Home Improvement

I’m yet again in a new city in a different country. One more home making routine. I think I’ve got it down now though.

In India, the smallest of things are the most stressful like getting a gas connection. The Government has stopped giving out new connections. What exactly is the rationale behind this completely ludicrous idea is beyond me. Perhaps they expect new age India to run on gobar gas? Fortunately, we have cylinders in black, so within two days of moving in, I was cooking on my black gas. A few days later, (with the gas working fine) my toilet started spewing sewage, so much for the peace of mind. And in true Indian style, nothing happened for two more days, forcing me to the torture of cold water showers in the spare bathroom. See but the mistake we make is to assume that nothing can go wrong. If we were constantly prepared for disaster, how much more blissful life would be? I am amazed at the kind of things that can go wrong in a house. Sure enough a few weeks later, much to my astonishment, the tube on the water heater burst and I had to scramble through the hot water spray to turn off the tap. How often does that happen?

In spite of all these freak incidents, I was brave enough to host a housewarming party without palpitations, which was a huge success. I am also now equipped with phone numbers of plumbers, electricians, carpenters, what have you, on my toes for the next disaster to strike.

Blogging

I was reading an article on blogging today when I realized that I hadn't written in a really long time. I've been avoiding writing in this space for a few weeks now and being incredibly busy proved to be a good excuse. However, that is not the real reason why I haven't written.

The prospect of sharing intimate things with an unknown audience gives the same kind of comfort that one gets from talking to a therapist. Or so I thought earlier. I started writing to have a space where I could say what I wanted to, but soon I started wondering about being judged on the content and the writing and since have had some amount of performance anxiety which has kept me away from here.

Blogging is like walking the tight rope- there's a perfect balance one needs to keep to appreciate it and be appreciated on it. I feel vulnerable, exposed and afraid of expressing myself, which is really why I started blogging in the first place. The first few times I wrote, it was an adrenalin rush. As I started writing more, it started becoming scary and I felt this fear of not being good enough for the blogger world. I'm now inhibited and tend to think too much before typing away. I wish someone would tell me why that 'x' is the reason why I should blog. I think if it were that black and white it would make things easier.

It's ironic that while I'm typing, the only thing I can think of is "what's the purpose of this blog?"

Ceramic memories

She hated to be called Ma'am or Aunty or Nirmalaji. She insisted everyone call her 'Ni'. Last night I heard Ni passed away. As soon as I read it a host of memories came flooding in. Her laughter, her impatience, her incessant smoking, her story telling and her making magic on the wheel. The first time I met her, she made sure to tell me how many people were waiting in line to be her student. Over the next few months, I heard that sentence every now and then, more so whenever she was irritated.

We shared a love hate relationship. I think the hate was part of the love. I didn't know what to expect when I went to her place. She would either open the door irritated and make me get to work right away or she would make me sit at the dining table and have me eat something or the other. Even if I had just had lunch, I had to eat whatever I was given. "Sharwari, I've kept aside some gajar halwa for you" or "I've made dosas for you". I never did mind because she was as good at cooking as at pottery. She would walk around the house studying her thousands of glaze rings, always a cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth. The cigarette would somtimes be forgotten and a new one would be lit. Every pot near her would turn into an ashtray.

She was one of India's most exquisite potters. More than anything I got my passion for pottery by spending hours with her. Ni was responsible was introducing me to the world of Mantra Handmade Pottery and Auroville. She was the first Indian woman studio potter. She would often tell me stories while teaching me about glazes. Stories from her days in Shanti Niketan and Germany and everywhere else. I wish I had recorded them; a regret I will always have.

The last time I was home, I bumped into her at a movie theater. She casually mentioned that she had been diagnosed with cancer and one of her kidneys had to be removed. "So have you stopped smoking then?" I asked. "Of course not!" was the vehement answer. She was the youngest 79 year old I knew.

Slowing down

Have you ever had one of those weeks that by the end of it you are just so glad the weekend is here? Well, this week was like that. I had papers and readings and some more readings and some more. To top that I had meetings and had to work on my resume and resume the job hunt, which in fact is a full time job. Half way through the week I was burnt out. Just as I was about to recover from my mental exhaustion, I remembered I was to be at a conference yesterday and today. Graduate school is really bad for your health. You are overworked, stressed and seldom have a life outside of school. So when you find the slightest window, you fight with all odds to enjoy it. Don't get me wrong, I love school. But I still need some downtime like everyone else.

For me this week two natural events forced me to slow down. One was the lunar eclipse. It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. We turned it into a social event of sorts and instead of watching it alone, four of us decided to suffer together in the intense cold and enjoy this sighting. It was breathtaking.

The second event was a snowstorm yesterday. I know a lot of people who hate snow. To me it has a pristine beauty. The whole world seems to stop- literally and metaphorically. I feel a smile forming on my face as I walk out into a snowstorm. The flakes rapidly float down to the earth and the few ones that fall on my face melt the moment they touch; as if shying away. In no time, the ground is covered with a sheet of white. It's a soothing sight and it makes me feel relaxed. The best time to go snow-watching is when people still haven't rushed out to shovel it because it's spotless and unwrinkled. It was a long week. I usually drag my feet from the T stop to my house but today I caught myself jumping in the snow and resisting the temptation to roll in it. Contrary to what many would say, it was a good way to end my week. And now for some more down time.

Home

The last few months have flown by. I'm half way through my master's already and looking for a job. When did I get this comfortable? When did these surroundings become so familar? It's hard to believe that I'm thousands of miles away from home and yet sometimes it hits me and that feeling of lonliness seeps in. The day I landed here seems like a distant memory from a different time. It did not take time for this place to become home. No matter how your house is, it does become home eventually. At the end of the day you want to be in that same place. I think it's because it's familiar and gives a sense of security. And yet it is in this home that I feel homeless.

I am happy. But am I? I've seen the familiar tree outside turn its leaves from green to red and then shedding them. I have walked on the carpet of the fall foliage and precariously balanced myself on the frozen streets. I have tasted the coffees and the beers. I have enjoyed the weekends and cursed the weeks. I have read thousands of pages of intellectual writing and I have written pages of intellectual thinking. Through all these hours of preoccupation, somewhere in the back of my mind, there has been an ounce of discomfort- a wanting to be wanted and a wanting to not be a stranger. Yes. I am a stranger. Not always. But sometimes. Stranger to whom? I have been through so many lives in this one life, that I don't know anymore. I want to be home. I want to feel home. Home.

Penning it down

I haven't written in a while because I haven't got to the point of thinking about something worthwhile to write about. While I was pondering on this, a friend of mine messaged me saying that my writing inspired her to write. This is by far the biggest compliment I have received. It's a strangely gratifying feeling. She said I was courageous to write so that people could read.

What she said got me thinking about 'good' writing. It's really tricky. There is no guarantee that what you write will be read and appreciated. According to me, an author who can capture ordinary moments and turn them into extraordinary moments just with the interplay of words has captured her/his audience. Many authors have kept me enthralled in their writing- book after book; Vikram Seth, Somerset Maugham, Daphne du Maurier, Pankaj Mishra and many more. I wonder if they had any trepiditions about writing. Or did they have this innate ability to write well. Or did they have the courage and the confidence. It's hard to say. I think that if you write for people, there is a greater chance of disappointment than if you write for yourself. You might end up disappointing yourself but that can be rectified, fortunately or hopefully.

These seemingly profound thoughts aside, I want to leave you people with a paragraph from Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca. After a few years of not reading, in middle school, this book catapulted me back into the fascinating world of fiction. In Rebecca, there is a description of the protagonist's first drive into Manderly and the sight of the red rhododendrons. After reading this, I thought I was in Manderley.

"There was something bewildering, even shocking about the suddenness of their discovery. The woods had not prepared me for them. They startled me with their crimson faces massed one upon the other in incredible profusion, showing no leaf no twig, nothing but the slaughterous red, luscious and fantastic, unlike any rhododendron plant I had seen before."

This post is dedicated to Catherine and all of you who have the courage to write.

Should I write?

Perhaps I should write. It's been long enough. I have been waiting for some inspiration to strike me. Is it writer's block? Well, I don't know. Whatever it is, I thought it was time to put down my thoughts here, in this space that I've created and hence am bound to it.

Lying in the tub, I wriggle my toes. It's a strange kind of lonliness that hits you when you are in a foreign country. A tiny whirlpool forms at the drain. The string of water looks like mercury or platinum- swoosh! Life is actually quite satisfactory. I'm in a highly privileged university. I have a comfortable house. I can even take baths. My leg stretched out doesn't llook ike my own, it's a different perspective. I feel relaxed with the music playing and the water so hot.

I should sketch. I haven't done that in a while. I pull out my pastels. Change my mind. I call my parents. Home. Always home. India. It's so filthy and so many problems. I can say whatever I want about my country but I won't tolerate anyone else saying it. Such a hypocrite. It's good to hear their voices. I hope the calling card doesn't run out of money.

I should dry my hair. It won't look like it did yesterday. I wish I could make it look like that. I should go to that salon again. Sigh. I'm hungry! Don't want to eat this late though. I have the leftover melon. Just enough to satisfy my hunger. The pastels are still lying on the table. I put them back where they belong. They've caught some dust. One of these days, soon, they will get used.

The dryer is too loud. The light is not bright enough. The bathroom floor needs to be swept. Tomorrow. Nightly routine of cleaning my face. The cleanser, eye cream, face cream. Finally, I can get to bed. There's a text message- no I won't be going to that party. Have fun. I hope the I don't have to replace that bulb anytime soon. That will be a pain.

Perhaps I should write. It's been long enough.