I've been in India for less than a week and am now in my third city. From Delhi to Allahabad, back to Delhi and now in Mumbai. As always I find these homecomings increasingly disconcerting and comforting, two disparate reactions that confuse me. What was once familiar appears unfamiliar and what was unfamiliar (the fast pace of growth and all its attendants) seems strangely familiar. Allahabad was the same. But for God's sake we have a McDonalds. A McDonalds in Allahabad. Mumbai is still depressingly expensive and the traffic makes me want to scream. Delhi was well...Delhi. Chaotic and Panju.
More later.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Friday, December 22, 2006
New Year in India
I leave for India tomorrow, to meet family and friends and attend the launch of my book. This is the first time in perhaps 15 years that I'll be in India for Christmas and New Year. Oh yes, and also Bakr-Eid which is essentially an orgy of blood, the bleating of terrified animals and people trying to outshine each other. Far removed from the spirit of sacrifice that the festival is supposed to be about.
Bringing in the new year, 2007, in India is strange. This coming year bisects my life in two. I will be exactly double the age I was when I arrived in the US. I was young, scared and excited and so desperately missing India. It's not like it is for newcomers now, with the Internet and cheap phone calls. To those of us who arrived in the late 80's and early 90's it was a complete shift. We wrote letters and awaited them eagerly. Phone calls were still too expensive to make regularly, especially on TA salaries.
So much has changed. Not just with communication but with me. I'm married, have a home and a family very different from the one I grew up in. My nieces are young women and my nephew is no longer a baby but a guitar toting member of a band.
I have mixed feelings. In some ways I feel my life is waning but in others the next 20 years are replete with promise and newness. It's not been bad so far. In the balance of all things....I've had a good life. I am loved and I love...and that's not too shabby.
But yes, as a new year and another birthday...a seminal birthday...approach I am also filled with regret for things I could have done, things I could have been. Regret is like autumn leaves drifting inexorably to the ground. There is not much I can do about the past. But perhaps I can work towards what is yet to come.
I will try and blog while I am in India but if I am not able to....Happy Holidays, Seasons Greetings and a Very Happy New Year.
Hope it's a good one.
Bringing in the new year, 2007, in India is strange. This coming year bisects my life in two. I will be exactly double the age I was when I arrived in the US. I was young, scared and excited and so desperately missing India. It's not like it is for newcomers now, with the Internet and cheap phone calls. To those of us who arrived in the late 80's and early 90's it was a complete shift. We wrote letters and awaited them eagerly. Phone calls were still too expensive to make regularly, especially on TA salaries.
So much has changed. Not just with communication but with me. I'm married, have a home and a family very different from the one I grew up in. My nieces are young women and my nephew is no longer a baby but a guitar toting member of a band.
I have mixed feelings. In some ways I feel my life is waning but in others the next 20 years are replete with promise and newness. It's not been bad so far. In the balance of all things....I've had a good life. I am loved and I love...and that's not too shabby.
But yes, as a new year and another birthday...a seminal birthday...approach I am also filled with regret for things I could have done, things I could have been. Regret is like autumn leaves drifting inexorably to the ground. There is not much I can do about the past. But perhaps I can work towards what is yet to come.
I will try and blog while I am in India but if I am not able to....Happy Holidays, Seasons Greetings and a Very Happy New Year.
Hope it's a good one.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Check it out: I'm on the publisher's page now
If the link doesn't work, you can just go to www.rolibooks.com and check in the New Arrivals section. Sometimes it actually shows up on the home page.
Monday, December 18, 2006
O-L-D
Does everyone take stock of their lives in December? I certainly do. Also because after December comes January and with it, sadly my birthday. And we all certainly take stock on our birthdays, right? I hate it that just about when I am trying to adjust to a new calender year I have to also try and adjust to being a year older. And feeling ancient. 2007 will be a hard one. I cannot even say the words yet.
I am growing old. O-l-d. I am even tempted to lie about my age. I swore I would never do that. That I would wear my years with dignity, with pride. But that fwas lush in the middle of youth. Impetuous. Arrogant. When things seemed possible, within reach, not faded images in the rearview mirror, out of my grasp. And age seemed a number and I thought folks made too much of a big deal of it all. And I thought I was above it all.
And then one day I looked at myself in the mirror and asked, "who is she? that woman?" The woman in the mirror has lines on her face. Is that a wrinkle? *gasp* "I will wear them proudly to show the world that women's lives do not end as they age. That they do not become invisible." But that was before. Now I wonder if I should spring for Botox. Better a frozen face than one with wrinkles. An approximation of youth for the certainty of age. Of old age.
And my feminist self cries. With shame and anger. Wondering what happened to her. To me. Lost somewhere within the layers of the years, the wrappings of my experiences. Am I falling prey to images and cultural shackles. Or is it all just human frailty?
Will I return soon to myself, I wonder? Slip into my skin, in whatever shape it's in and reclaim my space in life. Stake my claim and proclaim who I am...who she is...and shout it from from everywhere. With no fear? Perhaps!
I am growing old. O-l-d. I am even tempted to lie about my age. I swore I would never do that. That I would wear my years with dignity, with pride. But that fwas lush in the middle of youth. Impetuous. Arrogant. When things seemed possible, within reach, not faded images in the rearview mirror, out of my grasp. And age seemed a number and I thought folks made too much of a big deal of it all. And I thought I was above it all.
And then one day I looked at myself in the mirror and asked, "who is she? that woman?" The woman in the mirror has lines on her face. Is that a wrinkle? *gasp* "I will wear them proudly to show the world that women's lives do not end as they age. That they do not become invisible." But that was before. Now I wonder if I should spring for Botox. Better a frozen face than one with wrinkles. An approximation of youth for the certainty of age. Of old age.
And my feminist self cries. With shame and anger. Wondering what happened to her. To me. Lost somewhere within the layers of the years, the wrappings of my experiences. Am I falling prey to images and cultural shackles. Or is it all just human frailty?
Will I return soon to myself, I wonder? Slip into my skin, in whatever shape it's in and reclaim my space in life. Stake my claim and proclaim who I am...who she is...and shout it from from everywhere. With no fear? Perhaps!
New haircut
Okay...in the pic it looks almost exactly the same....but trust me it's different. Shorter and with side bangs. I like it.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
It's Here
The brown DHL box sat on the kitchen counter as I walked the dog. It sat there for as I rummaged in the fridge, trying to assemble dinner. I knew what it was. But something, I don't know what, kept me from ripping it open. Perhaps to prolong the anticipation. Perhaps a strange dread from seeing my own name on the cover, my words populating its 178 pages. What if it sucks? What if seeing it in black and white will finally make me realize that I can't write? And then I opened the box and saw my five advance copies. The cover that until now I had only seen as an image on my computer jumped out at me. I still haven't read it, just looked at the cover, read the back, examined the copyright page. I lack the courage to read my own words. It's strange to hold the culmination of years of living with this story, months of writing it, another few months of editing and re-writing, sending it out, getting rejected...and finally one acceptance. Now I weigh it in my hands, touch the cover, absorbing the different textures of it. I close my eyes and read it...an inexpert reader of Braille. The cover is matte, except for the title and my name and the splash of red that meanders across the wrist of the palm. The palm that's almost the same size as mine. I open the book and let my fingertips caress the pages. They are slightly rough as I like it. The texture is weighty somehow and I can feel the slight ridges where my own words, printed in black ink break up the expanse. I am experiencing my words for the first time as a physical entity. I avert my eyes from my words and let my other senses take over. Carrying it to my nose, I smell the paper that carries within it the scent of my thoughts and imagination. I can taste it almost as I bury my face within its pages. And, of course, there is the most tactile way of experiencing it, the touch of my fingers. I am excited, yes, to hold it in my hands. But it's also as if I am bidding goodbye to my novel as a creative extension of myself. And welcoming its phyical presence. And dare I say it...the novel as a marketable, commercial product. It's almost as if despite bearing my name on the cover and my writing within it, this book is something foreign, a package for my most intimate wonderings. Having a published book is the start of another journey for me. The book launch in early January in Delhi, working with the marketing manager at Roli, doing things I normally do for my authors as an editor. There's a part of me that wants to bury itself in my second book now for that is still truly mine, just mine.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Hazar mautein: Thousand Deaths
I've sneezed five times today. New tenants are moving in to the office next door and men in white overalls have been painting and scraping and banging away for days now. Usually I sneeze a good dozen times. Seven more to go.
Seven deaths.
Did you know that all your bodily functions stop for that instant you sneeze? Your heart stops, your lungs don't expand, heck even your eyes close. That's why, people say "bless you," so that you won't actually die. That your soul will return to your body after being ousted for that instant in which you sneeze.
How many thousand of deaths have I had? 12 deaths a day for the past week, so many more besides that. I've died each day. Like a coward? Ek maut is better than hazaar mautein.
That's what they say. But I don't know. Sneezing reminds me I am alive, jolts me out of the interminable text I am editing. Like a little lightning bolt it shocks me out of my stupor. And if my eyes feel gritty and my nose a little stuffed, it's my own assertion of life.
I'm here. I'm alive. I survived another death.
Seven deaths.
Did you know that all your bodily functions stop for that instant you sneeze? Your heart stops, your lungs don't expand, heck even your eyes close. That's why, people say "bless you," so that you won't actually die. That your soul will return to your body after being ousted for that instant in which you sneeze.
How many thousand of deaths have I had? 12 deaths a day for the past week, so many more besides that. I've died each day. Like a coward? Ek maut is better than hazaar mautein.
That's what they say. But I don't know. Sneezing reminds me I am alive, jolts me out of the interminable text I am editing. Like a little lightning bolt it shocks me out of my stupor. And if my eyes feel gritty and my nose a little stuffed, it's my own assertion of life.
I'm here. I'm alive. I survived another death.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Quest for Poseiden
Her face remains in my consciousness. Hers and the baby's, both panting from the exertion of running after the bus, shouting for it to stop, the mother jostling the baby up and down, until both grew short of breath. The mother was dressed in some nondescript dark clothes, the baby's pink sweater drew some color into the woman's sallow face. They were both almost toothless, the baby too young to have many teeth, the woman too young to lose hers. The baby had fine brown hair and the mother's hair was thin, a bald spot on her head, the scalp showing through at other places. The baby looked around and smiled straight at me, as the bus started up again and the mother struggled to find the money for their tickets. I could hear them panting in unison as they brushed past me to sit by one of the windows.
The little girl craned her neck to look at me, grinning silently as I made a funny face at her and waved. The mother kept smiling too, strained and as if forced to, as the conductor spoke harshly to her in rapid Greek. Others in the bus looked at them disdainfully, shrinking into their seats. They were obviously peasants, perhaps even Romany, boarding the bus in the empty countryside. The mother had become acccustomed to being treated the way she was, smiling her strained smile, half-conciliatory, half-sad. The baby still smiled openly, widely at strangers.
The sun dissolved into darkness in an instant as we continued on from Athena's busy domain to the lonely kingdom of Poseiden. We had seen a photograph of his temple and had not been able to find anyway to get there, except as part of an orchestrated bus tour. We wanted to go there on our own and after many false starts and bad advice were finally were on our way to Cape Sounier.
In the dark Greek countryside the Aegean sea came into view, its waters illuminated briefly by the headlights of the bus. We were close. As the bus struggled up a hill I saw it.
White pillars, no roof, perched on a hill where the god could see the sea from different angles, revel in all its different moods and command its depths. How many hundreds of years had it stood there, overlooking his domain, the house of Poseiden?
The temple complex was closed by the time we reached but we could see it from the open courtyard of the closed restaurant at its base. The temple glowed in the moonlight, its strategic lighting seemed to make it hover over the darkened hillside. As if it really wasn't there. I stretched out my hand towards it and touched air. That is at is should be. Who should really be able to touch the house of Poseiden? It should remain as it is. Untouchable, unattainable...out of reach to mere mortals.
I knew the sea lay beneath us, as I stood by the side of the cliff, though I could not hear it. It was eerily silent. I could see the occasional boat glide by, its lights illuminating the still waters for a while. The Aegean has no waves, no tides. It is majestically, mysteriously silent.
As silent as Poseiden is in his destroyed temple. Why does he not scream? Lament the loss of his dominion and his influence, first losing to Athena and then to the inroads of semitic faiths? This is his temple, his house...not a tourist attraction. Mortals should not walk through and touch what is his. Ancient sailors looked to the glowing temple as they neared land, knowing they were safe, that Poseiden was happy and they were alive. Now it stands mute and abandoned, forgotten.
As the cool winds flowed in from the sea, goosebumps rose on my arm, making me shiver. And then, I heard Poseiden sigh. He might be quiet, the sigh told me, but he is not dead. He lives in the sea...and he is patient, awaiting the return of his faithful. He is Poseiden and in his silence itself there is power and strength. I looked up at his temple and smiled.
The headlights of the last bus to Athens cut a swathe across the darkness and we ran to meet it, not wanting to be stranded. I watched the temple recede and disappear into the night. As I fell asleep inside the dark interior, I wondered if Poseiden ever sleeps.
The little girl craned her neck to look at me, grinning silently as I made a funny face at her and waved. The mother kept smiling too, strained and as if forced to, as the conductor spoke harshly to her in rapid Greek. Others in the bus looked at them disdainfully, shrinking into their seats. They were obviously peasants, perhaps even Romany, boarding the bus in the empty countryside. The mother had become acccustomed to being treated the way she was, smiling her strained smile, half-conciliatory, half-sad. The baby still smiled openly, widely at strangers.
The sun dissolved into darkness in an instant as we continued on from Athena's busy domain to the lonely kingdom of Poseiden. We had seen a photograph of his temple and had not been able to find anyway to get there, except as part of an orchestrated bus tour. We wanted to go there on our own and after many false starts and bad advice were finally were on our way to Cape Sounier.
In the dark Greek countryside the Aegean sea came into view, its waters illuminated briefly by the headlights of the bus. We were close. As the bus struggled up a hill I saw it.
White pillars, no roof, perched on a hill where the god could see the sea from different angles, revel in all its different moods and command its depths. How many hundreds of years had it stood there, overlooking his domain, the house of Poseiden?
The temple complex was closed by the time we reached but we could see it from the open courtyard of the closed restaurant at its base. The temple glowed in the moonlight, its strategic lighting seemed to make it hover over the darkened hillside. As if it really wasn't there. I stretched out my hand towards it and touched air. That is at is should be. Who should really be able to touch the house of Poseiden? It should remain as it is. Untouchable, unattainable...out of reach to mere mortals.
I knew the sea lay beneath us, as I stood by the side of the cliff, though I could not hear it. It was eerily silent. I could see the occasional boat glide by, its lights illuminating the still waters for a while. The Aegean has no waves, no tides. It is majestically, mysteriously silent.
As silent as Poseiden is in his destroyed temple. Why does he not scream? Lament the loss of his dominion and his influence, first losing to Athena and then to the inroads of semitic faiths? This is his temple, his house...not a tourist attraction. Mortals should not walk through and touch what is his. Ancient sailors looked to the glowing temple as they neared land, knowing they were safe, that Poseiden was happy and they were alive. Now it stands mute and abandoned, forgotten.
As the cool winds flowed in from the sea, goosebumps rose on my arm, making me shiver. And then, I heard Poseiden sigh. He might be quiet, the sigh told me, but he is not dead. He lives in the sea...and he is patient, awaiting the return of his faithful. He is Poseiden and in his silence itself there is power and strength. I looked up at his temple and smiled.
The headlights of the last bus to Athens cut a swathe across the darkness and we ran to meet it, not wanting to be stranded. I watched the temple recede and disappear into the night. As I fell asleep inside the dark interior, I wondered if Poseiden ever sleeps.
The book is printed
Yes! My publisher informs me that the book is actually a physcal reality now. I expect to get some copies in the mail soon. I am so excited about my Dec/Jan trip to India. Still trying to digest this. Just had to share.
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