This fragment of an imaginary conversation floated into my mind yesterday. I wrote it down. But it hangs in space, nothing to anchor it. Is it part of a story? Are Rani and Sheila trying to tell me something. Is this the end of a story or the beginning of one. Or is it just complete the way it is.
“Necrosis,” Rani said loudly, emphasizing the first syllable and trailing out the last, the ‘ro’ sitting in between, like a rock.
“What does it mean?” Sheila asked.
“Something to do with the neck or something.”
“Really?”
“No,” Rani laughed, “something to do with death…like when something or someone starts to die.”
Sheila remained silent. Then.
“Why do you always come up with these words? Why can’t we ever practice with some other words? Nice ones, you know. Not to do with death?”
“Does it bother you? Practicing with these words? Of course it does. Necrosis, demise, death, necropsy, necrophilia…” Rani’s smile was soft, almost maternal as she looked at her friend.
“Stop.” Sheila’s voice was ragged at the edges.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Just because I'm paranoid does not mean the world's not ending
When I was child I often thought the world was coming to an end. After all, the world was really, really old and old things die, right? Then, when I realized that the world's leaders were kind of insane megalomaniacs I was even more scared. I mean why else would there be so many wars, unneeded weapons of mass destruction and this lust for killing? Yes, I was a strange, paranoid child.
And then there's global warming. One of the warning shots of global warming is more intense and more frequent storms. But according to our President it's still a theory. The jury's still out on it. But the jury is not out on Intelligent Design because apparently dinosaurs lived with Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden and Noah took dinosaurs in the ark with him. I am not making this up. But I digress.
I have that feeling again. I want to sit in a closet, huddled inside a thick blanket as the world ends around me. When the end comes for me I don't want to see it. I just want to peacefully be here one moment and then be gone. Fear is what scares me...not death itself.
But I am no longer a child. And I have to go out and work and pretend that everything's fine. But New Orleans is under water, Florida continues to reel, Europe is battling floods and Mumbai is still trying to emerge from being pounded.
Am I paranoid?
And then there's global warming. One of the warning shots of global warming is more intense and more frequent storms. But according to our President it's still a theory. The jury's still out on it. But the jury is not out on Intelligent Design because apparently dinosaurs lived with Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden and Noah took dinosaurs in the ark with him. I am not making this up. But I digress.
I have that feeling again. I want to sit in a closet, huddled inside a thick blanket as the world ends around me. When the end comes for me I don't want to see it. I just want to peacefully be here one moment and then be gone. Fear is what scares me...not death itself.
But I am no longer a child. And I have to go out and work and pretend that everything's fine. But New Orleans is under water, Florida continues to reel, Europe is battling floods and Mumbai is still trying to emerge from being pounded.
Am I paranoid?
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
My culture tells me to destroy crappy newspapers
For some insane reason I plonked down one (yes, one whole) dollar to buy my local rag paper. It's one of those tabloid type, small papers that tell you about the local bake sale and the number of traffic tickets cops are handing out in your little town.
So I take this eight-page rag home. I read about the price of trash stickers (don't ask), looked at pictures of housewives posing with their toddlers, buying eggplants at the farmers market and other such fascinating tidbits of life in suburbia.
One page had these pictures of concrete slides and a teeter totter...basically a playground, except with tall weeds growing out of everything. General disrepair and desolation. Apparently, it was built by some army unit in Iraq a year or so ago. The photos were sent back by a town resident (oh yeah...did I tell you W was born here. Yikes! I found that out after we moved in) who serves in one of the armed forces.
He was lamenting the state of this playground and then says, "My culture teaches me not to destroy a gift." Obviously the Iraqi people don't have those same values, he adds. Wtf? Can we say cultural superiority?
I don't know about you but when things are blowing up all around me, my country is occupied, every Islamic fundamentalist nut around is arriving there, and my husband is probably being raped and killed in US custody (those non-public 87 Abu Ghraib photos were described by one Republican senator as "pictures of rape and murder")...taking my kid to the local park is not going to be that high on my list of priorities. Arrrghhhh!
That was not a good start to my day. Which world do these people live in?
D'you think I can get a refund?
So I take this eight-page rag home. I read about the price of trash stickers (don't ask), looked at pictures of housewives posing with their toddlers, buying eggplants at the farmers market and other such fascinating tidbits of life in suburbia.
One page had these pictures of concrete slides and a teeter totter...basically a playground, except with tall weeds growing out of everything. General disrepair and desolation. Apparently, it was built by some army unit in Iraq a year or so ago. The photos were sent back by a town resident (oh yeah...did I tell you W was born here. Yikes! I found that out after we moved in) who serves in one of the armed forces.
He was lamenting the state of this playground and then says, "My culture teaches me not to destroy a gift." Obviously the Iraqi people don't have those same values, he adds. Wtf? Can we say cultural superiority?
I don't know about you but when things are blowing up all around me, my country is occupied, every Islamic fundamentalist nut around is arriving there, and my husband is probably being raped and killed in US custody (those non-public 87 Abu Ghraib photos were described by one Republican senator as "pictures of rape and murder")...taking my kid to the local park is not going to be that high on my list of priorities. Arrrghhhh!
That was not a good start to my day. Which world do these people live in?
D'you think I can get a refund?
Monday, August 29, 2005
Detoxing my Writing
We're doing this 2-day fruit detox diet. I am now about 3 hours into it and am feeling equal parts virtuously healthy and a fierce coffee craving. I am actually looking forward to the thin chicken broth we're having for dinner tonight. Yummm!
Is my mind starting to wander or does everything link back to writing somehow? Maybe both.
After years of getting into the habit of writing in a particular manner, I have become very comfortable in my ways. I know I am a skilled prose writer. I have a good turn of phrase. I can make a scene evocative. But I am lost in it somehow. I've become lazy. I rely on the mechanics of what is comfortable, the things I know I can do well. What I need is to fall flat on my face.
Witing means to explore, to go out on a limb, fly without a net, live dangerously, run away from the usual. And to discover a new facet within myself, a new way of writing. Re-discovery.
I need a writing detox. Any ideas anyone? What's the equivalent? Any exercises to detox my writing? I am going to look on the web for some ideas.
Is my mind starting to wander or does everything link back to writing somehow? Maybe both.
After years of getting into the habit of writing in a particular manner, I have become very comfortable in my ways. I know I am a skilled prose writer. I have a good turn of phrase. I can make a scene evocative. But I am lost in it somehow. I've become lazy. I rely on the mechanics of what is comfortable, the things I know I can do well. What I need is to fall flat on my face.
Witing means to explore, to go out on a limb, fly without a net, live dangerously, run away from the usual. And to discover a new facet within myself, a new way of writing. Re-discovery.
I need a writing detox. Any ideas anyone? What's the equivalent? Any exercises to detox my writing? I am going to look on the web for some ideas.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Kentucky Coal Mines
A friend mailed me a picture of her father who was a Kentucky Coal Miner. He lies on his side, on the left side of the picture, two other men beside him, the one in the middle squatting. Their heads touch the ceiling. The back of the picture fades away into the inky blackness of their subterranean world.
The faces of the men are interchangeable, the features blurred by the abrasive blackness that coats them. Their eyes are spots of lightness.
One mile under the earth, his face black with coal dust. Coal dust that lingers in his mouth and spirals down his throat, settling into his lungs. With every breath he takes.
Still, every morning, as the sun is coming up he descends into darkness. And he gets paid for his sweat and tears, for his dashed dreams and the promises he had made to his youthful self. He gets paid to feed the wife he loves even as they fight when he goes into town to drink and dance. Do the faces of his six children flash in front of his eyes? You know, as he hunkers down because he has to and positions his pickaxe and finds the black gold that fuels the engine of the economy?
Or is it easier to just forget it all. To make the mind a blank canvas that extends no further than the semi-circle of illumination cast by the lamp in his helmet. Does anything make it easier? What men must do to feed their families.
Today, one anonymous day in 1958, he lies on his side and looks straight into the camera, held by someone unknown, and lets his eyes and his soul do the talking. "Who am I?" his eyes ask. "I live here, underneath this coal dust, under the bravado, here I am," says his soul. Who is he speaking to?
The faces of the men are interchangeable, the features blurred by the abrasive blackness that coats them. Their eyes are spots of lightness.
One mile under the earth, his face black with coal dust. Coal dust that lingers in his mouth and spirals down his throat, settling into his lungs. With every breath he takes.
Still, every morning, as the sun is coming up he descends into darkness. And he gets paid for his sweat and tears, for his dashed dreams and the promises he had made to his youthful self. He gets paid to feed the wife he loves even as they fight when he goes into town to drink and dance. Do the faces of his six children flash in front of his eyes? You know, as he hunkers down because he has to and positions his pickaxe and finds the black gold that fuels the engine of the economy?
Or is it easier to just forget it all. To make the mind a blank canvas that extends no further than the semi-circle of illumination cast by the lamp in his helmet. Does anything make it easier? What men must do to feed their families.
Today, one anonymous day in 1958, he lies on his side and looks straight into the camera, held by someone unknown, and lets his eyes and his soul do the talking. "Who am I?" his eyes ask. "I live here, underneath this coal dust, under the bravado, here I am," says his soul. Who is he speaking to?
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Name my Character please...
So authors like Neil Gaiman, John Grisham, Stephen King, Nora Roberts, Amy Tan and others are going on ebay to get help naming their characters. You too can go bid on ebay for the right to name a character in one of their books.
While the person who wins King's rights will get to name a nasty zombie (are there any other kind?), Gaiman will let the lucky winner name a tombstone.
This stunt, for The First Amendment Project is supposed to raise over $50,000 for charity.
Is this the true intersection of art and commodity? What gets auctioned off next? Characters' destinies? Titles of novels? Literature itself?
Yeah, so it's some kind of noble cause...aren't they all? $50,000 doesn't seem that much when these authors make millions a year.
Aren't there other ways to involve readers into the fight for free speech?
While the person who wins King's rights will get to name a nasty zombie (are there any other kind?), Gaiman will let the lucky winner name a tombstone.
This stunt, for The First Amendment Project is supposed to raise over $50,000 for charity.
Is this the true intersection of art and commodity? What gets auctioned off next? Characters' destinies? Titles of novels? Literature itself?
Yeah, so it's some kind of noble cause...aren't they all? $50,000 doesn't seem that much when these authors make millions a year.
Aren't there other ways to involve readers into the fight for free speech?
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Peripheral Role Models
I think I was eight, maybe nine. That was the first time I met Qurrat ul Ain Haider. Of course I had no clue who she was...Aini Khala, I was supposed to call her. She was the cousin of some family friends who were also related to us in some kind of weird way. I remember her being quite intimidating
She wore some kind of printed sari and cool cats-eye glasses, her voice rather deep and manly, sitting among the men, holding court. My father had a bit of a crush on her when he was younger...I am sure the crush was intact even then.
As I met her through the years, sometimes she would meet me with great affection. At other times it was as if she had never met me before. The dreamy eccentricity of a writer. Other people just said she was sort of rude and sunki. They were adults... I believed them.
She's some kind of writer. Wrote something called Aag Ka Dariya. Hmm...angrezy mein nahin hai? Whose going to read it then? How ignorant was I?
It was only as I grew up that I realized I had been in the presence of one of India's greatest writers. A fascinating, modern woman...regardless of the time when she was born and when she lived and wrote.
As I try to make my own way in the writing world I realize that even though I never really came to know her well...she's been somewhat of a role model, even if peripherally. A woman (now in her 80's) who lives life on her own terms. Never married, she wrote and lived (and lives) on her own terms. At a time when marriage and motherhood was the only way for women...especially Muslim women, she forged her own path. She wrote, made enough to support herself and didn't have to answer to anyone or anything. She is a writer...a thinker...before being anything else, who did not fall into the trap of roles.
Youth is really wasted on the young. It certainly was on me.
Maybe next time I am in Delhi I'll actually go and meet her. If I am lucky, she might even know me this time. And we'll talk...of life and love and writing.
I don't know why I thought of her today after all these years. But here's to Aini Khala.
She wore some kind of printed sari and cool cats-eye glasses, her voice rather deep and manly, sitting among the men, holding court. My father had a bit of a crush on her when he was younger...I am sure the crush was intact even then.
As I met her through the years, sometimes she would meet me with great affection. At other times it was as if she had never met me before. The dreamy eccentricity of a writer. Other people just said she was sort of rude and sunki. They were adults... I believed them.
She's some kind of writer. Wrote something called Aag Ka Dariya. Hmm...angrezy mein nahin hai? Whose going to read it then? How ignorant was I?
It was only as I grew up that I realized I had been in the presence of one of India's greatest writers. A fascinating, modern woman...regardless of the time when she was born and when she lived and wrote.
As I try to make my own way in the writing world I realize that even though I never really came to know her well...she's been somewhat of a role model, even if peripherally. A woman (now in her 80's) who lives life on her own terms. Never married, she wrote and lived (and lives) on her own terms. At a time when marriage and motherhood was the only way for women...especially Muslim women, she forged her own path. She wrote, made enough to support herself and didn't have to answer to anyone or anything. She is a writer...a thinker...before being anything else, who did not fall into the trap of roles.
Youth is really wasted on the young. It certainly was on me.
Maybe next time I am in Delhi I'll actually go and meet her. If I am lucky, she might even know me this time. And we'll talk...of life and love and writing.
I don't know why I thought of her today after all these years. But here's to Aini Khala.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Redefining War
I am writing an essay for an anthology, Muslim Women Redefine War, which will be out by June 2006 by Seal Press.
Of course, now that I've been accepted to contribute, I have to actually write. I'll be writing something that combines violence, marriage and identity. Quite stressed even though I am so excited about this.
Will keep you posted.
Of course, now that I've been accepted to contribute, I have to actually write. I'll be writing something that combines violence, marriage and identity. Quite stressed even though I am so excited about this.
Will keep you posted.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
If You Find my Muse on the Road Kill Her
A few days ago I talked of finding my muse. But perhaps my muse should find me. Muses are capricious, cruel creatures (do they like alliteration, I wonder:-)
I've also discovered there is no muse for fiction writers. Where is my muse among these?
Calliope | Muse of Epic Poetry
Clio | Muse of History
Euterpe | Muse of Lyric Poetry
Melpomene | Muse of Tragedy
Terpsichore | Muse of Choral Dance and Song
Erato | Muse of Love Poetry
Polyhymnia | Muse of Sacred Poetry
Urania | Muse of Astronomy
Thalia | Muse of Comedy
My muse is a mystery, hidden, secretive. She likes the shadows, revels in the dark and loves torture. She is a sadomasochistic psychopath but I love her. A deep abiding love.
My muse is nameless and I like it that way.
My muse is the world. She is me and everyone I know and everyone I meet and every place I visit.
My muse is an evil mistress and I lick the soles of her feet, washing between the crevices of her toes while she smiles and urges me on, with cruel love. I devise ways to kill her everyday so I can trap her in my subconscious and resurrect her at will.
But a muse is Immortal and none can kill her, especially not her slave.
I call my muse by no name and yet I know she will come to me unbidden.
Till then I put her away from the center of my mind and immerse myself in life.
I've also discovered there is no muse for fiction writers. Where is my muse among these?
Calliope | Muse of Epic Poetry
Clio | Muse of History
Euterpe | Muse of Lyric Poetry
Melpomene | Muse of Tragedy
Terpsichore | Muse of Choral Dance and Song
Erato | Muse of Love Poetry
Polyhymnia | Muse of Sacred Poetry
Urania | Muse of Astronomy
Thalia | Muse of Comedy
My muse is a mystery, hidden, secretive. She likes the shadows, revels in the dark and loves torture. She is a sadomasochistic psychopath but I love her. A deep abiding love.
My muse is nameless and I like it that way.
My muse is the world. She is me and everyone I know and everyone I meet and every place I visit.
My muse is an evil mistress and I lick the soles of her feet, washing between the crevices of her toes while she smiles and urges me on, with cruel love. I devise ways to kill her everyday so I can trap her in my subconscious and resurrect her at will.
But a muse is Immortal and none can kill her, especially not her slave.
I call my muse by no name and yet I know she will come to me unbidden.
Till then I put her away from the center of my mind and immerse myself in life.
Baby Monkeys and Sweaty Pigs
"What is this darkness and confusion surrounding you?" Her voice changed from a normal conversational tone to a strange sing-song cadence, as she looked straight at me.
This is what a $10 tarot reading gets you: a psychic wearing a grey nightgown made out of some jersey-cotton knit, hair tumbling from a hastily made up bun, sitting in a hot room with no AC. Oh yeah....she also smells of cat.
A sign on the wall proclaims her healing, mystical, relaxing powers. The sweat is pouring from my face in acid streams, stinging my skin. I give up trying to daintily mop it up and just swipe the tissue across my face. I keep sweating like a pig...trapped in a sauna....in the middle of a rainforest.
For $10 I get a 10 minute reading but for $275...we...lll. I would get a massage, psychic healing and deep relaxation. If I gave her $275...relaxation would not be my paramount emotion. Beside, where is my damn AC? I'll make do with a fan. Please. Please. I eye the closed door longingly.
Apparently, there is someone in my life who does not want to see me happy and fulfilled. This someone is throwing swords at my happiness. But she (the psychic) can work with me to reverse the spell and lead me to my true fate which is to be surrounded by money and by fame.
"Here, I say," handing over my $275. No, really. I just thanked her, took her card and brochure and bolted.
The last time I got sucked in by a psychic was in San Diego, I was told I had looked after animals in my past life. My aura was populated by "baby monkeys" to whom I had been like a mother. My life would consist of looking after animals. What? I would be the crazy cat lady of the neighborhood. Noooo.
I don't know which is worse. Being a whacko baby monkey mother or being the target of someone throwing swords at my happiness?
What's that I see on the sidewalk? A psychic reading for $10 sign. Maybe this time, I'll get lucky. Maybe this one has AC.
Obviously, I need some $275 an hour psychiatric care.
I just want to write damnit. I wany my muse back. Is that so wrong?
*Sigh*
This is what a $10 tarot reading gets you: a psychic wearing a grey nightgown made out of some jersey-cotton knit, hair tumbling from a hastily made up bun, sitting in a hot room with no AC. Oh yeah....she also smells of cat.
A sign on the wall proclaims her healing, mystical, relaxing powers. The sweat is pouring from my face in acid streams, stinging my skin. I give up trying to daintily mop it up and just swipe the tissue across my face. I keep sweating like a pig...trapped in a sauna....in the middle of a rainforest.
For $10 I get a 10 minute reading but for $275...we...lll. I would get a massage, psychic healing and deep relaxation. If I gave her $275...relaxation would not be my paramount emotion. Beside, where is my damn AC? I'll make do with a fan. Please. Please. I eye the closed door longingly.
Apparently, there is someone in my life who does not want to see me happy and fulfilled. This someone is throwing swords at my happiness. But she (the psychic) can work with me to reverse the spell and lead me to my true fate which is to be surrounded by money and by fame.
"Here, I say," handing over my $275. No, really. I just thanked her, took her card and brochure and bolted.
The last time I got sucked in by a psychic was in San Diego, I was told I had looked after animals in my past life. My aura was populated by "baby monkeys" to whom I had been like a mother. My life would consist of looking after animals. What? I would be the crazy cat lady of the neighborhood. Noooo.
I don't know which is worse. Being a whacko baby monkey mother or being the target of someone throwing swords at my happiness?
What's that I see on the sidewalk? A psychic reading for $10 sign. Maybe this time, I'll get lucky. Maybe this one has AC.
Obviously, I need some $275 an hour psychiatric care.
I just want to write damnit. I wany my muse back. Is that so wrong?
*Sigh*
Monday, August 15, 2005
Jesus in a Glass Box
The sign out on the sidewalk said $10 for a tarot reading. I think it was like a thousand degrees in Inman Square, the heat trapped in by the concrete and asphalt, shimmering in waves. I wanted to be inside after having walked a mile already (or maybe it was just 10 steps. Whatever!), so I was like what the heck. 10 bucks for some psychic reading and some cool air, maybe even some AC . A bargain, right?
One little arrow pointed in the general direction of left. We opened a little gate, and walked down a narrow path, hemmed in by a mesh fence.
The porch of this little house we came to reminded me of Freakshow's house in Harold and Kumar go to White Castle. Let me explain.
The little porch, to the right of the front door was a shrine. Unlit (well, it was day time) fairy lights in green, red and blue festooned the place. Plastic flowers, massed in equally plastic vases, hanging from the little tin roof, all around. A menagerie of animals...resin? wood? plaster?...strategically placed among all this artifical abundance. I saw a few bunnies, a couple of lambs and something that could have been an anteater or a squirrel. And in an upright glass box which reminded me of Snow White's coffin, stood Jesus, smilling beatifically and peering out from behind a giant mass of what seemed to be dusty chrystanthemums. There was even a little key and lock on Jesus's abode. To keep him in?
Mesmerized, my eyes travled past Jesus to a little window out of which peered a lady with an impressive moustache and a very flowery mumu type housedress. We asked (hoping that she was not; wondering why we had not turned back earlier) if she was the psychic.
"No, no psychic here," shouted the hairiest man, with the roundest stomach, I've ever seen. When had he materialized at the now open front door? Obviously he had been in a hurry or he would have put on his shirt. Unless he considered his body hair to be enough of a covering. Like mother like son. Phew!
We ran, with relief, towards the gate, knowing that they were watching us go. So was Jesus.
Yes, we did find the psychic. More on that tomorrow.
Happy Belated 58th Birthday India!!!
One little arrow pointed in the general direction of left. We opened a little gate, and walked down a narrow path, hemmed in by a mesh fence.
The porch of this little house we came to reminded me of Freakshow's house in Harold and Kumar go to White Castle. Let me explain.
The little porch, to the right of the front door was a shrine. Unlit (well, it was day time) fairy lights in green, red and blue festooned the place. Plastic flowers, massed in equally plastic vases, hanging from the little tin roof, all around. A menagerie of animals...resin? wood? plaster?...strategically placed among all this artifical abundance. I saw a few bunnies, a couple of lambs and something that could have been an anteater or a squirrel. And in an upright glass box which reminded me of Snow White's coffin, stood Jesus, smilling beatifically and peering out from behind a giant mass of what seemed to be dusty chrystanthemums. There was even a little key and lock on Jesus's abode. To keep him in?
Mesmerized, my eyes travled past Jesus to a little window out of which peered a lady with an impressive moustache and a very flowery mumu type housedress. We asked (hoping that she was not; wondering why we had not turned back earlier) if she was the psychic.
"No, no psychic here," shouted the hairiest man, with the roundest stomach, I've ever seen. When had he materialized at the now open front door? Obviously he had been in a hurry or he would have put on his shirt. Unless he considered his body hair to be enough of a covering. Like mother like son. Phew!
We ran, with relief, towards the gate, knowing that they were watching us go. So was Jesus.
Yes, we did find the psychic. More on that tomorrow.
Happy Belated 58th Birthday India!!!
The Booker Longlist
What is a Longlist exactly? The Booker Longlist? Why does this remind me of a beauty contest?
Like when all the lovelies are paraded out in their best swimsuits, legs agleam and bronzed, smiles and boobs pasted in place, hair that doesn't move, while television addicts rate their chances?
And then it gets ugly. Even though the smiles never slip, the eliminations begin and its war. Which turn of phrase shall be the clincher? Which masterful plot steals the show? Who's the most beautiful...errr...the best writer in the land?
There are the previous winners (will they win, Rushdie, Julian Barnes, Ian McEwan? *fingers crossed*) or will it be the cute young thing from another market. Zadie Smith perhaps? Harry Thompson? Marina Lewycka? Have we had a winner from the Ukraine before? It's nerve-wracking
The field narrows further on September 8th when *gasp* the shortlist will be announced. Till then we wait. How shall I make the time go by *winks*
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/arts/4139182.stm
Like when all the lovelies are paraded out in their best swimsuits, legs agleam and bronzed, smiles and boobs pasted in place, hair that doesn't move, while television addicts rate their chances?
And then it gets ugly. Even though the smiles never slip, the eliminations begin and its war. Which turn of phrase shall be the clincher? Which masterful plot steals the show? Who's the most beautiful...errr...the best writer in the land?
There are the previous winners (will they win, Rushdie, Julian Barnes, Ian McEwan? *fingers crossed*) or will it be the cute young thing from another market. Zadie Smith perhaps? Harry Thompson? Marina Lewycka? Have we had a winner from the Ukraine before? It's nerve-wracking
The field narrows further on September 8th when *gasp* the shortlist will be announced. Till then we wait. How shall I make the time go by *winks*
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/arts/4139182.stm
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Finally!
I finally figured out how to post my picture in my profile. I look as goofy as ever but at least I figured out how to do it. It took me a while to figure out the placement, etc. This is starting to look more like my own little home on the web now. G'night all.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Cultural Schisms
It's a grey, windless day, an undercurrent of beautiful sadness seeping through everything. Still. Is it waiting for something?
Nothing else will do. These are the times when nothing else will do but Urdu poetry and Hindustani music.
Is it weird that though I am most comfortable thinking and writing in English I write best when I sit with my headphones looping through Ghalib, Zauq and Bahadur Shah Zafar's ghazals. I can neither read nor write Urdu but when my heart thirsts for something elementally beautiful I instinctively read (in Hindi or Roman script) Urdu poetry. Or I listen to Hindustani music. Is it strange that when I listen to Shubha Mudgal (also from Allahabad and a friend of my sister) it always takes me to evenings in Allahabad? Evenings on the banks of the Sangam (golden Ganga, silver Yamuna), the sun melting into the water, shadows lengthening, the silhouette of the fort behind me, the barely there outlines of Jhunsi across from me.
This is where my cultural two-ness comes into play. Though I was bought up on a diet of the English Romantics (all purple shadows, daffodils and glory of battles) and I actually love the stuff, when I need to feed my soul...Ghalib is the only sustenance I need.
Nothing else will do. These are the times when nothing else will do but Urdu poetry and Hindustani music.
Is it weird that though I am most comfortable thinking and writing in English I write best when I sit with my headphones looping through Ghalib, Zauq and Bahadur Shah Zafar's ghazals. I can neither read nor write Urdu but when my heart thirsts for something elementally beautiful I instinctively read (in Hindi or Roman script) Urdu poetry. Or I listen to Hindustani music. Is it strange that when I listen to Shubha Mudgal (also from Allahabad and a friend of my sister) it always takes me to evenings in Allahabad? Evenings on the banks of the Sangam (golden Ganga, silver Yamuna), the sun melting into the water, shadows lengthening, the silhouette of the fort behind me, the barely there outlines of Jhunsi across from me.
This is where my cultural two-ness comes into play. Though I was bought up on a diet of the English Romantics (all purple shadows, daffodils and glory of battles) and I actually love the stuff, when I need to feed my soul...Ghalib is the only sustenance I need.
Writers Clubs
I moved to Boston over a year ago from my own heavenly corner of SoCal. What I missed the most about living in California was my writing/critique group. A long-time skeptic (snob?) of groups of any kind, the psychotic loner that I am, I *loved*this group. They are supportive, great readers, talented and gifted writers, poets and critics and the coolest people around.
After moving to Boston I tried to start a group. We had one meeting. One blonder than blonde white woman who was writing chick lit dropped out after the first meeting because she wasn't sure that some of us (who happened to be Indian and ABCD) would not get her cultural references. Okayyy!
The other, an Indian male, didn't want to be in a group with get this....too many Indians. Oh well! I tried. The group scattered to the four winds.
And then....one day while I was bitching about this on the phone someone from my SoCal group suggested I call in and we can still have our meetings, except I would be there on the phone. How cool is that? All of them even moved the meeting (from the second Tuesday of each month to the second Thursday) to work around my new work schedule.
This was the third or the fourth meeting today. Four hours of reading, critiquing, chatting and generally working on our writing. It's my oasis, my time of nothing but focusing on my writing.
I am a happy woman today. I feel energized, ready to write....raring to go.
Goodnight all!
After moving to Boston I tried to start a group. We had one meeting. One blonder than blonde white woman who was writing chick lit dropped out after the first meeting because she wasn't sure that some of us (who happened to be Indian and ABCD) would not get her cultural references. Okayyy!
The other, an Indian male, didn't want to be in a group with get this....too many Indians. Oh well! I tried. The group scattered to the four winds.
And then....one day while I was bitching about this on the phone someone from my SoCal group suggested I call in and we can still have our meetings, except I would be there on the phone. How cool is that? All of them even moved the meeting (from the second Tuesday of each month to the second Thursday) to work around my new work schedule.
This was the third or the fourth meeting today. Four hours of reading, critiquing, chatting and generally working on our writing. It's my oasis, my time of nothing but focusing on my writing.
I am a happy woman today. I feel energized, ready to write....raring to go.
Goodnight all!
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Suffering Moses
The 19th century essayist and poet, Matthew Arnold said, "Excellence is not common and abundant. On the contrary, as the Greek poet long ago said, excellence dwells among rocks hardly accessible, and a man must almost wear his heart out before he can reach her."
Perhaps almost wearing your heart is the cost of excellence, the price of creation.
When I was fifteen I took my first and only trip to Kashmir, not realizing that generations would grow up thinking of that enchanted place not as the paradise we did, but as a battleground.
There was this shop in Srinagar owned by this old artist/artisan who made the most exquisite papier mache, (not the stuff you get in the state emporia), delicate, multi-layered, intricate flawless pieces. He signed all his work on the bottom, in a sprawling calligraphic signature...the same name as his store, 'Suffering Moses.' His name was Moses. I had to know, had to ask him, 'Why Suffering Moses?"
He looked at me, intently, his eyes a strange shade somewhere between green and grey, the pink skin of his cheeks glowing, "Young lady. How else could I make anything beautiful? Only by suffering, right? I suffer for my art. You create nothing good if you don't suffer."
And that to me, is the relationship between excellence and suffering. Thank you Suffering Moses wherever you are.
Perhaps almost wearing your heart is the cost of excellence, the price of creation.
When I was fifteen I took my first and only trip to Kashmir, not realizing that generations would grow up thinking of that enchanted place not as the paradise we did, but as a battleground.
There was this shop in Srinagar owned by this old artist/artisan who made the most exquisite papier mache, (not the stuff you get in the state emporia), delicate, multi-layered, intricate flawless pieces. He signed all his work on the bottom, in a sprawling calligraphic signature...the same name as his store, 'Suffering Moses.' His name was Moses. I had to know, had to ask him, 'Why Suffering Moses?"
He looked at me, intently, his eyes a strange shade somewhere between green and grey, the pink skin of his cheeks glowing, "Young lady. How else could I make anything beautiful? Only by suffering, right? I suffer for my art. You create nothing good if you don't suffer."
And that to me, is the relationship between excellence and suffering. Thank you Suffering Moses wherever you are.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Perchance to dream
For a long time now I don't remember my dreams. I am sure I dream (I'd be a raving loon if I didn't, right?) but I remember nothing when I awaken.
I am jealous of people who remember their dreams...lucidly, in detail or even in flashes. In the past year I think I remembered maybe two dreams. I don't remember them now but I did remember them when I woke up.
I know my dreams are disquieting because recently I never wake up refreshed and ready to go . Instead, I wake up already tired, like I've been working hard all night. Perhaps I have too many dreams. Maybe if you have too many dreams you don't remember them.
There are some theories about why some people don't remember their dreams. They don't value their subconsious, they are stressed, they don't want to remember the (disturbing) content of their dreams, some people are genetically predisposed to not remember their dreams upon waking.
I used to dream...or I used to remember them, once. Still, occasionally, very occasionally I do remember them.
For some reason I think my dreams might help make me a better, more prolific writer. I fear that by not dreaming I am deprived of a part of myself that is precious and creative and adventurous.
I heard somewhere that if I write down 'I want to dream' on some paper and leave it on my nightstand or if I say those words aloud and firmly, I will remember.
I'll try that tonight. Let's start now, I want to remember my dreams.
There.
I am jealous of people who remember their dreams...lucidly, in detail or even in flashes. In the past year I think I remembered maybe two dreams. I don't remember them now but I did remember them when I woke up.
I know my dreams are disquieting because recently I never wake up refreshed and ready to go . Instead, I wake up already tired, like I've been working hard all night. Perhaps I have too many dreams. Maybe if you have too many dreams you don't remember them.
There are some theories about why some people don't remember their dreams. They don't value their subconsious, they are stressed, they don't want to remember the (disturbing) content of their dreams, some people are genetically predisposed to not remember their dreams upon waking.
I used to dream...or I used to remember them, once. Still, occasionally, very occasionally I do remember them.
For some reason I think my dreams might help make me a better, more prolific writer. I fear that by not dreaming I am deprived of a part of myself that is precious and creative and adventurous.
I heard somewhere that if I write down 'I want to dream' on some paper and leave it on my nightstand or if I say those words aloud and firmly, I will remember.
I'll try that tonight. Let's start now, I want to remember my dreams.
There.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Eklavya and the Art of Writing
How many writers, authors, whatever, read books on writing? I have such a strong, adverse reaction to these books that teach you how to write. But then there are writers whom I like and respect who do read these books and use them well. Perhaps I am just an elitist pig.
How do you do that, teach writing I mean? You can teach grammar, spelling...all the technical aspects of writing. But how do you teach a writer to write, to create compelling characters, plots, etc? To create life out of blank paper and ink?
Is there a precise formula to make a character come alive? To make a setting and a plot believable. How do you teach someone to create? In my opinion you either have it or you don't.
So, perhaps you can put together everything you find in books and create a competent story. But if you don't have that spark, that electricity within, that vision... all you have are well crafted words but not much else. That's just my opinion but what do I know?
There are books and writers that do *teach* me how to write. The writers whose work I admire, who don't have to consciously teach me to write. But they do.
I am reminded of this great, poignant tale from the Mahabharata. The story of Eklavya, a shudra, who was forbidden by the shastras to learn the art of archery. But he wanted to be an archer, he was born to it, he felt the call of the bow, the song of the arrow as it rushes through the air to its precise destination. Since none would teach him, Eklavya made a statue of the great teacher, Dronacharya, made offerings to it, and started to learn the art of the bow and arrow.
One evening when Dronacharya and his brightest pupil, the Pandava prince, Arjun were out walking, near Eklavya's hut they were disturbed by the loud barks of a dog. Eklavya skilfully sewed up the mouth of the dog by weaving an arrow through its mouth.
Impressed Dronacharya came to the realization that Eklavya, a shudra, was much better than his prized pupil, Arjun, whom Drona proclaimed as the greatest archer in the world. Upon meeting him, when asked who his guru was, Eklavya prostated himself in front of Drona and proclaimed him as his teacher, showing him and Arjun the statue. Blessing him, Drona asked for his guru-dakshina (the gift a student gives a teacher as tribute).
Drona asked Eklavya, for the thumb of his right hand, stunning even Arjun with the cruelty of this demand. But Eklavya, overcome with love and devotion for this teacher, cut off his thumb and handed it to Drona, without hesitation. And the gods in heaven wept and rejoiced at the greatness of Eklavya.
The story of Eklavya has always resonated with me, the classic noble underdog. So, here's to all my teachers who came before me and did it much better than I can ever dream of (in no particular order and a very diverse and incomplete list):
Ghalib, the many writers of the Mahabharata, Zauq, Homer, Manto, Qurratulain Haider, Ismat Chughtai, Rushdie, Saul Bellow, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Mahadevi Varma, James Fenimore Cooper, Nuruddin Farha, Vikram Seth, Borges, Vikram Chandra, Manil Suri, Rohinton Mistry....a never-ending list.
I thank you all but you are not getting my thumb :-).
How do you do that, teach writing I mean? You can teach grammar, spelling...all the technical aspects of writing. But how do you teach a writer to write, to create compelling characters, plots, etc? To create life out of blank paper and ink?
Is there a precise formula to make a character come alive? To make a setting and a plot believable. How do you teach someone to create? In my opinion you either have it or you don't.
So, perhaps you can put together everything you find in books and create a competent story. But if you don't have that spark, that electricity within, that vision... all you have are well crafted words but not much else. That's just my opinion but what do I know?
There are books and writers that do *teach* me how to write. The writers whose work I admire, who don't have to consciously teach me to write. But they do.
I am reminded of this great, poignant tale from the Mahabharata. The story of Eklavya, a shudra, who was forbidden by the shastras to learn the art of archery. But he wanted to be an archer, he was born to it, he felt the call of the bow, the song of the arrow as it rushes through the air to its precise destination. Since none would teach him, Eklavya made a statue of the great teacher, Dronacharya, made offerings to it, and started to learn the art of the bow and arrow.
One evening when Dronacharya and his brightest pupil, the Pandava prince, Arjun were out walking, near Eklavya's hut they were disturbed by the loud barks of a dog. Eklavya skilfully sewed up the mouth of the dog by weaving an arrow through its mouth.
Impressed Dronacharya came to the realization that Eklavya, a shudra, was much better than his prized pupil, Arjun, whom Drona proclaimed as the greatest archer in the world. Upon meeting him, when asked who his guru was, Eklavya prostated himself in front of Drona and proclaimed him as his teacher, showing him and Arjun the statue. Blessing him, Drona asked for his guru-dakshina (the gift a student gives a teacher as tribute).
Drona asked Eklavya, for the thumb of his right hand, stunning even Arjun with the cruelty of this demand. But Eklavya, overcome with love and devotion for this teacher, cut off his thumb and handed it to Drona, without hesitation. And the gods in heaven wept and rejoiced at the greatness of Eklavya.
The story of Eklavya has always resonated with me, the classic noble underdog. So, here's to all my teachers who came before me and did it much better than I can ever dream of (in no particular order and a very diverse and incomplete list):
Ghalib, the many writers of the Mahabharata, Zauq, Homer, Manto, Qurratulain Haider, Ismat Chughtai, Rushdie, Saul Bellow, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Mahadevi Varma, James Fenimore Cooper, Nuruddin Farha, Vikram Seth, Borges, Vikram Chandra, Manil Suri, Rohinton Mistry....a never-ending list.
I thank you all but you are not getting my thumb :-).
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Broken Flowers
We saw Broken Flowers at the Coolidge Corner Theater last night. It was a large space and every seat was taken. The ticket line wound around the block.
The overall impression I have of the movie is, silence. There are scenes of Bill Murray sitting, on his couch, at the airport, in a plane, in his rental car. Don Johnston (Murray) gets an anonymous letter on pink paper, in a pink envelope. It's from an old flame telling him they had a son together and the 19 year old is out there looking for him. Don sets out on a journey, searching for clues, visiting the five women (one dead) he knew 20 years ago. He learns something about them...but a lot about himself at each place. Frances Conroy (who I adore from Six Feet Under; only 3 episodes left *sob*), Sharon Stone (quite competent) and Tilda Swinton (smallish role) are the three women who stand out for me.
Ultimately it is a story (even though nothing conclusive happens, so beware) about trying to connect in an increasingly alienating world. Of the fear of letting time fly past and ending up alone. Those are the stories (like Sideways, Lost in Translation, etc. etc.) that resonate with me. That feeling that we all have at some points in time, of feeling bereft of a culture, a real place, from people...from everything around us. This movie captures that so well but in a quiet, unassuming, slow way.
While at one level it was frustrating to have no ta-dah moments and no real conclusions, it was enjoyable in the way small quiet moments are.
The overall impression I have of the movie is, silence. There are scenes of Bill Murray sitting, on his couch, at the airport, in a plane, in his rental car. Don Johnston (Murray) gets an anonymous letter on pink paper, in a pink envelope. It's from an old flame telling him they had a son together and the 19 year old is out there looking for him. Don sets out on a journey, searching for clues, visiting the five women (one dead) he knew 20 years ago. He learns something about them...but a lot about himself at each place. Frances Conroy (who I adore from Six Feet Under; only 3 episodes left *sob*), Sharon Stone (quite competent) and Tilda Swinton (smallish role) are the three women who stand out for me.
Ultimately it is a story (even though nothing conclusive happens, so beware) about trying to connect in an increasingly alienating world. Of the fear of letting time fly past and ending up alone. Those are the stories (like Sideways, Lost in Translation, etc. etc.) that resonate with me. That feeling that we all have at some points in time, of feeling bereft of a culture, a real place, from people...from everything around us. This movie captures that so well but in a quiet, unassuming, slow way.
While at one level it was frustrating to have no ta-dah moments and no real conclusions, it was enjoyable in the way small quiet moments are.
Rejections
How much is my writing tied to me? Each time The Burden of Foreknowledge (BoF) gets rejected (close to two dozen and counting) in the US, I feel as if the editor in question has taken a look at me, curled her lip and declared me wanting. My agent tells me none of them have given any concrete reasons.
One editor at a major house liked it...loved it...and was ready to make an offer. Then it was decided that they had already signed their Indian woman author for the year. The editor called my agent, disappointed. Was that supposed to make me feel better? It doesn't. It does tell me of the capriciousness of the publishing industry. And yet there is the tiny (or not so tiny) part of me that tells me it's me. It's the crappiness of my writing. But when did writing, an intensely private and personal activity, become an almost completely commercial activity? When did the rejection of my writing become a rejection of my self worth...a rejection of me?
At least I can still take pleasure in my own writing, in the process, in that magical time between worlds. And I can wait. I am getting good at that.
One editor at a major house liked it...loved it...and was ready to make an offer. Then it was decided that they had already signed their Indian woman author for the year. The editor called my agent, disappointed. Was that supposed to make me feel better? It doesn't. It does tell me of the capriciousness of the publishing industry. And yet there is the tiny (or not so tiny) part of me that tells me it's me. It's the crappiness of my writing. But when did writing, an intensely private and personal activity, become an almost completely commercial activity? When did the rejection of my writing become a rejection of my self worth...a rejection of me?
At least I can still take pleasure in my own writing, in the process, in that magical time between worlds. And I can wait. I am getting good at that.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Stuck
What word can I use to describe this? Writer's block? Being stuck?
Many years ago, when I was nine I remember sitting in a bullock cart on my way to this village. And what a village it was. Bela. Tucked away in the interior of UP, not reachable by any road, it was a haven for deer. Everyone in the village was sworn to protect the deer. If hunters from some other place would chase them, herds of deer would thunder into Bela. They would run into people's homes, confident of their safety. We arrived on the outskirts at dusk.
I looked up, sleepy, every bone rattling in my body and then I forgot it all. Not even ten feet away, a herd of spotted Indian deer looked straight at me. It was something special. Those large, black-rimmed eyes, the tension in their bodies, the slow, precise movement of their necks as they nibbled at some grass. And then, in an instant, in a procession, right in front of our cart, they ran past headed for some other more peaceful place where they could eat and not be gawked at by some idiots in a bullock cart.
The cart driver tried to get his bullock to start walking. Nothing. He even flicked it gently with the thin stick he carried. The bullock strained. Nothing. The heavy wooden wheels were wedged in the hard-baked dry earth, in the ruts where thousands of carts had probably gone past. But we were stuck.
That's how I feel. If I look away from the useless churning of the bullock cart wheels I can see the intense beauty, that feeling of excitement mingled with peace, of something being right...I can taste what I feel when I am writing regularly, when the words are flowing, when images burn behind my eyelids and my fingers can barely keep up with them.
Instead, I am churning my wheels, stuck in place, as I try to figure out what to put in this second novel of mine. I don't want it to be usual, to be trite, to be all the things that good writing should not be. And so I wait and churn and hope that one morning, just like that, everything will slide into place and like a freed wheel...the words will flow and I will write and all the threads of this story I want to tell will weave together.
And I will be content. Till then I am stuck.
Many years ago, when I was nine I remember sitting in a bullock cart on my way to this village. And what a village it was. Bela. Tucked away in the interior of UP, not reachable by any road, it was a haven for deer. Everyone in the village was sworn to protect the deer. If hunters from some other place would chase them, herds of deer would thunder into Bela. They would run into people's homes, confident of their safety. We arrived on the outskirts at dusk.
I looked up, sleepy, every bone rattling in my body and then I forgot it all. Not even ten feet away, a herd of spotted Indian deer looked straight at me. It was something special. Those large, black-rimmed eyes, the tension in their bodies, the slow, precise movement of their necks as they nibbled at some grass. And then, in an instant, in a procession, right in front of our cart, they ran past headed for some other more peaceful place where they could eat and not be gawked at by some idiots in a bullock cart.
The cart driver tried to get his bullock to start walking. Nothing. He even flicked it gently with the thin stick he carried. The bullock strained. Nothing. The heavy wooden wheels were wedged in the hard-baked dry earth, in the ruts where thousands of carts had probably gone past. But we were stuck.
That's how I feel. If I look away from the useless churning of the bullock cart wheels I can see the intense beauty, that feeling of excitement mingled with peace, of something being right...I can taste what I feel when I am writing regularly, when the words are flowing, when images burn behind my eyelids and my fingers can barely keep up with them.
Instead, I am churning my wheels, stuck in place, as I try to figure out what to put in this second novel of mine. I don't want it to be usual, to be trite, to be all the things that good writing should not be. And so I wait and churn and hope that one morning, just like that, everything will slide into place and like a freed wheel...the words will flow and I will write and all the threads of this story I want to tell will weave together.
And I will be content. Till then I am stuck.
Dancing Girls
I just finished reading The Dancing Girls of Lahore by Louise Brown. So seductively disturbing. Alternate realities where 14 year old girls happily sell their virginity and mothers look at their daughters as old-age pensions. Unbroken circles of abuse, lack of choices and victimization. The strange hierarchies of izzat even within Heera Mandi. The degrees of seduction. The placement of the dupatta that identifies someone as a gandi kanjri versus a woman of some respect, even if the outside world lumps them all together as whores. There is a world of meaning in each glance, each giggle, each time the dupatta slips down to reveal the glimpse of a heaving bosom or long, flowing hair.
Why am I so interested in dancing girls and burlesque these days? In some ways, these women, owning their sexualities is a twisted kind of feminism? But, in fact, they are still victims of the shohar or the ashiq who they keep falling love with but who keeps leaving them as they grow fatter and grow more wrinkles and white hair. There's always someone younger, sexier, prettier around. Sometimes even their own daughters.
Sex is a tool for them to make money but also a weapon that denies them the identity to be anything but a prostitute. But then don't our jobs make us the same? Am I just an editor? Or something else? A writer? Struggling writer? What defines me? What makes me who I am?
Why am I so interested in dancing girls and burlesque these days? In some ways, these women, owning their sexualities is a twisted kind of feminism? But, in fact, they are still victims of the shohar or the ashiq who they keep falling love with but who keeps leaving them as they grow fatter and grow more wrinkles and white hair. There's always someone younger, sexier, prettier around. Sometimes even their own daughters.
Sex is a tool for them to make money but also a weapon that denies them the identity to be anything but a prostitute. But then don't our jobs make us the same? Am I just an editor? Or something else? A writer? Struggling writer? What defines me? What makes me who I am?
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
New Toy
I feel like a kid with a new toy. During the infancy of the web I had my own web site. Well actually my husband created it for me. And then, somewhere in the move from Indiana to California it died.
And now here I am, in my own little corner of the web...or is it my own piece of a strand of the web?
I am still trying to figure out how everything works on here. I am happy with my new toy.
And now here I am, in my own little corner of the web...or is it my own piece of a strand of the web?
I am still trying to figure out how everything works on here. I am happy with my new toy.
Burlesque with Words
I feel as if I am stepping to a vast spider web, the threads, thin, yet so tightly intermeshed that I will not fall through. But here I am, so hello world!
It is at once exhilirating and scary. What are the lines between the public and the private? How much do I reveal? Or not?
I recently watched the documentary Pretty Things
http://www.hbo.com/docs/programs/prettythings/
The eroticism of nearly naked flesh, the barely-there clothes all paled in comparision to the expressions, the lightly trailed hand on ones skin, Zorita biting the skin of her own upraised arm. And yet, they remain mysterious, just out of reach, fully woman.
In a way we are all burlesque performers, engaged in an elaborate game of show and hide and then show some more. How much skin, how many emotions, how many shades? Welcome to my burlesque, webizens.
How much should I write? How many words? How often? What words should I use? What do I avoid? I am trying to do burlesque with words. And here I am.
It is at once exhilirating and scary. What are the lines between the public and the private? How much do I reveal? Or not?
I recently watched the documentary Pretty Things
http://www.hbo.com/docs/programs/prettythings/
The eroticism of nearly naked flesh, the barely-there clothes all paled in comparision to the expressions, the lightly trailed hand on ones skin, Zorita biting the skin of her own upraised arm. And yet, they remain mysterious, just out of reach, fully woman.
In a way we are all burlesque performers, engaged in an elaborate game of show and hide and then show some more. How much skin, how many emotions, how many shades? Welcome to my burlesque, webizens.
How much should I write? How many words? How often? What words should I use? What do I avoid? I am trying to do burlesque with words. And here I am.
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