored his song. He was slightly bulbous in the ends as the air was exhaled out with each breath. He had a couple of thankfully indistinct pox marks on his skin, that the man had, as a child scratched into being. Otherwise Ms. Skin was almost without blemishes on the face of the man. Yes, Ms. Skin was radiant in complexion and reflected a life of good living and healthy eating. Of course, she was beginning to sag around his eyes and also wrinkle into lines of wisdom here and there, especially at the end of the man’s eyes because he was a man who smiled a lot. Ms. Skin was alert to the occasional cool wind that blew in the afternoon hours and she would then react in a flurry of goose-bumps as the wind caressed her carelessly. Ms. Eyes were blissfully closed but dreaming. She was large and observant when open but clever and imaginative when closed. She knew she had a good friend in Mr. Ears who kept a balance of things and listened carefully most of the times. His complicated, convoluted structure did not make him particularly attractive but he made himself tremendously useful. But there was someone who was being very silent. It was Mr. Tongue. He was like a coiled snake, pink and slimy and ready to hiss. Yes, the man did have a sharp, acerbic tongue sometimes but he could effectively sweet talk too. He used his tongue to good advantage.

So all of these five friends, the five senses, rested along with the man when suddenly a miniscule fly tickled the hair-ends of the man’s nose and he let out a big Achoo! Awake, the man swapped away the irritating creature and went back to sleep.

Mr. Nose said, “Ow, well, I am done with my singing. Ms. Skin,if I am not interrupting your beauty sleep, are you free to talk?”

Ms. Skin almost blushed and said, “Why , of course yes. I have nothing better to do.”

Ms. Eyes heard her and whispered , ‘Can I join?”

Mr. Nose said, “Why not? The more the merrier. Anyways this man is not going to wake up soon. The weather is just too good, man!”

“Rightly said”, Mr. Tongue said, “you steal my words…an afternoon siesta on a winter afternoon is bliss.”

“Yes”, Ms. Skin said, “makes me warm all over”.

“I am listening in”, Mr. Ear chirped in, “we friends have some time for ourselves. Let’s chill.”

“Yeah! An afternoon to remember, friends and fun…I wish this man would not wake up in a hurry.”

“Now, now, mr. Tongue, don’t go wagging yourself…let’s choose a topic to discuss,” Mr. Nose said.

“Let’s discuss the book the man is reading… It’s called “Love in the time of Cholera”, said Ms. Eyes demurely.

 “Ha! Love! Perfect! Watta topic!” Mr. tongue almost shouted into Mr. Ears.

“What gets you so excited man?! Love or its side-effects?” Mr. Ears asked in disguised humor.

“Yes”, said Mr. Nose, “love gets us all excited… There’s a lot to discuss regarding love, about the effects it has on all of us, on each one of us. The smell of romance in the air may be imagined but it is there—in the perfumed breath of your lover, in the smell of her freshly shampooed hair, in the aroma of the delicacies that she whips up in the kitchen for you, in the scented papers she writes you love-letters in and frankly, I must admit, even in her body sweat when you cozy up. Love reeks of romance and passion…intoxicating and addictive…”

“Oh! How you speak of love in your language…now hear me too”, said Ms. Eyes excitedly, “You must’ve all heard of love at first sight? Well, it is an exhilirating experience for those who experience it…and even otherwise to look into the eyes of your beloved is like discovering a way to heaven, you wish you would never find your way out of it…lost in paradise. Yes, love sure is blind to blemishes and has eyes only for his lover’s beauty…”

Mr. Ears who had been listening intently,spoke up suddenly, “Is that so? Is that how love is seen and smelt? Do you know how it feels to listen to your beloved’s voice? Be it on the telephone line or across a crowded room or face to face , a beloved’s voice is sweet as honey, so sweet you keep hallucinating long after its over, hearing her say those same words over and over again until you really, really want to believe in it as the voice of divinity…what say Ms. Skin? How does it feel for you?”

“For me? A touch, a caress is an invitation to indulge in the most sinful pleasures of the world…forbidden and tempting…”sighed Ms. Skin.

“But…but…Ms. Skin it all starts with the first kiss and I am involved in the most intimate of kisses, oh yes I am! The taste of your beloved…sometimes dirty and sometimes delicious…the sheer indulgence of it!” Said Mr. Tongue

“Now, now Mr. Tongue, would you control? The discussion is getting into premises not ideally discussed with pretty ladies around”, laughed Mr. Nose, “but it is true, love is  supercallafragilisticespialadocious…whatever that means…it is out of the world but pray, spare a thought for the Almighty above us who controls us lesser species, the puppeteer who has our strings in his hands, who interprets us, understands and then feels  us.”

“O…O …O do you mean the Mind? Yes, He is above us all, He is the one who understands us and gives expression to our feelings…He is the twinkle in the eyes, the goosebumps in the skin and the softness in the voice of a lover…He gives me the patience to hear to even my lover’s non-sense talks and He is the one who gets you all excited when you smell her pheromones, said Mr. Ears, it is all in the Mind…it all happens there, we  just providethe stimuli.”

“Yeah”, said all the other four friends almost in accepted reverence.

“But imagine a scenario where the Mind is bereft of senses and happens to fall in love…just imagine our Almighty, our God on his own…like de-bodified or something…”said Ms. Skin

“Wait, wait…de-cerebrate is a medically hypothetical situation where the body is sans the control of the mind and you mean de-cerebrate’s opposite—de-bodified? Where the mind is without the body…does such kind of love exist?”Mr. Tongue inquired.

“I don’t know, but it could…what then?” Ms. Skin said.

“Hmmm…interesting…could mean the mind will be all on its own –sentiments and sensitivity and only its emotions playing havoc on Him…can’t see, can’t hear, can’t smell, can’t touch and can’t taste….well, will the Big Man survive it and how?”Ms. Eyes asked.

“He’ll thirst, yearn and hunger…no, I don’t think He can do without us, He needs us for letting his emotions show…at most He can become a poet-writer…for He’ll be perpetually mused!”Mr. Ears said in a concluding thought.

“Well said, so the writer who wrote this book—“Love in the time of cholera” may have known that kind of love?” Mr. Tongue asked.

“No, not possible, he must have at least seen his beloved…actually what comes closest to that kind of debodified love is the virtual kind of love in our internet age. So instead of discussing the book we have discovered how some sensitive writers are born in our age but you have to give it to love—it is mind-blowing! Errr…excuse me while I blow again” And Achoo! went Mr. Nose while Mr. Tongue clicked himself into silence.