Timeline...

As I'm fleeting in and out of prescribed and non-prescribed levels of consciousness, not helped by external aids, and trying to cope with the death in the family I realize how many more things are already dead. The problems I'm having is trying to define whether these deaths are natural, whether they are premature, whether they are justified, all these categories being deemed as mutually exclusive. A form of reasoning appears coherent but crumbles down when I try to get to the core of it. And then I realize I never existed and that I can never exist, though I might carry forward the mortal semblances and agendas to appease people, commitments and responsibilities. Yet I pay for myself to exist and a friend and a professional pay through their profession or concern/love so that I exist.

In time, they will also leave, while I try to assess how long this facade has to be maintained. I've already figured out the why-s, and have accepted the deception and unrelenting authority in them, associated with the fact that questioning never helped in finding answers and being at peace with the meshes in my life, but if only I could determine the timeline that would infuse a drop of sanity in my life. Apparently, even though we tend to believe in the freedom of the human mind and ability, we are not supposed to meddle with the timeline. Ludicrous things are also allowed to exist, as well as existences like mine where none whatsoever makes any difference. Guess just have to pull the smokescreen and go on....

Wondering how the word "deadline" found its genesis.

A Moving Story - 2

I have a very vague idea on why truth is classified into various categories—such as “ugly”, “bitter”, “sweet”, etc. They work their way without these adornments anyway….and a recurring fact to be well-classified into truth has been the realization on how much irrelevant stuff I have. For me, it’s more complicated than that. The things or stuff….are irrelevant or inconsequential to my daily living but are relevant to memories…or sentimental values so to speak. Things my mother has sent over the years, clothes that I’ll never wear probably, because of their colour or some writing, or because of their associated memories which I want to escape but which I’ll keep nonetheless, papers and documents of yesteryears that has to be kept lest some thunder strikes on their loss—stuff I do not see every day—but which practically lives under your skin, are religiously packed in innumerable boxes and taken along in each of my move. Whoever said “love don’t cost a thing” had no idea on life, or love, or moving for that matter. We move on in our lives, but probably not from memories or sentiments. We just get used to them.

Now…although this is not much of a story that I’m weaving here, our lives are just full of little anecdotes which remind us of narratives read or seen elsewhere. The disturbing fact is that they might remind you of something tacky you wouldn’t wish to be associated with your usual carefully crafted, non-prosaic self-image. Each time I’ve moved, and bought boxes from Staples, I ask for a big cellophane to wrap my boxes, as it’s always, without fail, raining ruthlessly or snowing ruthlessly outside. No, I do not choose the days, but these events are usually marked by very practical urgency and panic-attacks of needing more boxes. And even if it wasn’t supposed to rain/snow that day, it will, with clockwork veracity…and I walk through it and funnily speaking (or embarrassingly speaking)….it reminds me of Kajol in “Kuchh kuchh hota hain” as she stands in the rain on learning that her aficionado belongs to someone else. It was 16 of us in college who went to see the film in 1998 and we were all equally moved by the scene, our cynicism notwithstanding (or probably not so well-developed).

Now that we all are older and barely in touch, when I’m drenched and shivering in rain/wet snow/snow….I think of that scene and think of my friends. As to whether they’d have to move so much. As to how they are and whether amidst kids, taxes, professional deadlines, marital bliss/blues, loan payments……they do miss their less cynical and less wiser selves.

For me, it’s tough to say. The cynicism helps me get through in life and see things with an objective detachment and endure them, and of course, survive each move, and meeting and adjusting with new human beings each time, but it has also replaced the laugh with the smile.

However, it has enabled me to find the sunny side up in everything—even when signing the new contract in the new house—I couldn’t help but realize as to how potential tenants are not allowed to drink, do drugs, and be loud after certain hours or in certain ways for the general peace of others; but when a landlord does it, there’s nothing you could do about it, except move out from the place as soon as convenient. To paraphrase one of my favourite Shakespearian characters, some are born lucky, others achieve luck and…. some have ill-luck thrust upon them. Nonetheless, the third group always wants to belong to the middle group….as they move from one space to another. The journey is made, happy or not.

Not to forget, that in this process, they do gather dust; some of that dust is easy to blow away and some of them remain, irrespective of whether they are moon dust or rusty ones.

A Moving Story

In light of making a move yet again, I’ve come to realize a few things on my current city, which, for all obvious reasons, I do not like. Calgarians get offended when I list the reasons of not liking Calgary as a city; actually, that was an understatement… but let’s not get into the way of the main argument and move elsewhere. I’m here to list bits and parts of my moving story. And I’ll start with my pet peeve:

1. Calgarians love pets. So far, I’ve seen:

a) combinations of cats (2 or more cats, breed is usually not specified),

b) combination of dogs (breed proudly mentioned in most occasions),

c) combinations of cats and dogs living under one roof (which should teach us humans a thing or two about life/living)

d) combination of cats and snake

e) combinations of 2 cats and 2 reptiles (listed as caged, type not specified)

f) combinations of cats, dogs and fish

There’s nothing wrong in having a pet. Moreover, without ever failing, I ALWAYS mention how I mean no disrespect to pets or to their adorable and harmless ways and/or their owners. Nonetheless, I’m lectured upon the slightest humble wish of preferring to stay in a pet-free zone on how the pets are better than humans or have cute ways or are non-disturbing….to the extent that one should assume the pets are actually capable of understanding human expressions and speech and are just doing an animalistic gig ala Sridevi in Nagina. On the few occasions when I forget to ask this most important question, owing to tiredness of making endless calls, like Murphy’s instant karma, those homes would always have a pet. And you’d find it out when you’ve made the entire trip, complete with waiting for the wonderful Calgary public transit, in the awesome Calgary weather, and figuring out the address with printed/hand-drawn Calgary maps (hand-drawn as my printer refuses to print these days, in keeping with and being observant of my stressful times).

2. Calgarians differentiate based on ethnic background.

Or, should I say discriminate? This, of course is no surprise…..having lived in Calgary from 2005 and done my moving quite a bit. Landlords and roomies ask where you are from, and their tones, availability of the room change accordingly. If I were to say anything more on the topic, chances are I might do so backed by theoretical explanations (and thereby, reproduce parts of my own thesis) so I’ll simply refrain from it unless one is particularly willing to listen to the ethnic argument.

3. People list distances as “only 10 blocks to blah”, assuming Calgary is a walkable city; I mean, assuming Calgary has a walk-worthy weather to make those 10 blocks to anywhere. In the same vein, landlords proudly list their property as “10 minutes to C train station” or “15 minutes walk to U of C”, in a city that rarely sees summer.

4. The pricing of rent is directly proportional to size of the bedroom but has spurious relationship with the number of people you’re sharing the living area/house/apartment with.

5. Rental listings usually come with the facility of a kitchen (I’ve seen listing without a kitchen, so one shouldn’t roll their eyes on why I’m stating the “obvious”) but one is not presupposed to cook more often. “More often” entails more than once a week, and “cooking” usually means boiling, brewing or at the most… baking stuff.

It’s considered bad omen to say “never” by colloquial superstition. While I’ve started to religiously believe in “never say never again”, sometimes I can’t help but chuckle at the unique nature of the city, as it is discovered/re-discovered in our layered ways to get by. Of course, the chuckle comes much later, once the feeling of exasperation has bitten the dust and most certainly as I enjoy my smoke and look at the Ursa Major in fortunate cloudless nights in Calgary.

To be continued…

riddles

When one goes into hibernating, knowing fully well that probably one's own need or one's own world would ferret her/him out of their comfort zone, does it bother the need to go hibernating in recognition of the fact that one cannot really hibernate and hide and get crouched so that nobody can touch her/him.

It is confusing as to which one is a better choice: to maintain the facade of normalency and go into an emotional hibernation or to get away from it all and try to be true to one's own wants and feelings. In the end, the world will get to you. In the end, there's no escaping the pain even though we take every care to build the walls.

Except when, one has reached the end or have chosen the end; for that, one must know when the time and the means to do it are just perfect and right.

The world laughs at failed attempts, even when you want to shoo yourself away from them.

....in my life...

A light crisp breeze, a clear sky, lots of sunshine, birds chirping, and the surprising privilege to actually see them moving around as they try to cut out the dry twigs and disappear into the pine trees....somehow I was reminded of autumn mornings spent in my native village in Murshidabad district, in West Bengal, India, when we used to go there after Durga Puja. The air used to be just this bit cool, just like this....and just after brushing I'd go on to the rooftop, putting on the loosely fitted red cardigan, waiting to get the feel of waking up slowly with the sounds of the place: the weavers who had started their work already, the birds, the distant radio transmitting sounds of radio stations based on Calcutta, and then Baba would ask loudly from downstairs whether we would drink palm juice, knowing fully well we were not particular aficionados of it, having rarely consumed it. But he would insist on having all of us "that seasonal thing" which "you'd never get anywhere in the world" and that was reason enough.

Just that slice of mornings came back to me, when I wasn't doing any of the tasks above. And then, why do I say mornings? All the mornings had something different to them, but the feel was same....perhaps that is why they collate together as somewhat a single image.
And today I was just standing outside a one-storey house....there was powdery snow on the ground, and heaped ones all around, the sounds were of cars starting and traffic signals being started on and off in a distance, and some white Canadian neighbours trying to get something in their cars. Nowhere close to the sounds I'd hear to really feel awake in those distant mornings in a distant land.

But the birds were there, the smell of trees were there, as was the sunshine. And strangely enough, --2 degree C seemed that same level of coolness as experienced in months of October in my native village. Not anymore colder or warmer, just that same level of coolness.

Nobody lives in that house anymore, people are either dead or they have left. It's always known that nobody can't revisit a particular time and space, but then it is probable......or may I say, possible to get a whiff of the same taste even though one is far, far removed from that temporal space.

Though I'm confused as to whether I should thank God or my memory or my tendency to hold on to things for such small pleasures in life. The bigger question is whether to thank anyone at all.....wouldn't a quiet acknowledgement suffice?