A Love Reaction

 What compels me to write? When do I put fingers to the keyboard and start typing with gusto, words flowing out like water bubbling through that broken pipe which you've been meaning to fix but never got around to and now it's too late and your kitchen is flooded and oh, hell. 

When I was young, it was mostly love. The feeling you feel when you are going to feel a feeling you've never felt before. I wrote pages after pages, not necessarily about love but because of it. Because of the high I used to feel after meeting her between scoops of ice cream, meeting her between rows of books, meeting her at bus-stops, walking through narrow streets sprinkled all over that tiny hometown of mine. 

If not love, it was reading. Which is a kind of love too, of course. Love with words, with dialog, with the process of creating worlds which take you away for a few hours. Worlds of horror, of mystery, of intrigue, of castles filled with incredibly funny Earls, secretaries, and butlers. My writing at the time echoed Stephen King, Robert Ludlum, Agatha Christie, Arthur C Clarke, and every Indian english reader's constant source of amusement, PG Wodehouse. It was terrible writing, now that I look back at it, but it flowed. 

It changed later though, after several years. Especially after my daughter was born, which was peak blogging era (LiveJournal, sigh). I wrote about emotions, about her growing up, about what we learned, my wife and I. Strangely enough, my son's birth a few years later was peak social media. It was Facebook, it was Instagram, it was Twitter, and Whatsapp. Which meant I have fewer videos and pics of my daughter compared to my son, but more words for Rachu than Karan. Not quite sure how I feel about that now.

So, what compels me to write? At this age, at this moment, I think it's the opposite of love. Not quite hate, but anger. Bitterness. Sadness. Frustration. With the world, with politics, with the irrationality that surfaces every day. With the unfairness of it all. And the realization that it's here to stay and there's little I can do about it. 

Other than write.

Of books, shows, and movies

I've been on a tear with books the past few weeks. Picked up some twenty-odd from the library; finished about half a dozen, DNF'd another four to five, and have the rest lined up on my to-read shelf. Jo Hamya's The Hypocrite and Ian Banks' The Crow Road were a couple of the stand-outs from this set. 

Doing something similar with shows as well, though they obviously take longer to complete. Carmy and the gang haven't moved much, but I have now fully caught up with them. Disclaimer was a disappointment, Blanchett notwithstanding. Restarted my Madmen odyssey too, as I have the AMC+ sub for a few more months.

The movie watching continues at the same rhythm, of course. Fridays, Saturdays, and other assorted holiday eves are spent going through my Letterboxd watchlist. Indian movies have been way better than most of the stuff Hollywood churned out last year, which is nice to see. Having said that, wound up 2024 watching Dune 2 for the third time, which was almost as enjoyable as the first. Movie of the year, for sure.

All About Me

I worked my ass off to get here;

None of this was easy for me.

I get mad when I see them complain;

Taking my tax dollars for free.

I worked my ass off at my private school;

Aced assignments (with tutors three).

Got into one of the best colleges;

My parents were proud as they paid the fee.

I worked my ass off at college;

Pounded on my MacBook every day.

Had my fun too, parties and girls;

The checks from home came my way.

I worked my ass off at my first job;

(My dad knew the CEO from the ‘burb).

They made me a manager in a few years;

I told my team how lucky they were.

I came to this country like everyone else;

In an A380: the drinks were free!

I found a district with the best schools;

Everyone around looked just like me.

I get mad when I see them complain;

Taking my tax dollars for free.

I worked my ass off to get here.

Why can’t they be more like me?

Etiquette

Anita knew the fork to use first, the one to pick next. She knew the way to drink soup, the specific method to scoop out broth and gently sip on it, tasting it before swallowing. She wasn’t old enough to order wine, but she knew how to do that as well. She could pick the year, knew the questions to ask, knew how to pour the wine out.

Anita was an amazing greeter. She loved going to the door when her parents had guests over, welcoming visitors. She knew whom to greet first, how to take their coats, help them get settled. She opened conversations when there was a pause, and she knew exactly how to measure pauses. Some silences were okay, some were not.

Anita’s friend from school, Qasim, did not know any of this. He had come to her home once, and made all kinds of mistakes. He slurped his drink loudly, burped after he finished it, and kept using the bathroom every ten minutes.

Qasim was a funny one. He kept getting As in all his tests, though you wouldn’t believe it looking at him. Anita always thought he looked dumb, with his drab clothes and funny way of talking. Anita’s mother actually thought Qasim had special needs, when she saw him at her house the other day. He wouldn’t look at her, and kept mumbling when she asked him polite questions, the usual small talk one makes with visitors. Not that it bothered Anita’s mother, obviously. Anita’s mother would have loved to have a child with special needs over to visit. She would have spoken about it to her friends for the next few months.

Qasim never said thank you, never said sorry, never blessed Anita when she sneezed. Not that Anita would sneeze very often of course, and even when she did, it was always gently, and quietly. Anita knew how to behave.

Qasim wasn’t born here. Anita didn’t know where he came from, and he wouldn’t give her a straight answer whenever she asked. She imagined he was from Syria. From Pakistan. Bangladesh, perhaps. She knew those countries existed, naturally. She often thought of traveling there when she was grown up, helping the needy and winning a Nobel prize for peace. She knew she’d do well out there — there were so many people who needed help. She wondered how they drank soup, and whether they used their spoons from the outside in, or the other way round. She’d teach them the right way, as soon as she got settled.

Anita had tried to get Qasim to hang out with her and her friends, but he always turned her down. She wanted him to be with her as she and her friends discussed music, books, and politics. She was an ardent supporter of diversity, and having a diverse friend would be simply awesome. She once tried taking a selfie with him, but she had to delete it as he looked really ridiculous in the pic. He had no idea how to pose, how to smile, how to look cool.

There was this one time when Anita gave Qasim her copy of the latest Wimpy Kid book, which she loved. She didn’t think Qasim read books, from the way he looked at it. Qasim held the book for a minute, leafed through some of the pages, and gave it back to her with a brief thank you. Anita asked him if he’d read it already, but he said he hadn’t. She tried to insist he take it, told him it was hilarious and he’d really enjoy it. Qasim just looked at her with those infuriating eyes, and declined again. She watched him as he walked away, bumping into the English professor on his way out, laughing with him at the book Mr Reid held in his hands. Wasn’t a Wimpy Kid book, though. It had a number on its title, with a picture of a dancing red soldier on the lower left corner. Maybe they liked books about war, she thought.

Anita wished Qasim would be like her. Enjoy the books she liked, watch the movies she loved, listen to the music she enjoyed. She wished he would learn to talk like normal people. Know what to say, when, and how to say it. Wished he would stop clearing his throat all the time. Wore better clothes. Knew the rules. Knew what’s proper, what’s allowed, what regular people did.

Wished he could be just like her. Normal, like everyone else.

(Originally posted here)

The Expensive Currency

Hate is cheap. Hate is easy to peddle, easy to come by. Hate is the currency used by leaders everywhere these days. Hatred against the other, the outsider, the invader, the bloodthirsty barbarian at the gate. The immigrant, the minority, the ones that infest. Those who have funny names, names that are difficult to understand, to pronounce, but are drop dead easy to tweet about.

Hate is the cheapest currency of all.

Then there’s the one which looks cheap, but isn’t. Difficult to come by these days, even for those who are rich with hate. The peddlers don’t quite know how to use this currency. They haven’t provided it, except as a way to stoke hate.

It’s audacious, this other currency. It motivates people. Animals. Living things. It’s what drives all creatures, humans included, to leave their homes and travel. Migrate in search of better pastures, better livelihood. Not just for them, but for their offspring. It’s the driving force behind evolution.

People talk about what they want. Food, water, shelter. Jobs. What they don’t talk about is what they actually need. That’s the expensive one, the currency that’s tough to come by these days.

The currency of hope.

You. The young’uns, the tweens, the teens, the children of today and tomorrow. Believe in this currency. Invest in it, nurture it, let it grow. Believe there is something better waiting for you.

You are our only hope.

(Originally posted here)

He's here now.

He's here among us now.
The door that was tightly shut is open.
Not fully, but enough
For him to enter.

He knows his way in now.
And can enter again.

Anytime.

For the birds, boxed.

I flat out refuse to watch Bird Box, by the way. There’s something about the smug way the movie was promoted that bothers me. Netflix pounding social media, strongly pushing the FOMO factor, creating this aura of unmissability. Screw that. 

I’ve watched A Quiet Place anyway. I get the idea. 

Let It Go

"It's freezing!", I thought to myself earlier today, even though it was actually thirty one degrees below freezing. Or seventeen below, if you like your football played with feet. 

Funny how that phrase sticks with you. What could be worse than freezing, you thought when you visited Ooty as a kid, the temperature hovering dangerously close to the fifteen degree Celsius mark. What's colder than ice, the cubes that you find inside trays of plastic stuck in your kitchen freezer? You've not understood how ice is formed, never seen it outside of a refrigerator. You've never seen hail, never seen snow. You think of the movies when you think of snow. Yahoo! James Bond skiing. Ratheesh and a baby faced Rani Padmini. 

The highest temperature today was three degrees Fahrenheit. The lowest was one. One degree F. That's about -16º and -17º C. Not quite the temperature of that cube of ice when it floats over your uncle's peg of Johnny Black. 

So yeah, it was freezing cold today.

Two Years

So yeah, it's been two years since we made the big leap. The great crossing. The Tughluq move. The moon shot. You get the idea.

This is the point where I'm supposed to take an impassioned look at what's worked well, what's not, and reach a conclusion that it was all for the best. Or that it was disastrous and we need to continue going west all the way back to the east.

Life doesn't quite work that way, though. Have the past two years been great? Absolutely. Have they been tough? Of course. Are we happy, content and living the American dream? Not quite, not yet. Are we disillusioned, disheartened and planning to get the hell out of Dodge? Not quite, not yet.

Dickens said it best, I think.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us...

Then again, I turn to the kids. And bask in the sun.

No matter where we are, we will always have the sun.

Why I shouldn't watch TV

So I'm skipping through TV shows on Amazon Prime Video and come across one starring that actor, that guy who always plays losers and anti-heroes; was in Bad Santa? Has three names, like David Anthony Fernandez. Billy Ray Cyrus? Nah.

Anyway, so I start watching and sure enough, ole Stevie Ray Vaughan is in a bar drinking it up already. Dammit, I know his name. Was married to Angelina Jolie? Had a tattoo. Or maybe she did. Won an Emmy last year, I think.

Damn.

Show's not bad, though. Haley Joel Osment's apparently pissed off this big bad corporation, headed by - oh, look! It's William Hurt! Or hang on, is it John Hurt? Always get them mixed up. Alright, I know this. John Hurt was the Alien-popping guy, the Elephant Man who died earlier this year. William was the Body Heat dude. Got it.

Phew, I'm back in the game.

Now this Kareem Abdul Jabbar dude. He was in Fargo Season One too, for crying out loud. He was playing himself of course, but he was awesome.

I'm seriously getting old.

Like literally.