Quirkyalone Musings

Haiku & Sumi Ink

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 08:50:00 +0000

The Blur of my 20s

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 05:42:00 +0000

"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."

Of all things, I didn't expect my '20s' to resemble the opening line of "A Tale of Two Cities".

Everything overlaps in my memory. I can't pinpoint what happened when.

My 20s has been a blur-the years, the events, experiences, people who drifted in and out, people who lingered, the hard-earned and the surprise successes, the vicious cycles of failure, the ennui of adulthood, the simple or extravagant joys, deceptions and lies, the foolish heart that refuses to learn lessons, the heart that has learnt to be and even accept indifference, journeys of self-discovery, the indirect search for the meaning of it all, nights of fervent prayers, indulging in frivolities, still reading books with the same love and worship for the written word, still being the pampered daughter and doting sister, paranoid driving, learning compassion and responsibilities, healing and not just because it is a job, learning the hard way to follow the advice of my parents, waiting for I know not what, laughing at how far I've come along yet how long I have stood still, sometimes mourning an untarnished memory, kicking myself often for wavering in the most important thing in the world-discipline, uncertain steps into writing, accepting deficiencies and along the way accepting myself, wondering what my ten year old self would say when my dreams of a settled career and being happily married and traveling the world by 27 seems impossible now, telling my ten year old self that it's okay the way things are now and meaning it, still skeptical about most of the people I meet, creating my own happiness, and not even close to learning how to cook.

When I was sixteen, a person who was over twenty-five was OLD, a fossil. Today I have turned 26. I don't feel like a fossil. I have yet to embark on many journeys. I have yet to find the utopian true love. I have yet to get kicked in the guts by life and learn few more lessons. I have yet to find contentment. I have yet to make my parents proud. I have yet to travel to places I've read about in books and compare my mind's imagery with the real beauty. I have yet to do something meaningful for the causes I believe in and support.

Miles to go...

(Photo Courtesy: kikimatters)

Hills

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 16:51:00 +0000

“Mod”, the movie I watched this weekend. I had always been a Kukunoor fan, enraptured by his simple storytelling in Dor and Hyderabad Blues.

Loopholes abound, unwanted subplots, unimaginative “Mod” (turn) in the story, and few sequences were rushed and repetitive. But, I didn’t want it to end.

I wanted to keep watching the sun peeping through the misty mornings of the charming hill town of Ganga, waking up to steaming cups of coffee, the unhurried existence, rides up the winding mountain roads in an old bike, the quaint clock repair shop, the delightful “kishore kumar fan” father, the fun and assertive aunt, the girl wooed by poems and poetry, the tender love story bloom. The movie had so many elements that I liked and wanted to see more of, but sadly they reached a plateau a bit too soon and got lost in the cacophony of the “Mod”.

But I would watch this poetic fable again, despite shortcomings, for it’s a Kukunoor film and he delivers a little of the charming elements I looked forward to. Just like I would keep returning to every Pamuk novel, even if certain pages get tedious, because of the familiarity of prose that speak directly to me; I would return to “Mod” again.

The hills did it for me.

I explored another small hill town, Shillong, in the book I had been reading in stolen pockets of time over the past fortnight. Shillong had always been a favorite weekend getaway, owing to its proximity to Guwahati. The unruly rain that disobeyed all weather forecasts, tree-lined paths, frosty mornings, the old world charm of cottages and churches, the buzz of the market selling shoes a size too small for me, the cafes and eateries with impromptu performances, the rock music fans, the kwai chewing gentle souls, the undulating hills, waterfalls and brooks veiled in lush greenery; I had been a good tourist and fell in love with all these long ago. I never gave much thought what it would be like to live in Shillong, the town that held strawberry pie bake-offs, skinny dipping contests on New Year’s Eve, and has created generations of people who breathed music and religiously held Dylan concerts. I never wondered what it’d feel like waking up to the cold, invigorating air and a foggy breath every morning of my life. I wonder what it would be like to walk the rain-washed, grey pavements on a regular basis; will the rain depress me? Will the pine trees smell equally enticing after I rest under their shade for the fiftieth time?

I had been born and raised in the plains, where the pollution and dust to greenery ratio escalated every year. I need a Shillong break every year, but will the small town charm captivate me for a longer period?

I found answers in Anjum Hasan’s “Lunatic in my Head”. The book had piqued my interest because of the author’s origins in North-East India. I hadn’t till that instant had the opportunity to read original works in English by authors from North-East, having chanced upon only translated works from Assamese earlier.

The prose is subtle, poetic and rich. It follows the lives of three individuals who are strangers yet are bound to each other through acquaintances, circumstances and destinies. They lead parallel lives with events ranging from joyous to that of disgust, occurring almost simultaneously. The central protagonist is the small town of Shillong, how it binds them, shapes their destinies, creates in them a desire to escape and finally their reconciliation to their place of existence.

There is Firadaus, a thirty something lecturer, who is entangled in her world of completing a PhD thesis on Jane Austen’s work, a young Manipuri boyfriend, an orthodox grandfather and submission to living her entire life in Shillong. The second character is Aman, an IAS aspirant, who feels Roger Waters writes songs inspired by his letters to him, and has a group of rock enthusiasts for friends. He loves a Khasi girl, for whom Pink Floyd is just another band and it depresses him, along with his IAS notes, his aloof parents and his own timidity. And finally there is eight year old Sophie, who loves to smile when her parents smile, and one day suddenly believes she is adopted. Her world is about a mother who was pregnant a for a tad too long, a father who hopes for a job to fall into his lap, a kind Khasi landlady and her disturbingly provocative son, her school and the constant need to please Miss Wilson, her novels and the character of Anna.

These three lives are entwined subtly, each individual unaware of each other’s presence till they intersect for a brief moment once. The narrative is compelling and experimental, and the characters and subplots are well sketched out.

Nothing extraordinary happens in small towns, cocooned from the rest of the world, moving in their own unhurried pace. This happens in Shillong too. This happens to Firadaus, Aman and Sophie too. Nothing extraordinary happens, there are no twists and turns. The monotonous existence, the claustrophobia that brings about a longing to escape, the love of familiarity and fear of unknown that binds the residents of such towns to it; all such emotions are well-depicted in the book. Emotions, landscapes, individuals all come to life in Hasan’s vibrant prose. The melancholy of this small town that tourists overlook is palpable throughout the narrative.

I loved the book and highly recommend ' Lunatic in my head'. The hills had done it for me again.

My Autumn: Cottony skies, Ghibli magic, Banned Books, Lemon Cake, Pasta, Phase 3, Basho, Earthquake and Empty Bank

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 18:58:00 +0000

I would always be partial to November, as it gave me to the world and mostly vice versa. September comes a close second, autumn subtly coloring up my life.

I got a new job. I am not ecstatic about it. It’s a government job (the mere sound of which nearly mars all possibilities of excitement) at a remote corner of Assam. But it’s preferable to studying at home the whole day till my exams in January. It’s just the right pace, 5 hours a day; the puzzle piece that fits into the jigsaw of my exam preparation and the solitude I seek. The place is so remote it’s like the 1920s. A car passing by on the dusty road becomes the discussion of the day at the market. The people are laid back and “adda” is the widely practiced local sport. Only solace is the unsullied green fields, the trees, cottony skies, the dew-laden mornings; and a pristine solitude.

September introduced me to Studio Ghibli movies. My breath often forms a solid lump of joy in my chest, as I watch and relish idyllic visuals, marvel at imaginations, and relieve my childhood. I cling to these movies like an oasis of pure, stark joy. I watch them alone on evenings, in my room, on my bed. 'Grave of the Fireflies', 'Whisper of the Heart', 'Only Yesterday', 'Arrietty', 'Howl's Movng Castle', 'Kiki's delivery Service', 'Princess Mononkone', 'My neighbor Tortoro', 'My neighbours-The Yamadas', 'Ponyo' and 'Spirited Away'. I don’t rush through them, as I usually do with things that interest me. I am slowly savoring each visual, each word and each feeling that it arouses in me.

Being jobless for a month and half, had a weird effect on me. I went on a spending spree knowing fully well my dwindling finances. I added the color purple to my wardrobe, and made Flipkart.com rich by a dozen books. I have an upcoming exam and can’t afford to indulge in the luxury of reading a dozen novels. But I hoard them. My mother has banned nine of these books from my life till January. Her threat is a real one, a new lock on my library evidence of her resolution. She doesn’t trust me when it comes to a few things in life, and reading novels stealthily tops the list. Many a flashlight had been angrily flung to the floor and sacrificed during my childhood, when my mother discovered it aiding a new novel to keep me awake beyond 3 am. I am 25, I have few bank accounts, I can drive, I can finally cross roads during rush hour, I can eat alone in restaurants, I am a doctor, I can call myself almost an adult; but I dare not defy my mother’s rules when an exam looms in the near horizon. So, the books are banned. Not the MCQ books though.

My mother is overall a kind woman and I’m her first-born; so she let me choose three novels to read during the three months till January. My mind went into a tizzy, trying to decide which books to choose from the dozen new ones. I chose “The naïve and the sentimental novelist” by Orhan Pamuk, “The particular sadness of lemon cake” by Aimee Bender and “Oxford anthology of Writings from North-east India”. I’ve started reading the Aimee Bender book. Beautiful writing. I devote pockets of time throughout the day to it without upsetting my study schedule and most importantly, my mother. I’ve read only a hundred pages till now. It’s about a nine year old girl who can taste in food the emotions of the people who cook it. It agitates her routine life, when she can taste a sad hollowness in her cheerful mother’s lemon cake. The knowledge of facades people erect lurches her forward from her complacent childhood. Aimee Bender’s words are brilliant and effortless; conjuring up images from a nine year old’s perspective. I am looking forward to reading more of it.

I am a disaster in the kitchen, and so less bothered about my lack of culinary skills, that I stupidly flaunt it. I had a panic attack once when I was asked to boil eggs, because the duration of boiling was as unfathomable to me as the mysteries of life and death. When I was in a hostel, I was a mere bystander when other girls chopped vegetables, measured oil, marinated with spices and cooked delicious dishes that I shamelessly ate. My mother shudders to think what I would cook for my husband after marriage. Maggi noodles and cornflakes, quips my aunt. Then a month ago I read “Eat, Pray, Love” by Elizabeth Gilbert. I fell in love with Italy. The food in the book personified and seduced me. Indian meditation and Balinese life balance intrigued me too. But Italy won. Not just the country and the language, even the food. I downloaded apps on my phone to learn Italian verbs, listened to the soundtrack of ‘La Dolce Vita’, and ate Italian food at restaurants. This phase lasted a fortnight. It mellowed down after that, but my ‘Italy’ hangover did the unthinkable. It made me venture into unknown territory within my own home, the kitchen. I cooked. Pastas, frittatas, and a variety of soups. As I skinned and seeded tomatoes, and whiffed the herbs in the soup, I FINALLY discovered the “joy” in cooking. It wasn’t finger-licking good, but after a few mishaps, I can now cook some decent Pasta. My mother thanked her stars at this small start. ‘All hope isn’t lost’.

July saw me falling in love, that went unrequited and September found me making peace with it. It’s Phase 3. After Phase 1 of dazed existence, and Phase 2 of sleepless nights, constant turbulence of thoughts, and brooding about the same person every day; this is a cool, refreshing gulp of air. It has cleansed and calmed me, and has brought back some much needed focus and stability to my life. Getting a grip on my thoughts had been a topsy-turvy and unpleasant ride, but time has worked its magic again. Relief.

I also discovered Basho’s Haiku poems in the past month; another delightful discovery this autumn. It appealed to me like no other poetry ever did. I watched “Winter Days”, a short anime movie about visuals from Basho’s haiku poems. I basked in his words. I made a clumsy attempt at writing a few Haiku poems myself too, which are on this blog here and here.

And to round it all up, there had been a 6.8 earthquake on Sunday that literally shook the life out of me for the briefest of moments. It has resulted in a sad loss of life and property in idyllic Sikkim and neighboring areas; not to mention the emotional trauma, fear and alarm that it has caused in the whole of India. I will always remember though that at the precise moment when the ground beneath me shook, I sprouted legs that could run as fast as the wind. I, who am outpaced by my eight year old cousin on long walks, glided downstairs from my second floor flat with my hard drive, phone and folder of school and college certificates in ten seconds flat. I salute my inner runner.

My autumn has just begun…

Photo Courtesy: grubbsartist.wordpress.com, authentic-italian-pasta-recipes.com

Words

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Tue, 13 Sep 2011 19:22:00 +0000

In old library
Read Dante by candlelight,
As moths ate words.

A pregnant red bus
The faces unnerve you,
An old friend waves.

I draw the curtains,
Killing a patch of sunbeam,
A peeping neighbour.

Insomnia,
I watch silvered shadows walk
On a moonlit path.

A mute observer
Veiled in leafy vines,
Chameleon of a door.

Old tales revive
As one combs a sister's hair,
Time halts to smile.

(Photo courtesy: millyonair.files.wordpress.com, lucasusual.com, 123rf.com, www.kershisnik.com)

I wish I was in your class again.

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 08:29:00 +0000

"The dream begins with a teacher who believes in you, who tugs and pushes and leads you to the next plateau, sometimes poking you with a sharp stick called 'truth'."

You might remember me only as a face in your classroom. But I will always be grateful for your support, belief in me and guidance at crucial points of my life. I feel blessed to be your student.

This is for you:~

Ma'am Deepti Singh: For that encouraging smile, a pat on the back, and developing a healthy competitive streak in me. And it touches me that you remember me even though it has been fifteen years since I last sat in your classroom. You were, are and will always be my favorite teacher in the whole wide world.

Sir Bijoy Handique: You were a lot of firsts for me. You were the first person to notice the 'biggest introvert' (me) in the classroom, the first to appreciate my work, the first to believe that I could achieve something big, the first to create a genuine interest to learn something instead of mugging up for exams and what do you know, you were even my first crush! I will always like history :) And the fact that you still remember me as the little girl in a grey skirt, wearing tiny, hoop earrings and traveling to school in the old fiat...delights me no end.

Ma'am Manjula: Your smile comforted me on the first day of kindergarten. You taught me the alphabet. You didn't laugh when I said that I sent my sports shoes to the 'barber' for cleaning!

Ma'am Ruprekha: I still remember the first thought that crossed my mind when I first saw you, "If my grandmother dressed up in chiffon sarees and wore lipstick, she too would look as beautiful as Ruprekha Ma'am". I think your maternal aura made it impossible for anyone not to like you. How you patiently listened to my fanciful imaginations about ETs, doppelgangers and the ghosts in the school church!

Ma'am Anita: You were the woman of 2011 in 1994! You made learning such fun. You brought beautifully crafted jewellery boxes to class when teaching about indigenous craftsmanship of Jammu and Kashmir, you taught us to appreciate the beauty of a song's lyrics (the example was 'ek ladki ko dekha toh aisa laga'), you striked the perfect balance between being amiable yet someone we didn't dare anger!

Sir Joseph: You introduced me to the world of books...novels, poems, short stories, essays, and even limericks. You let me borrow 4 library books every month when the rule was a limit of maximum 2 books. You played chess with me and didn't make a big fuss when I bunked PT class. You also bought me pastries in the school canteen, when the queue was long. You are awesome :)

Ma'am Srivastav: You always saw through my trick of feigning stomach ache when it was my turn to read a passage from the Hindi textbook, but you didn't scold and embarrass me in front of the class. You gradually let the love for the language grow on me, even though it never reached substantial heights. But you managed to hold my hand and walk with me through my living hell of writing Hindi essays!

Fr. Philip: I am yet to see a person as dashing and as charismatic as you. I doubt whether I'll ever see one. The way you spoke, the way you walked, the way you taught us the values of life was awe inspiring. But during tiffin break you patiently answered the questions of two enthusiastic little girls, my best friend and me, ranging from the contents of your lunch box to 'why bad things happen to good people'. You let us rummage through your personal library every day. And when I left my hometown and joined a new school, you uncomplainingly passed on my long letters, addressed to the school principal, to my eagerly waiting friends in that old classroom. Yes, I will never meet anyone like you again.

Sir Angelus: You were aggressive, and you never missed the target when you threw a chalk piece at an errant student. You scared me when you threatened to clip my long nails in front of the whole class. Yet, when I came to know you better, I thought you were the most gentle person I had ever met! Your razor sharp wit, your quirky assignments, your exciting tales, and the fact that you were the lone inhabitant of the school at night (as your living quarters were on the spooky top floor of the school) made you quite the interesting character. You disciplined us when we needed it the most.

Rafida Ma'am: You taught the most boring subject on earth. Social Studies. Yet, I never dozed off in your class. You helped me adjust to a new school. You handed me important responsibilities, so that I felt more involved in the alien environment. You advised in hushed tones to each of the girls individually when it was their time to start wearing a bra. I anticipated the dreaded moment and it lived up to the most awkward conversation (or was it just nodding my head) of my life. You left us all bereaved early this year, but I would always remember you fondly. RIP, Rafida Ma'am.

Sir Ratul Rajkhowa: You instilled in me a love for life sciences and consequently medicine. Your tuition classes were so much fun. You showed us the bottled gall bladder stones of your wife while solving genetics problems, you showed us your Bihu music cassette while classifying bacteria, and told us about your stint with the Indian Navy when we discussed ecological hazards! I so enjoyed those two hours of biology tuitions every morning.

Sir Balwant: I excelled in mathematics in school because of you. I was a dunce when it came to numbers, but your teaching showed me how mathematics could be fun. Your black diary with the toughest mathematical problems, invoked in me such a competitive streak to solve all of them before anyone else, that it scared me. You are such a down-to-earth and humble person. I will always appreciate your confidence in my abilities.

Sujata Ma'am: English seemed more than substance writing and grammar. Poetry awakened dreams instead of being monotonously mugged up for exams. I loved that you understood and took care of the individual needs of each of your students. You are such a witty, and for a lack of a better word 'spunky' woman. I liked your ideas, and everything you had done in life. You will always remain my idol.

Sir Jnanendra Sharma: I can't picture Gauhati Medical College without you. You are a great teacher and one of the most tirelessly hard working person I've ever met. During undergraduate days, you always encouraged this "Jorhat'or suwali" to work hard, and I really did during Pediatrics, which still is my favorite subject. Even when I was going through a bad phase of severe anxiety and cut myself off from the whole world, you were the only teacher who was supportive and gave me hope. You are a busy man and you didn't have to care if your past pupil was having a problem, but you did. And I will always be thankful for it. You didn't even make me feel awkward by questioning about my past problems, when I resumed my normal life. You made it very comfortable for me. I hope someday this "jorhat'or suwali" will be able to make you proud in her own small way.

Sir Sahid Ali: You are knowledge personified. And you are genuinely interested in sharing your knowledge with all your students. You care. A lot. And that's why I respect you so much.

Ma'am Gayatri: You are an epitome of intelligence, hard work and positive attitude. I always wanted to work hard in your classes. Especially pediatric ward classes. You are one of the finest women I have ever met.

Sir Suresh Chakraborty: I always looked forward to your questions about Gabriel Garcia Marquez to Satyajit Ray at the end of the psychiatry class. You made psychiatry come alive. I loved when you encouraged us to make diagnosis, validate it with strong arguments, and supported it with that happy smile of yours. You had always encouraged me to write during my undergraduate days in GMC, and I'd always be thankful for that.

Probodh Da: I hated it when you cut short the evenings, meant for having fun with my cousins, with boring homework assignments. But you never missed a class for 8 years, and made sure I stick to the books. I enjoyed the chat sessions at the end of the class, and playing scrabble with you.<

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"Into each life, some rain must fall"

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Fri, 02 Sep 2011 19:52:00 +0000

I nestled my face against the half open windowpane, a book on my lap; as I watched the clouds veil the sun and paint the sky a sharp grey. The bracing wind blew in a stray leaf through my window; from the tree that I wake up to every morning. I picked up the papery leaf, and placed it on page 96 of the book I had been reading. It can wait.

Soon, it was coming down really hard. Sudden. Unexpected. Gratifying. I heard it on the tin roof, felt it on my outstretched hand, breathed it in as it soaked the garden, saw it glisten on the new road, and tasted it in a warm samosa and mango pickle.

I watched the rain for an hour, as it cocooned me from everything that bothered me in the recent past. I had said too much, messed up priorities, and hurt many. Relying on a memory that blocked out unpleasant incidents and repressed mistakes, I tried to lead a normal life; but kept on making the same mistakes over and over again. The brain was quick to mask them before I could learn my lesson. I lived in illusions to make it from one day to the other.

I needed this hour of quiet retrospection to break this vicious chain. I needed to feel something fresh and unsullied, that could wash away the accumulating grime of unmet expectations, a shaky self-image and futile hopes. I needed it to unfurl a blank, white sheet of my life; a new start imbibing much needed realizations and a clearer perspective. I needed the rain.

It stopped at dusk, as suddenly as it had come. The evening air, the black outline of the treetops, the lights gleaming on the distant hill, the raindrops on my windowsill, the wetness in my palm; I tried to absorb in everything as I woke up from my reverie.

Switching on the light, I opened page 96 and read on.

She defined it

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Tue, 30 Aug 2011 18:35:00 +0000

The morning rush of patients was over; monitoring vitals, sending laboratory investigations, prescribing medicines and all the relatively small yet hectic duties that internship brought were done with for the day. The patients were in their beds and that provided her some rare quiet moments. She pored over her books; the books that would enable her to cross yet another threshold of her medical career; a postgraduate degree. She concentrated on the questions, mentally eliminating choices and zeroing on a single answer. Confidence surged and ebbed with every guess.

Two hours passed by. Apart from a casual chat with the nurse on duty, there was nothing to interrupt her studies. Few seniors came by later in the evening, and she updated them about any changes in the patients' conditions. After arrival of the seniors, she was left with nothing much to do at the ward; her duties lessened. She closed her book and waited for nine pm, when she could finally go home. Suddenly everything seemed dull. She looked at the clock, the minute hand mockingly refused to budge even after what seemed like an eon.

Then he walked in, a confident stride. He had come for his evening shift. Suddenly she was unable to emote normally. Her hands felt heavy and awkward, and not knowing what to do with them, she picked up the book in front of her. Her eyes darted furtively trying to catch a glimpse of him, without being too obvious. She was acutely aware of the fact that he stood a few inches away from her, and that was her cue to freeze. The simple task of handing over a patient file to him made her sweat glands go into an overdrive. He was totally oblivious of what his presence was doing to her, he probably didn't even notice that she existed. Time seemed to gallop now, and soon it was time for her to go home. She cursed this relativity of time!

She didn't even notice him the first few days, he was just another face, another acquaintance. It might have been sudden or gradual, it's a blur; but she started blushing every time he looked at her or the rare times he talked to her. He hardly knew her, nor did she. And there was no use of harboring any romantic notions for him, as it wouldn't have led to anything. Be reasonable, she chided herself repeatedly. But the heart had stopped taking orders from the reason-seeing, logically-thinking brain. There was a visible disconnect between what she thought and what she felt.

So here she was, acting like an over-enthusiastic teenager, feeling elated every time she caught a glimpse of him or saw him smile, when she had firmly decided that falling in love wasn't a consideration in the near future.

What was it?

It wasn't love, it's too deep a word to assign to her feelings for someone she hardly knew. It wasn't lust, she didn't obsess or fantasize about him. It wasn't an infatuation, he was not the most eligible guy around. It wasn't the want to be in a relationship, she knew and accepted that he would never reciprocate her feelings. She didn't feel the urge to see him, or be with him constantly.

She was just happy that there was this boy out there who made her smile every time he crossed her mind. And that's that.

4am Haiku

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Thu, 25 Aug 2011 03:06:00 +0000

A lone maple leaf,

Orange in a sea of grey,

He caught my eye.

I wait for the sun,

My room will glow orange,

Like the brewing tea.

Long winter night,

A tear soaked pillow,

Dry by morning.

An empty inbox,

With a thousand mails;

I wait yet again.

To a day in June,

Wind back all the clocks,

He sat beside me.

A withering past,

Turns a fresh page of life,

I draw a rainbow.

Pine tree woodlet,

A home in the hills,

Love has an address.

Take my thoughts,

O wind blow them far,

Wake him up tonight.

A sunlit fjord,

Eyes alight with laughter;

Many drowned.

Letters

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Mon, 22 Aug 2011 19:17:00 +0000

“I beg anyone who has ever been in love to remember how one usually hurries home after dropping the letter in the box, rapidly gets into bed and pulls up their quilt in full conviction that as soon as one wakes up in the morning, one will be overwhelmed with memories of the previous day and look with rapture at the window, where the daylight will be eagerly making its way through the folds of the curtain.”

~Anton Chekhov

I read and re-read these words written a century and half ago, and marveled at their relevance even in the age of BBM, emails and tweets. I had clicked the ‘send’ button in Gmail, instead of dropping a letter in the postbox, but I felt equally overwhelmed by delightful anticipation on sending a letter to the one I love.

The Chekhov quote reminded me of those days of taking out time to pen a long, hand-written letter. I had not received such a letter for more than a decade. Email is the more available, more convenient option. So is a facebook wall and sms. And there’s always the phone.

But how I miss writing long letters! I am terrible at making small talk, and overcompensate for it by writing long mails. That’s the most important reason I write. I can give some form to my thoughts and feelings, which become blurred in course of a conversation.

If and when I get married, I would want my husband to write letters to me. And patiently read my long letters. Even when we are living in the same house. It sounds silly, and probably is so, but I always want to experience the intimacy and the pleasure of exchanging hand-written letters.

During my childhood, summer vacations always brought letters from friends, cousins and pen pals. Pen-pals. Yes, I had a few. Just the very idea of communicating with a person I had never met, who is from a different culture, a different country, and comparing notes with them during the growing up years, was very exciting to me.

But as it happens to most things as time goes by, the child-like enthusiasm to write to a pen-pal faded away, and so did the pen-pal. I didn’t care anymore about sitting down cross-legged on my bed, pen and letter pad on my lap, writing to a friend I had never met about my experiences in school and the books I had read, in a scraggly script that I tried in vain to correct, oblivious to the rest of the world for a blissful hour. My parents got a telephone connection one summer, and the new thrill was talking to my best friend every few hours about how many pages of history homework I completed, and the latest songs we heard, and gossiped about how the new girl in class was such a big gossip. It was again the more available, more convenient option to communicate. Why waste time writing letters, and waiting for days to receive a reply, when I can just pick up the phone and talk? Letters faded away from my life. And I didn’t even feel their absence.

I shifted to a new city, when I was in the 8^th standard. I missed my friends back home, and exchanging letters became a habit again. There were a lot of friends I wanted to write to, but I didn’t know everyone’s addresses. So, I used to address a fat envelope containing a nearly ten page letter to the school principal! And he was kind enough to pass the letter, without complaining, to my amused friends who read it in the classroom. And there were days when I walked in home after school, and my mother handed me an equally fat envelope addressed to me. I can’t describe in words the joy I felt on reading my friends’ replies, where they rejoiced in my achievements, gave me advice on my problems, described in detail hilarious incidents, shared the going-on in their lives, updated me on the latest happenings in my old school. And the familiar handwriting, the doodles, and the violet ink; these are memories I will always treasure.

When I had my first heartbreak, I was devastated and I wanted to share it with someone who would understand the gamut of emotions I was going through, who won’t judge me by my wrong choices and patiently hear me out. I wrote a letter saying all that to my father. He understood, and most importantly he didn’t laugh when I wrote him a letter from the next room!

And ever since that day whenever I face a problem, where I am at a loss of words in communicating it, I write a letter. When I am in love, I write a letter. When I miss a friend, I write a letter. When it’s my favorite cousin’s birthday, I write a letter. When I want to apologize, I write a letter.

I will always write letters.

Evenings

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Wed, 17 Aug 2011 11:55:00 +0000

As the starry sky slowly shelters us,

I want the moonbeams to shine on you;

Reminding you of a love in utopia.

Thoughts fleet across the evening sky,

Like fireflies, aglow with love;

I wonder whether you think of me too.

An echo of you saying my name,

A shared laugh, a walk with you;

Nostalgia thrives, and I'm near you again.

Giving up on hope is never easy,

I surrender to its futility;

Even love seems near in this evening air.

I watch the evening drift into night;

Ending this indefinite wait, come,

Just hold my hand; words can come later.

That old diary

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Sat, 06 Aug 2011 08:25:00 +0000

There's something about opening an old diary, with its moth-eaten, faded brown jacket; leafing through the smooth, yellowed pages; breathing in the faint odor of memories cocooned over years. The writing is familiar, but the words seem to tell about long-forgotten stories, and I feel guilty about prying into my own thoughts, as if delving into the mind of another person.

Memory can be a tricky thing, and we modify, glorify or amplify it over the years. But the old diary quietly holds onto our real memories, good and bad, unchanged over the years. Few instances seem so new, I wonder whether it actually happened to me. And some feelings are so out of sync with what I feel now, I am left wondering whether I had actually imagined those feelings! It feels like fiction.

Sometimes I feel sad reading the innermost, child-like thoughts of a younger version of me; unsullied by grief or mistakes, blissfully ignorant of the harsher lessons of life awaiting her. I feel elated at her joys, want to comfort her when she had a bad day, encourage her, warn her about wrong judgments, protect her.

To get to the end is exhausting; it's like living many lives. There's a sense of wonder that it's me all along...all those thoughts, all those experiences. It's me all along, shaped by what life had to offer and how I tackled it. It's still me who had loved so passionately, laughed so heartily, worked so hard, wept so quietly, felt so much over the years. That's how I came into being.

And these written words, childish scrawls to elegant scripts, with doodles every now and then; are a witness to my life. There's a sense of joy, calm, pride, a little regret too...and a lot of hope.

Now new pages await to be filled up, and a few years from now I'd again marvel and even laugh at my 25yr old self's thoughts, mostly wondering, 'seriously, what were you thinking!'

That's the thing about opening an old diary; going through petals pressed against the days of first love, tear streaked pages of loss, smiley doodles signing off happy days...it's like coming home.

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Vulnerability

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Thu, 04 Aug 2011 12:12:00 +0000

A brown shirt,
Laugh lines,
Impish gaze,
Beautiful hands,
The way my heart stopped,
A much loved voice,
Vivid images,
Memories nonetheless.

Took a chance,
Said out loud;
Vulnerability exposed,
Bruised and abused.
Numbness prevailed,
Hope died a slow death.
Past lessons reviewed,
Same mistake, yet again.

Fell in love,
Gave my heart;
Unasked for,
Unwanted, a pesky burden,
Tossed away ever so far.
Cumulative hurt,
Bottled away again,
As busy life awaits.

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New Photo Blog

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Sat, 23 Jul 2011 14:19:00 +0000

I've started a new photo blog at Tumblr today.

End of post.

(P.S: Can you sense my lethargy to write a complete blog post? )

A Simple Question

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Sun, 17 Jul 2011 18:36:00 +0000

Do you see me?

Do you sense my eyes on you?

Do you appreciate my caring for you?

Do you know I go out of my way to help you?

Do you fathom the long waits I endure just to catch a glimpse of you?

Do you observe how clumsy, apprehensive and nervous I am around you?

Do you notice the smile I can’t hide each time we meet?

Do you detect my avoiding you at times just to calm my pounding heart?

Do you understand how scared I am about trusting you with my life?

Do you perceive my eagerness to know you like I know myself?

Do you realize how hard it is for me not knowing what you feel about me?

Do you know I love you?

Do you?

Unbiased Love

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Wed, 29 Dec 2010 17:37:00 +0000

'The child is deformed'.

That’s the first thought that crossed my mind when I first saw him. The mouth hanging open, rotund belly, protuberant saucer like eyes, muddy complexion, disproportionately thin limbs and a very questionable hygiene. He wore a blue sweater, stained with the contents of his breakfast that morning. I surveyed him as I walked towards him to monitor his vitals before the morning clinical rounds. His case file said he was ten years old. But it was hard to tell his age from his appearance.

My approach scared him. He perceived the stethoscope hanging around my neck with apprehension often seen in young children, but not usually a ten year old. He put his thin arms around the old man’s neck who was sitting on his bed. His grandfather, I presumed. I gently pried it away from around his grandfather’s neck and put the cuff of the sphygmomanometer around his thin arm. As I was monitored his blood pressure, I tried not to look at his face, with the saliva drooping from the corners of his mouth and remnants of his breakfast still stuck on his face. Something wet hit my hand. I inwardly cringed as I rubbed away a drop of saliva that fell onto my hand from his mouth. I hurriedly examined him and went out of the room.

'I love children', I reminded myself. 'All children deserve unbiased loving'. But even during evening duties, relatively less hectic and allowing me the leisure to chat and play with the children admitted in the ward, I never could bring myself to visit his room, caress his cheek or ask him how his day was. I avoided looking at his bed, at him, at his grandparents who looked defeated by everything in the world. I didn’t despise him, but I couldn’t feel the love and care that gets naturally evoked towards all children.

On 26^th, I had night duty at the ward. At 1:30am I lied down to rest on the creaky bed in the room assigned for interns. Hardly ten minutes later, I heard loud cries of a woman coming from a distance. I presumed it’s from the adjacent female medicine ward. But just to be sure, I opened the door of my room.

It was the boy’s grandmother. Howling and running towards my room, her faded yellow sari trailing behind her. I went to check on the boy, he was breathing rapidly in short gasps. His grandfather stood rooted to the spot, even when I asked him to carry the boy to the adjacent ICU. Eventually, another attendant carried the boy to the ICU. I alerted the senior doctor on duty, and started the boy on oxygen and monitored his vitals. His grandfather still stood transfixed in the room, and his grandmother lay sprawled on the floor outside the ICU and crying even louder. I tried to calm her down, while the senior doctor examined her grandson.

I looked back at his body, his protuberant belly rising rapidly up and down as he struggled to breath; his thin arms lying feebly by his side. His oxygen mask slipped from his face, and as I fixed it in place, he held my finger in his palm. His eyes were closed, but he felt someone’s presence near him and held onto that person for comfort.

At that moment I could see the child in him, the lovable child that I had failed to see earlier. I felt very protective about him suddenly. I wiped the drool of saliva from the corner of his mouth. I didn’t cringe this time. I looked at his grandmother, her face pressed against the glass door of the ICU. I heaved a sigh of relief every when I saw his vitals normalize.

I left the ward at 8 am the next morning and had a 24 hour off from duty. I came back to ward on 28^th morning and found his bed empty. My heart stopped beating for a moment. I questioned the PG doctor on duty about him, inwardly praying that nothing bad had happened to him. His grandparents had taken him home a few hours ago. They had left against medical advice. I don’t know whether I will ever see him again, or whether he will even survive for long, now that he is devoid of medical care.

Doctors meet hundreds of patients every week, hear different stories, see many families in distress trying to cope with an illness. They interact with people at their most vulnerable moments. It’d be hard to survive if one emotionally connected and felt for every patient and their family. Life would be perpetually depressing then, seeing human suffering at such close quarters. So, an emotional detachment is vital just for basic mental well being.

But once in a while, I can’t help being emotionally attached with a patient and their families. It’s difficult to predict what triggers this attachment. But, it renews a compassion and care that is often forgotten in this busy world. And I feel grateful to that ten year old boy for teaching me that at the right time.

Photo courtesy: http://vi.sualize.us/tag/black%20&%20white%20photography/

Lost and Found

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Sun, 26 Dec 2010 08:30:00 +0000

It feels strange typing these first words after neglecting my blog for so long. I actually fumbled around the blog dashboard to find the 'New Post' compose button. I had been busy. But not so much that I couldn't have squeezed in a few minutes of writing every week. I could have. But I chose not to. I had started doing what everyone else around me were doing, mimicking their pastimes, their routines. It was work, studying, watching movies, getting together with friends, eating out...the usual stuff. Not just my habits, but my whole personality went a sea change. I became more 'social'; not extrovert, just more open to mingling with other people, small talk, taking the initiative to talk to people around me. I actually chatted up random strangers, which is so unlike me, given my total lack of social skills.

I got so involved in this routine, this 'new' me, I had long neglected the things I loved to do. Writing, watching obscure foreign language films, reading and re-reading the authors I cherish, traveling, amateur photography, sketching...stuff that had always created and contributed to my happiness, a world I loved escaping into. But once I got stuck in this new web of superficial pleasures and pastimes, I became too lazy to get back to doing things that I love. Sometimes in the middle of a conversation, when I'm unusually chatty, I halt and mentally stare at the person I've become. And I realize it's not the real me. Being more confident, the feeling of belonging to the 'normal, everyday' people has been fun. But who am I fooling? It's just so not me.

There had been surprise in their eyes and an awkwardness dangling invisible in the air, when I interacted with the people I've known for long and who were well-acquainted with my introvert nature. And there had been moments when my 'friendly' attitude, new and clumsy, seemed too upfront to people and created misunderstandings, that were totally uncalled for and embarrassing. And my idle mind, crammed with just exam MCQs and 'small talk' of the day, devoid of any creative pursuits, fell prey to daydreaming. I did few pretty stupid stuff. I don't like this new change anymore, though I had secretly always craved it!

Each person is unique, with their unique quirks, and flaws and passions. I am a shy person. I prefer catching up on my reading on a Saturday night. I freeze at the thought of making small talk. I don't like reading novels about vampires and girls addicted to shopping. I don't like rowdy parties, picnics and prefer small, intimate gatherings. If I fall in love, I love to love alone, cherishing the secret. I love being silent and contemplating a thousand thoughts even amidst a crowd. And in the past few days, my mouth hurt from grinning too much at jokes that I didn't even find funny. However boring it may sound or is to others, that's me. That's who I am. And who I have been in the recent past is totally contradictory to my real self.

Be true to who you are, do what you love...irrespective of what the world thinks about you. Life's too short to be wasted on pretense of any sort.

This post was MY advice to ME. It feels great blogging after this long gap. And it feels great to have finally found and accepted 'ME'.

On an emotional brink

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Fri, 24 Sep 2010 20:34:00 +0000

Yesterday I broke down into tears at a rude comment passed by a colleague, someone I hardly know let alone care about. Caught completely unaware on being spoken to in a harsh tone for no fault of mine, I was definitely hurt but it shocked me when tears welled up in my eyes. Was I that hurt by the rudeness of a random stranger? I wasn't. I didn't care. But I still couldn't stop the tears from falling.

This wasn't even a case of sudden outlet of some pent up grief. I have no worries at present, no stress factors. So, the sudden emotional outburst shocked and embarrassed me a lot. I remember an incident that my best friend told me a few years ago. It was Holi, and she had gone out with a few girls from her hostel and one of the girls in the group spoke to her rudely for no apparent reason. My friend called me up and cried a lot, and it took me a long time to calm her down. Later on she felt embarrassed for this outburst over a nearly non-existent issue and brought about by a girl she hardly knew. I too wondered about her behavior which totally contradicted the emotional strength she possesses that never faltered at very trying times. But it did falter at a stray incident!

I am an emotionally sensitive person but not to the extent that I'd cry at the drop of a hat. I didn't cry when my father felt seriously ill, or when I lost out on very important career opportunities, or when my close friend expired, or when my cousin relapsed while on cancer treatment, or when I see human suffering at close quarters while working in the hospital. It saddens me immensely, but I don't break down emotionally. But it had happened to me once earlier too when I couldn't stop tears from falling over a minor issue. I had gone shopping with my family, and my Dad scolded me about something. What was highly embarrassing is that I cried in front of my cousin and his wife in a crowded shopping mall in Bangalore and for the next couple of hours had to shop around with puffy, red eyes!

I wonder at times whether it's just PMS! But then guys I know too have these unexpected breakdown over non-existent issues. In this fast paced world where no one has the time to stop, collect their thoughts and reflect upon them; emotions and their impact is painfully short. Work pressures and busy lives don't allow us the luxury to brood over how we feel or what might be bothering us subconsciously.

This apparent lack of getting in touch with our emotional self, makes us experience only the obvious reasons for being happy or sad. An expectation fulfilled, a pleasant surprise, a goal reached, a long craved object attained...And we are happy. These reasons of happiness are obvious, measurable and looked forward to. Simple, everyday moments of happiness are taken for granted, as they pass by unnoticed. No time to reflect and relish. Same with sorrow. It's always a job gone wrong, illness, failure, lost love and more such obvious reasons. A subconscious mental conflict might be the cause of that unexplained sense of gloominess that sometimes mar even the brightest of our days or brings about a sudden emotional outburst. But a lack of connect with our emotional selves keeps us totally ignorant of these issues flooding our subconscious mind.

I was in a bad mood while coming back home after yesterday's tiff. I was angry at myself for being emotionally weak and crying in front of a group of people for a silly reason. And when my car got caught in a heavy traffic rush, I was positively fuming with anger. Looking out of the car window, I saw two kids, hardly five to six years old, on their way home after school. Missing front teeth, blue and white uniform streaked with dirt patches, an orange lollipop in one hand, water bottles hung around their necks, chubby cheeks; they jumped over puddles and pushed their way through the afternoon crowd. The radiant smiles on their faces and the infectious joy they exuded vanished my anger in a flash! I couldn't help smiling.

Laughter and tears...their unpredictability truly amazes me.

Photo courtesy: http://terraling.wordpress.com/

The Last Day of August

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 14:02:00 +0000

They shake their heads grimly

Eight stern eyes follow the heaving of her chest,

A hand shoots forward to feel her pulse, her feeble pulse,

She’s barely there, a wretched existence;

Plagued with diseases that the poor can’t afford to have,

She peeps at us through her half-closed lids.

Her saviors, is that what she thinks of us?

Her knight in shining armor left her at 15,

Impregnating her at 13 with a son,

Who abandoned her at 28.

Mere numbers for us,

Agonizingly true milestones for her.

Her wrinkled mother, seated at her side,

Grasps her hand, pats her head,

Bewildered on seeing an dying old woman,

Her precious daughter, whose youth passed her by.

The hustle and bustle of the general medicine ward,

Masks her sighs and the silent tears she weep.

I look away, reminding myself that this is another ‘case’,

One I can afford to allot ten minutes every morning,

Accompanying the professors on clinical rounds.

Ten minutes that haunts me the rest of the day,

Her mother searching a sign of life in her eyes.

The doctors pronounce their verdict,

A day or two more,

Till she leaves wrapped in a shroud.

She outlasts their verdict by a whole week,

Till the morning I come to find her bed empty.

I knew this would happen,

But the lump in my throat refuses to go.

5:45am, 31^st August, 2010;

I check her death certificate,

My eyes halting on a detail that would haunt me more,

She died an old woman of 30.

Living with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD)

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 20:05:00 +0000

Losing a childhood friend to a rare and fatal post-operative complication of a minor surgery or hearing the news of second relapse of my cousin to breast cancer would have broken my spirits had it occurred a few months ago. I would have been a nervous wreck.

I can't adapt well to stress and bad news. Anticipatory anxiety, fearing what might happen, over-analyzing little details, brooding over hard facts of life that can't be changed...my life at 24 was a never-ending series of worries of varying magnitude.

I used various adaptation ( mostly immature) techniques to avoid stress; avoiding confrontation with the real issue and procrastinating indefinitely, whining and cursing my fate, perennially questioning 'why me?', retreating into a self-created cocoon; and the worst, obsessing over the worries and compulsively acting out irrational acts in an attempt to negate the bad thoughts that came to my mind. Like if I let the books on my shelf remain disorderly, scary thoughts that come to my mind regarding my loved ones will come true! So, I would spend a lot of my time arranging and re-arranging the books alphabetically, or by author, or by genre and spend a good 2-3 hrs unproductively! Absurd? Yes Irrational and impulsive? Yes. I knew it? Yes. So, I stopped doing it? Hell no!

Life had come to a standstill for me. Growing up with a strong sense of cleanliness and organization, it never occurred to me that severe stress will create havoc with this very organization fetish! It started gradually with breaking of basic discipline of my priorities;studies and household chores. I got distracted by superficial, fickle gratifications rather than a sense of satisfaction of completing my responsibilities well. Once distracted, it was hard to go back to my earlier routine. Acceptance of this problem and seeking help didn't cross my mind. Anxiety built up during exams, family crisis, expectations not met...the cumulative effect of which I couldn't anticipate. I felt if I did everything 16 times, bad things won't happen to my family! I studied each line 16 times and completed a mere two pages of studying every day. I was busy with 'pseudo work'. Making schedules and time-tables, procrastinating and again making new time-tables. Vicious cycle!

I had emotional breakdowns, woke up in panic, had insomnia, suffered from hormonal imbalances, gained weight, was lethargic, had hair loss, joint pain and an incurable headache; which a string of physicians couldn't cure. My self-confidence had taken a beating. My obsessive-compulsive habits increased, fueled by my anxieties and in an effort to negate them.

If my mother was late in coming home after her weekly shopping trip, the first thought that crossed my mind that she had met with an accident! Not that she could be caught in a traffic jam, or she ran some other errands on the way, or that she stopped by a friend's place on the way home. If my father had a bout of cough and sneezing at night, I would remain awake whole night dreading that we would have to again rush him to hospital like the time when he had sepsis! A mere cough and cold equated in my mind to sepsis! I became suspicious of people's comments and doubted ulterior motives because of few inaccurate judgments on my part earlier. Generalizing men and their intentions became a habit modeled on my exes and their flaws!

Then came a time when my career and personal life started getting seriously hampered by my inability to deal with stress and acting out as OCD. I sought help, cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), to recognize, halt and remove obsessive anxiety-inducing thoughts. It took me few months of CBT, a healthy diet, a yoga regimen, deep breathing exercises, a conscious and deliberate desire to overcome my problems and reach out to others, like I used to earlier.

Now I'm back to leading a normal life; the competitive streak in me returning, self-confidence boosted up, and anxieties a thing of the past. Sure, I get anxious but I know now where to cut it. I'm the master of my mind and not the other way round anymore.

A big help was the book, "How to stop worrying and start living" by Dale Carnegie. A single quote from the book kept me going through all hurdles: "Every day is a new life for the wise man."

Past regrets, future worries, what could have been, what might happen...erase all these from your mind. Just concentrate on today. Live 'TODAY' well. Make 'TODAY' worthwhile. Love, laugh, work, have fun...do it all today. It's the only thing we've control upon...'NOW', the present moment. Live it well. Rest will take care of itself. And when obstacles threaten to overpower your resolve to keep going, just remember that 'Every man can carry his burden, however hard, till nightfall...".

One day at a time, one step at a time, forget multi-tasking...That's the mantra. And seek help if you have OCD. It's nothing to be ashamed of. It's a disease you've to combat, just like diabetes or hypertension, but which can be paralyze your life more than a physical illness. Don't be bothered about social stigmas associated with consulting a psychiatrist, or being branded weak-willed. You can control your mind, you just might need guidance during stress.

Leading a happy, fulfilled life with OCD is not just a possibility. It's my reality.

Healed

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 19:40:00 +0000

Flawed can he be?

When he unfailingly corrects my mistakes,

Even the ones I never knew of.

‘You can never do anything right’,

A pitying smile across his face,

He reminded me ever so.

Disrespectful can he be?

When politeness exudes from his every pore;

As he instructs how I should behave,

And the millionth time I should touch his parents’ feet.

After all one can never be too well-mannered,

He reminded me ever so.

A pervert can he be?

Calmly explaining that true love yields to groping hands,

How eye fucking every passing female is a male right.

Describing his past in uncalled for sexual detail,

Explaining how my prudery can’t be true love

He reminded me ever so.

A liar can he be?

When there’s a reason behind every mistake,

Reasons that put the wildest imagination to shame,

Fully sure of acceptance by a loving heart.

‘I never lied, I never lie, and I will never lie’,

He reminded me ever so.

Fake can he be?

As his self-proclaimed virtues become never-ending,

Every detail about him gets shady each day.

But he knows a foolish heart would overlook it,

Dare he lie to my heart about his whole existence?

He reminded me ever so.

Excruciating shame,

Unparalleled anger,

When my foolish heart finally saw through,

How I’d loved a scum,

How I’d hurt my family,

How precious years were wasted,

How self-respect was belittled,

How I fled too late,

His memories reminded me ever so.

Let go of the dirt,

Uncluttered my mind,

Snipped off memories,

Of mistakes, wrong choices,

Healed, Healed, Healed.

The Change

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 19:19:00 +0000

Rrrrrrrrrring. The alarm goes off. Eyes half-shut, I fumble to hit the 'snooze' button. But I'm denied those blissful five minutes of extra sleep. My mother noisily draws the curtains open; the sunlight nearly blinding me. Then starts the usual early morning lecture, primed to perfection by twenty years of uninterrupted practice, about the horrors sloth will inflict upon my future. I grudgingly accept defeat and get out of bed. And the day starts just as grudgingly. Why should I wake up early? What for? What awaits me today? Unlimited rest, boredom, uncertainties about future, battling my own personal demons each day.

Two long years pass by...each moment of inactivity weighs heavy on my mind.

Rrrrrrrrrrrring. The alarm goes off. Eyes wide open, I fumble to yank the curtains open and greet the morning light. I stretch my arms, and get out of bed. A quick shower follows. Read the news, gulp down my breakfast, pack my bag. My mother watches me half-smiling. I love this morning rush, the spring in my step, the revival of a long lost enthusiasm. What awaits me today?

A day at work. Finally. The long craved change has finally begun. :) :)

(Photos: http://www.iandale.net/journal/uploaded_images/040507_AlphaSleep-740874.jpg
http://www.galantysgameplan.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/istock_000003781332xsmall.jpg )

The confession

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 17:35:00 +0000

No, I'm not talking 'romance' here.

It's all about keeping quiet. Whatever you see. Whatever you hear. Whatever you know. It's an illusion. It has to be.

This is us. We love each other. All of you are my heroes. You made my life. I would rather die than let any harm ever befall you. I owe you everything. Everything you ever do, is for me. For my good.

And I bow in gratitude before you. I bow so low, my head is below the ground. I won't ever look up. Because I might have a flitting glimpse of what I am not supposed to see. I would not hear anything that's not supposed to be heard. I would not ask questions because they will destroy everything.

I realize people have flaws. There are gray zones in everyone's characters. I'm no saint either. In fact I'm on the other end of the holiness spectrum. There was a dark time when I lied, I betrayed, I hurt, I played games, I made people suffer. These were people I loved. Even though I paid for every single of my misdeeds, the guilt of hurting my family remains. Will always be a part of me. But what does one do, when you are on the receiving end of such hurt? Amongst all their goodness, when your loved ones have an unforgivable flaw, what does one do then?

I used to be stupid and confront and cause so much hurt. And the hurt I felt for hurting the ones I love crushed me. I am wiser now. I have learnt to overlook. For me. For you. For peace. I chose to overlook that tiny speck of dirt that tarnished the flawless canvas of your life. It's not compromise, I have to accept it to compromise and I can never do that. I just aim my blind spot to it. The gray zone of human character, that shocks the life out of you when you encounter it in loved ones. I chose to overlook it. Because I love you.

And what good will a confrontation bring. I've tried and recoiled and ate my words when I saw the catastrophe that had just began to develop. Peace prevailed again. I ignore the thorn in my heart as if it's natural anatomy. I won't question our happiness because I know it's real, only with some minor complications. So I bury my head underground and smile and go through life.

A lot of you do it at some level, at some point of life, with someone you love a lot. The idealist would scorn at this. Face it, don't repress it. But what you won't risk, for what you value most in life. I have seen this defense mechanism in most people around me. I adopt it. I nurture it over the years. I am quite a natural at it now. So much that my eyes know what to unsee, ears know what to unhear, mouth knows what not to speak of.

It's easy. More importantly, it's safe.

Only the heart knows about the tiny thorn in it. And it hides it guiltily. The guilt that you don't feel, I feel in knowing. The heart will get used to it. We all do, in time.

Yes, it's part illusion. And I'm living it well. Because once broken, few things can't be mended.

I Asked For It

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Tue, 11 May 2010 23:34:00 +0000

The blog link said "I will fucking tear you apart". And the temptation to submit my blog for review at this site was overwhelming. That was five months ago.

And finally, my blog has been reviewed at "Ask and Ye Shall Receive". The reviewer thought my writing was "reasonably well" although in serious need of "some harsh editing", "more paragraph breaks" and fewer posts about self. My blog title was subjected to severe criticism, everything from the word "quirky" to use of an exclamation mark at the end! (There I did it again.) The blog title, "Quirky alone...and happy!", came off as an attempt to hide underlying misery and bitterness at being single! (Wow, was I THAT obvious?!? ;-)) And the reviewer "pretended not to see the poetry". (I tell you, they really "fucking tear you apart"). But apart from that I was spared the horrors they inflict on most bloggers who dare to submit their blogs for review. The reviewer took out time to direct my attention on how I could improve this blog and my writing. Thank you for reviewing my blog, 'Forcemeat The Clown'.

Check it out here.

April Musings

noreply@blogger.com (Dr.Mayurakshi) — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 08:51:00 +0000

The curtains, billowing in the wind, brush against my bare feet; a gush of cool air enveloping me momentarily. The cuckoo bird’s call, the dulcet breeze, the soft morning light, and the smell of the rain-soaked earth; April mornings are a delight to wake up to. Before my mind acts on the urge to sleep in late, I get out of bed. Drops of wet gleam on the window at the foot of my bed; I walk towards it. The lawn outside glistens with dew drops, and the smell of the previous night’s rain is overpowering.

I put my foot across the window ledge, climbing out into the lawn. The softest grass touches my feet; its wetness is strangely comforting. The earliness of the hour offers me few precious moments of silence that will become elusive during the rest of the day. I gaze down at my feet as I walk across the lawn. The red nails against the green grass and the tiny jewels in my anklet, gleaming in the sunlight, paint a pretty picture. Birds flit through the shadows of the trees; their intermingling calls producing a familiar melody. Pied daisies and roses break the monotony of the greenery. I sit down at the lone weathered bench at the corner of the lawn and try to grasp everything that meets my eye. The whole ambience screams poetry.

The stillness is deceiving, as if it would remain so forever. I know it’ll break as the day progresses, and this uneasy anticipation holds me back from fully enjoying the moment. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I notice the lack of chaos in my thoughts. For a change I’m not thinking about anything else, but the serene present. It’s such a rarity, and such a relief to focus only on the present. As if on cue my mind mockingly fleets to past reminiscences and imaginations of the future.

Glimpses of the view from my window, in the house I grew up, with the treetops swaying in the wind; the sunset I turned back to watch as I walked back home tired and sweaty from playing long hours with my friends; the sound of heavy rain captivating my attention for hours as I sat in the veranda during the long, monsoon days; random memories cross my mind. Nothing significant, but sharing the commonality of not so obvious moments of happiness. But today I am highly aware of the beauty that surrounds me, registering every detail in my memory, knowing fully well that I’d recall and relish it for long.

I remember a song.

“Aane wala pal, jaane wala hain; ho sake toh is mein zindagi bita do, pal jo yeh jaane wala hain”.

(Each moment that comes, will soon pass; so try to live a full life in each passing moment)

The lines so aptly impart one of life’s most important lessons. Small moments of happiness pass us everyday and we remain completely unaware as we hanker after that one big success or goal. The race to attain these supposedly more important goals and thence to attain happiness is cruel and unforgiving. You pause, you lose. I break this disturbing chain of thought. Instead I start humming the song I just remembered. Solitude dilutes my earlier inhibitions when it comes to singing out loud. Only when the pair of birds next to me flies away, startled, that I’m reminded of how bad a singing voice I possess. I look around, more out of habit, if another person had the misfortune of hearing me sing first thing in the morning. Thankfully, no one in the house has awakened yet.

A butterfly lands on the edge of the bench I’m sitting in. An array of bright colors adorns its body. I want to touch its wings but its fragility scares me. I’m reminded of the movie I watched last night, ‘The Diving Bell &The Butterfly’. It’s about a busy writer, a family man whose life is brought to a standstill by a stroke that paralyzes his whole body except his left eye, through which he communicates by blinks. His life is suddenly filled with unasked for solitude and stillness. I compare that absolute stillness to the few of moments of pleasing solitude I’m enjoying now, and it scares me.

Suddenly I yearn for company. Voices. Laughter. I walk back into the house. Coffee and conversations await me.