Untitled

Fluctuating every bit

Like that old, dusty bulb

In the corner of a shed

Or an overused, smelly toilet

Like the schizophrenic

In fleeting clarity

Like momentary hope

In her only child.

Like sunlight passing

Through cloudy skies

Like sobs underneath

An infant’s smiles

Like a river of blood

Dark and rosy in parts

Undulating and flowering

Flowing on

Like that spasm of pain

In love’s embrace

Like opportunity

For a desperate case

Fluctuating every bit

Like that now dying bulb

In the corner of a shed

Or an overused, smelly toilet

Life Will End Before it Begins

Why does it feel like my life will end before it begins? That I will slog day after day, every single day till that moment when in a flash, or perhaps a second or two, it'll be snuffed out. And in its wait I remain suspended in something I have been told is reality. And no I don't think I'll be a deer caught in headlights but that person who turns to see that speeding truck in slow-motion where there is just enough time to say well this sucked because the endless wait was never worth it.

Writing My First Will and Testament

Image courtesy The British Library 

Children do not ordinarily think of death. It could reside in the way we wish to shield them from an inevitability that usually causes pain and grief. It could be because of the average man's own fear of death. It could also be because of the sheer newness of life the dwells in each child's body that almost separates them from this reality. One would of course have to be quite heartless to think of a child leaving the world so soon. King Theoden in a moving scene from the Lord of the Rings (the movie) is overcome with emotion at the grave of his son Theodred, where he laments, "No parent should have to bury their child".

For children of my generation however, death for once came really close when several of their beloved characters died in the Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling. The books frequently reference the departed Potters who die a sudden but miserable death, leaving behind their only child Harry who continues to experience its wrath all through his years at Hogwarts. The end of Cedric, Sirius, Dumbledore, Dobby, Fred (perhaps most heartbreaking in my opinion, though each death was sorrowful for its own reasons), Tonks, Lupin, and many more solidify Rowling's claim that there is more to life than mortality. Indeed, there is more to mortality than death. Sure, by the time the series became popular, we had already seen Mufasa's horrific plunge in The Lion King, feeling just as helpless as little Simba. We had also cried silently for Bambi's separation from his hunted mother. Death was in those moments a painful knot that rose in our hearts, marking the sudden absence of love that had fed us for so long. The knot loosened significantly with each happy turn (and there were always happy turns). But Rowling perhaps for the first time showed us the intricacies of loss. She never consoled Harry, that is, she never consoled us. As children we processed the build up, shock, denial, anger, guilt, and acceptance of various separations in a way that mirrored Harry's own struggle through them.

It is in one of those moments of finality when the Minister of Magic reads The Last Will and Testament of Albus Dumbledore to Harry, Ron, and Hermione, that I realized how death can be simple yet be surrounded by affairs as mundane as leaving behind possessions to the world. For the first time in my life, I really thought of death. And so, I thought of life. I thought of all those tangibles that I would leave and whether their distribution would provide some relief, some solace to those who loved me. Could this distribution be an exercise in coping? More importantly, why hoard assets in the deceased's home when they will certainly be of use (or at least be of sentimental value) to some close friend or family? And then I realized how one can also be selfish in death! Does one truly think of the other in such fanciful flights? Undoubtedly there will be a part of us that would always fear, always care for the well-being of those who mourn us, but we also momentarily revel in the loss that our demise would create. A thought as natural as who would attend my funeral? Am I really cared and loved for?

What if you were to drop dead this very instant? The fall would be tremendous. If in the measure of years you are a novice, you will be mourned for all that did not come to pass. A recent health scare pushed me to re-evaluate the 25 or so odd years of my existence, and I struggled with this very question. And so I planned to write my First Will and Testament, that may also be considered my last, should lightning strike. The document would be neither complete nor legal (and before you get your hopes up, it will not be published here for the world to see!). Now that I think about it, I wonder whether all my worldly possessions are even mine to give away? All those books neatly arranged and worshipped, each piece of jewellery added over the years, every cloth that graced my back... Not to mention folders overflowing with cards and letters, research notes, virtual intellectual property...! The list is endless, and painfully materialistic. But in humouring the thought of leaving for my heavenly abode, whether there exists such a place (or am I eternally damned?), I encourage others to embrace death "as an old friend" (cue The Tale of the Three Brothers). Making a Will, irrespective of your age, would be a good start. And while my Will would be nowhere near a "preparation" for death, there is a conscious realization that it will be an eventuality. I will die. Others will die. Close friends and family will die. They would all be different deaths, but they would be - deaths!

Sitting Alone, Thinking About Companionship!

My friends have always complained that I think too much. It can't be helped, thoughts consume me! When I'm not introspecting, I'm wondering about other people, their behaviour, what motivates them to act the way they do...

Is that why I've always been comfortable being alone? I have never felt lonely. To me, solitude equals solace.

In the past few weeks, however, my thoughts have largely hovered around companionship. I'll squarely blame my friends for this! All of a sudden, they seem to be marrying or at least getting engaged. Now how is that supposed to make a single girl feel?

Like a pendulum, I fluctuate.

While I feel relieved for still having many years ahead of me that are mine, I also crave someone who I can chew off in times of need. (Statement open to all forms of interpretation!).

But, it's only natural. Remember how as kids we were taught that human beings are "social animals"? We just aren't meant to live alone. Unlike tigers, who only mingle with their kind in the mating season, humans find it absolutely comforting to be surrounded by loving, caring friends and family. Now, I do have all of that, but the I need more; and I'm pretty sure when I do have more, I'll wish for something else!

Help!

Sometimes I Wish It Never Happened

You haven't truly learnt anything until you share your knowledge and experiences with others.

So I share.

Yesterday night I was chatting with a friend of mine and he asked me a rather uncomfortable question. Well, the question itself wasn't as uncomfortable as the answer.

He asked me whether there was anything I wanted to erase from my life. A question that I have always answered with a boring, "There's always something to learn from unpleasantness"; but this time, I paused and thought.

It did not take me long to figure out exactly what it was that I wanted to discard from my life like an unwanted weed.

I was about eight years old and not very different from other girls my age.

I was also a victim of sexual abuse.

It lasted a couple of years.

Now, you might be having a rather sorry image of mine in your head where I'm little, scared and crying. Thankfully though, that wasn't the case. My age came to my advantage. When you're that young, you don't fully comprehend what's happening to you. I happily sailed through my life and apart from those few tense moments, I was a content, smiling child who laughed the loudest among her friends. 

The real problems arose many years later, when I was in my mid teens. There was a growing awareness within me that I had been sexually abused. My unconscious was always buzzing with what had happened and that resulted in many behavioural and psychological problems. I became a bitter, rude and condescending person. I would frequently get into fights with boys and often went to the extent of beating them up. I was unsympathetic to the needs of others and often made cruel jokes at their expense. I felt disconnected with the other girls. Their supposed emotional and physical weakness disgusted me no end. I ridiculed them for not being able to handle their stupid problems and wondered how they could dwell for so long over insignificant matters.

Of course, with time I realized that I just couldn't continue with such behaviour and thoughts. I tried my best to become more emphatic, developed a softer attitude towards others and worked towards developing a calmer and more mature disposition. After all that hard work, I began to see that my anger had subsided and I had become a more pleasing person to be with. By the end of my teens, I was once again like any other person my age.

However, I was still troubled deep inside. I decided that the best way to get rid of all these teeming thoughts would be to share them with someone. I decided to confide in my closest friend. We talked a lot and came to the conclusion that I would only feel at ease once I revealed everything to my mother.

So, travelling in an autorickshaw one cold winter night, I decided to tell her everything. I started at the very beginning and poured my heart out. By the end of it, I finally felt at peace. From that day forth, I have never had a single unpleasant thought in my head regarding my abuse. It is done and in my past. I do not carry it forward with me.

Of course, I did confront the person in question about his actions. He broke down, apologised and wished he could take it all back.

Well, he can't.

And that is why I sometimes wish this never happened. It would have been a different life.. a different me..

Big Ass Thunder Thighs!

Image by Sol Lang via Flickr

If thighs could speak, here's what mine would say-

I was born chubby and soft. Then I was pounded to perfection by the deft hands of the maalish lady. In the comforting warmth of the winter sun, I shone like polished brass.

As time passed by, I realized there was something different about me. I was slightly bent and even though I was slim, I really wasn't. Still, at that age and time, it didn't really matter.

A few more years passed by and I ballooned out of proportion. I jiggled and wiggled in a manner that can scarcely be called attractive. Oh, what a low point that was!

But something happened! Like clay moulded into shape, I took form. I went in and curved out at the right places. I could see that even though I was still different, I looked better than most. I still jiggle and still wiggle, but God! I've arrived!

Self Critique

How do some people manage to write the way they do? I look at people around me and realize that I will probably never be able to write as articulately as they do. I am a girl of horribly simplistic thoughts and equally simplistic writing. Maybe this stems from my overall personality; I call a spade a spade. In school too, I was the one who could speak well and write well, but never was I the one who could string together eloquent sentences or delicate poetry. It is for this same reason that I rate myself an average writer. No, I am not looking for compliments here, just admitting the truth! It takes a genius to write well, to make the whole world listen. Oh, and its not only writing I am talking about here! Those geniuses out there who spin their yarns, its so difficult for me to understand what they mean! They really make me question my intelligence. I am having my Homer Simpson moment now. Doh!

Am I An Egg?

As a child, it was a task for me to make small talk with strangers. No, I wasnt shy. I could stare at people constantly and even make them lower their own gazes. I could share the same space with them without breaking into a sweat. The problem was talking. I just did not know what to say. If someone asked me questions, I would smile and/or grin and softly answer them. People would pat my cheeks and say stuff like "You shy girl!" or "See how she's blushing!" and then the very next moment I would run away.

I look at myself now and see the change. No, I am not your usual case of "shy-girl-becomes-crazy-overtalkative-extrovert". I am still very, very reserved in the first few meetings with strangers but I dont hesitate at all to make conversation. I am probably the first person to start talking and the last to finish. Whether I am journeying or waiting for a seminar to start, I always nudge the people around me to engage in some talking. If they dont seem interested, I drop it. Then again I am irritated by people who yak their heads off and dont realize that everyone around them wants to scream and run in the opposite direction.

Of course with close friends, its a different story. I am probably the one who fools around the most.

My psychology teacher once called me a "slow-to-warm-up" personality. As soon as she said that, I saw a huge egg in my mind. Yes, thats right. An egg. Go figure!

So what am I? Am I an extrovert? Am I that-what-induces-egg-images?

Three Months, Then Solitude

I am sitting here all alone with no one to give me company. One of the rare days when I am online and everyone else is asleep. A feeling of desertion is taking over me. Why are we sometimes so afraid of the silence? So scared to be left alone? I feel like the whole world has left me and that I am running behind it, trying to catch up. I am feeling lonely and tensed. I want to break down and cry my eyes out. Today for the first time since 5th October, I am heart broken.

The Identity Crisis Of Rima Kaur

I look at other blogs and wonder how people twirl their words around and around to create such beautiful entries. It all looks so difficult to me! My blog, however, can be described as simple and straightforward. Pretty much the same as I am in real life. Precise. To the point.

This free-spirited nature of mine, coupled with my utterly rebellious nature, put me in a tight spot one time too many. The earlier incidents of rebellion I do not remember, perhaps because they were too small and insignificant. But as I grew older, they were no longer far and few in between. My rebel spirit grew stronger and stronger, until there came a point where I couldnt care less for other people's feelings. My speech, which was witty at one point of time, though a bit outspoken, became rude, brash and uncivilised. People thought of me to be heartless and cold.

Then something happened that sucked out all these horrible things out of me. I wanted people to know me, the real me. I wanted them to know that I was warm, kind, helpful and loving. I was sick of being labelled as uncouth.

I moved over to the next class with an unconscious resolve to show myself truly. No pretense. The transition was smooth, easy and hugely noticed by my classmates. I was popular still, but now for all the right reasons.

It has been many years since this identity crisis. I am still a rebel at heart. I still speak my mind. But there is a certain softness about it all. My classmates remember me as a friendly person who would go out of the way to help people. And that is the beauty of it. To know that you make people happy.

Now there's something strange here. The time period when I was a girl with two horns and a spiked tail is fuzzy in my mind. I dont really remember anything worthwhile from that duration. But things that happened years earlier, even when I was 3-4 years old, are so clear in my mind.

Any explanations?

Mumbai And Delhi : My Homes

Mumbai was where I belonged to, for a very long time. I was born there, and spent my formative years in one of its best schools. As I approached my 10th Birthday, certain circumstances forced my family to shift to Delhi.

Even after spending almost 10 years here in Delhi, Mumbai holds a special place in my heart. I wasnt allowed to venture out of the colony where we stayed because I was too small, but I could feel Mumbai and its soul, nontheless. I can say that because everything seemed different when I came to Delhi. The behaviour of children and the schools. The way of teaching and the nosy, loud adults. Yes, things were very different.

I dont really intend to go back there. Even though I think of the beach, my colony, my friends and my school a great deal. But I will always be both a Mumbaikar and a Delhiite at heart.

I shudder to think of the ordeal that people in Mumbai have gone through in the past few days. My heart bleeds for them.