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.