tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72003465497990236852024-03-13T00:50:52.028-07:00Ruchira's RamblingsJe rêve, donc je suis.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger159125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-30931582478761376402024-01-09T22:37:00.000-08:002024-01-09T22:37:38.878-08:00Musically Messy<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #500050; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Lately, I have been trying to confuse my Spotify algorithm. Yeah, I know. We usually try not mess up our feeds, as I sternly told my friend who sent me a reel from a film that I absolutely do not want in my algorithm. But well. When I started Spotify, I picked on songs that I liked and played them on loop. Soon enough, they caught on and sent me a playlist. And for two years, I shuffled that same playlist, playing songs that got me into an adventurous head-space, beats, rhythm and voice. I wasn't listening anymore. I was zoning out. This isn't probably so much Spotify's fault as it was mine. I was using music to escape instead of paying attention. </span></p><div class="quoted-text" style="color: #500050; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;">And then I got bored. I shuffled and changed and came back and shuffled and it seemed that there wasn't a song left that I liked without engaging in mental cosplay. Again, not the songs' fault, but mine.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px; text-align: justify;">And so I have been trying to remember how I used to listen to music before Spotify. Before we had our music on our phones. Before YouTube even. When we had cassette players and we listened to each song and waited for our favorites. When we had to play Side A to get to Side B. Well, the old cassette player is gone. But this past week I have been looking up those albums that were childhood favourites up on Spotify, with a few randoms thrown in between. Trying to get a glimpse of who I was. No shuffle. Confuse the algorithm. </div><div class="quoted-text" style="color: #500050; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;">Happy New Year. How have you been? Who have you been? See you soon.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9QPupmLLfpwwZXnzWsCFIR6-q20OxLamRvtwxLdL78D8lKqDxm2pal_CeOhMP8BrzoAkC3BsPo4fbgDYOpGePMS_QBxrm7HqgliGzQNoPm5z-iq3bD7WwrbqGvfQSTHPKExh-gSpMiZoccNfhi7x8Lg9Gju0WLnl-enplUsSVCoJDE5Q2gl_t8mwqx5Y/s3500/volodymyr-hryshchenko-D5_cfqMAY0Y-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2014" data-original-width="3500" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9QPupmLLfpwwZXnzWsCFIR6-q20OxLamRvtwxLdL78D8lKqDxm2pal_CeOhMP8BrzoAkC3BsPo4fbgDYOpGePMS_QBxrm7HqgliGzQNoPm5z-iq3bD7WwrbqGvfQSTHPKExh-gSpMiZoccNfhi7x8Lg9Gju0WLnl-enplUsSVCoJDE5Q2gl_t8mwqx5Y/s320/volodymyr-hryshchenko-D5_cfqMAY0Y-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@lunarts" target="_blank">Volodymyr Hryshchenko</a> via unsplash.com </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-83604941964484393332023-11-20T21:05:00.000-08:002023-11-20T21:10:25.637-08:00A Few Thoughts on a Couple of "Bisarjan" Paintings <p style="text-align: justify;">Disclaimer: I have never been and never will be an art critic. These are just some thoughts I had.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Also, this post has stewed in my head for about a month because procrastination.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Some time ago, around the end of Durga Pujo, someone in my timeline shared this 1882 painting by George Gidley Palmer depicting the immersion of a Durga Idol in the river:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWb6yyOte2pgPp5bAV6JlcT8BE2yLNhVXXxEtUbPKyqMHZvFzhaMOeAut0e7-t9VoVepfTyDWCBasWblCWGk4tndxMdt2LR_Z0g1LcUKSVBQ-Qf3oa-RZW6eDgxaEBSB36Bd9tuG6Luzf2QorvZFIgcJ2cTKVxBVbkTFqgDHNqzogVbi4TYStf7U7atS8/s1080/FB_IMG_1698822925679.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="779" data-original-width="1080" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWb6yyOte2pgPp5bAV6JlcT8BE2yLNhVXXxEtUbPKyqMHZvFzhaMOeAut0e7-t9VoVepfTyDWCBasWblCWGk4tndxMdt2LR_Z0g1LcUKSVBQ-Qf3oa-RZW6eDgxaEBSB36Bd9tuG6Luzf2QorvZFIgcJ2cTKVxBVbkTFqgDHNqzogVbi4TYStf7U7atS8/s320/FB_IMG_1698822925679.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">And seeing it made me think of another famous 'Bisarjan' painting by Gaganendranath Tagore:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6CK53BSICOIHxMzwcnFkHm7qGDbMcGXyksQrKiGHyKiDpROqvJekw5HypHJC-z5rPbFU6EpmUI2syoLMGxSM7fJgz1QOOIKX2BAa6920PUusS0qJw5mdj2pJ_GroiSKwxUNuM1UVTeYtkCjDATds4-YQUrbEuzuG6XjTIQgjOHAE-1tAvB7s2rZab_0g/s345/Niramish%20_%20%E0%A4%A8%E0%A4%BF%E0%A4%B0%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%AE%E0%A4%BF%E0%A4%B7.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="345" data-original-width="283" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6CK53BSICOIHxMzwcnFkHm7qGDbMcGXyksQrKiGHyKiDpROqvJekw5HypHJC-z5rPbFU6EpmUI2syoLMGxSM7fJgz1QOOIKX2BAa6920PUusS0qJw5mdj2pJ_GroiSKwxUNuM1UVTeYtkCjDATds4-YQUrbEuzuG6XjTIQgjOHAE-1tAvB7s2rZab_0g/s320/Niramish%20_%20%E0%A4%A8%E0%A4%BF%E0%A4%B0%E0%A4%BE%E0%A4%AE%E0%A4%BF%E0%A4%B7.jpeg" width="262" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;">And then I found another one by Tagore too, on the same subject:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhovZQ-0uAMPOoMbRrOqsTzvtMOf0vA9EvMBOQiw7P5ahPtc36vHY78P1bjHzV0aQc4wvhS5rFPJhLWnvLXMNE9U5FgCzSph50skLcvv-aK96hFPWl_E86cJTx0eHtcr0icT2CPd0RQITZQa5Ii7R3Ry4YS83AMUDmb3qyPURs1CDGoi6Chd-tLyQyU0DI/s720/Painting%20by%20Gaganendranath%20Tagore.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="550" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhovZQ-0uAMPOoMbRrOqsTzvtMOf0vA9EvMBOQiw7P5ahPtc36vHY78P1bjHzV0aQc4wvhS5rFPJhLWnvLXMNE9U5FgCzSph50skLcvv-aK96hFPWl_E86cJTx0eHtcr0icT2CPd0RQITZQa5Ii7R3Ry4YS83AMUDmb3qyPURs1CDGoi6Chd-tLyQyU0DI/s320/Painting%20by%20Gaganendranath%20Tagore.jpeg" width="244" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">And while I lack the terminology or study to properly express this, had I not known anything about these paintings and had to pick which of these had been made by a Western artist and which ones by an Indian, especially by a Bengalee artist, I would have picked correctly. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Palmer's painting has sharper lines, I think, but the overall impression for me is that of Marlow staring into the heart of darkness, at something essentially alien. It's a lovely painting, but to me, it doesn't feel very Indian. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Tagore's paintings on the other hand are suffused by warmer colours, capturing the life and emotions that come with Bengal's biggest festival. The style makes me think of French impressionism (again, not an art critic) a little, but with a distinct Indian sensibility, and conveys the heady feeling of celebration and farewell and of the community coming together.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">An outsider's perspective and an insider's. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">These paintings led to a Whatsapp conversation with friends about Gaganendranath Tagore and his range as an artist– he experimented with cubism for instance–and we marveled about how versatile and yet underrated he was. Perhaps it was something to do with coming from a family of stalwarts. Anyway, I shall just leave some paintings by him below:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(Meeting on the Steps) <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVUJWpKWcRGb5YY4-HsHTrjIZ7ChLVO2tnLE_5uLqYT3wXGbe1sOCgIi-eKI04qeNyIqABD6mdSbG_Xx045krqKnYrtaTNjy8rJDs0zB1EvCDtHSCuUUYsWJYyPH1hhF1AJvKXQm0itvmiBO6B5Xq0xRPnCYnynU0HVsqdSRGSTAW3n3SAIItAQj6p3qA/s1307/Screenshot_20231121_091435_WhatsApp.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1307" data-original-width="971" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVUJWpKWcRGb5YY4-HsHTrjIZ7ChLVO2tnLE_5uLqYT3wXGbe1sOCgIi-eKI04qeNyIqABD6mdSbG_Xx045krqKnYrtaTNjy8rJDs0zB1EvCDtHSCuUUYsWJYyPH1hhF1AJvKXQm0itvmiBO6B5Xq0xRPnCYnynU0HVsqdSRGSTAW3n3SAIItAQj6p3qA/s320/Screenshot_20231121_091435_WhatsApp.jpg" width="238" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjiV_DYVDMHqGA8ALrBJsDG4jh2C6zLOV6P24dZ1sNGuNokYo_dq481VvfmSc3LVepkCBea9tiMxe83PnVNdt9g1B_HsPm1aQg6lQE4AxIVWk5jv8XSDf9MFA0TbZLchZDzvI9B2aorLULKmSLjoauOf27sjLd51rOSSROs1jY6Ac6DNv6yyVQSIRdx18/s255/IMG-20231101-WA0006.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="255" data-original-width="198" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjiV_DYVDMHqGA8ALrBJsDG4jh2C6zLOV6P24dZ1sNGuNokYo_dq481VvfmSc3LVepkCBea9tiMxe83PnVNdt9g1B_HsPm1aQg6lQE4AxIVWk5jv8XSDf9MFA0TbZLchZDzvI9B2aorLULKmSLjoauOf27sjLd51rOSSROs1jY6Ac6DNv6yyVQSIRdx18/s1600/IMG-20231101-WA0006.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>(The Temple.)<div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">The second one is a fascinating use of cubist techniques. And the first one, in its stunning use of black and white tones evokes such a sense of secrets and of confidences shared.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-52542804145472097282023-09-22T09:35:00.000-07:002023-09-22T09:35:03.438-07:00WavesFrom the archives...Rejected Pile, August 2016.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-KgLLRxO--Cdryjz_Rwz-pTlvzT6bdmSQSQ2qsfpjlssau6JWs_BYBXUV1Y35Vkm46bpp63dUr5ZKbOFLnqkcn5mHtYT4wftNMg4mDdjSLfAheLoualLeQpR4MhsImNuWQLbFeFKwzMtAidQeHlm509sj30acMKusWeWxkXrDqRvVBJKVdZ3Gc0QsWUI/s6000/matt-hardy-6ArTTluciuA-unsplash.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-KgLLRxO--Cdryjz_Rwz-pTlvzT6bdmSQSQ2qsfpjlssau6JWs_BYBXUV1Y35Vkm46bpp63dUr5ZKbOFLnqkcn5mHtYT4wftNMg4mDdjSLfAheLoualLeQpR4MhsImNuWQLbFeFKwzMtAidQeHlm509sj30acMKusWeWxkXrDqRvVBJKVdZ3Gc0QsWUI/s320/matt-hardy-6ArTTluciuA-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a><p class="has-text-align-justify" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a2530; font-family: Nunito, sans-serif; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: calc(2 * var(--wp--custom--gap--baseline)); margin-left: auto !important; margin-right: auto !important; max-width: var(--wp--style--global--content-size);">You go to the end of the world. Meet people. Have adventures. The waves bring you back. You try to keep in touch, your heart still echoing to the beat of far-off seas. Nothing is ever going to be the same again.</p><p class="has-text-align-justify" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a2530; font-family: Nunito, sans-serif; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: calc(2 * var(--wp--custom--gap--baseline)); margin-left: auto !important; margin-right: auto !important; max-width: var(--wp--style--global--content-size);">Waves. Rolling in. Crashing. Ebbing. Flowing again. Each wave is new, with a different rainbow at its crest.</p><p class="has-text-align-justify" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a2530; font-family: Nunito, sans-serif; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: calc(2 * var(--wp--custom--gap--baseline)); margin-left: auto !important; margin-right: auto !important; max-width: var(--wp--style--global--content-size);">Gradually, the colours fade, the edges of memories are blurred- they could have happened to someone else. The conversations on social media wane, and you sink back to your old life, the familiar rhythms- the beat of your daily chores, the rotation within your axis. The sea sometimes haunt your dreams, but they slip away as you wake. And after all, you are all very different people, with nothing in common but the shared adventure.</p><div class="wordads-ad-wrapper" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a2530; display: inherit; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; letter-spacing: 1px; line-height: normal; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: calc(2 * var(--wp--custom--gap--baseline)); margin-bottom: 25px; margin-left: auto !important; margin-right: auto !important; margin-top: 25px; max-width: var(--wp--style--global--content-size); padding: 0px; text-align: start; text-decoration-line: none; width: 345.6px;"><div data-adtags-width="345" id="atatags-26942-162328" style="box-sizing: border-box;"></div></div><p class="has-text-align-justify" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a2530; font-family: Nunito, sans-serif; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: calc(2 * var(--wp--custom--gap--baseline)); margin-left: auto !important; margin-right: auto !important; max-width: var(--wp--style--global--content-size);">But sometimes, a gust of wind brings in a half-forgotten fragrance, and you remember long walks along unnamed beaches, and cheap motels with bad plumbing come back to you.</p><p class="has-text-align-justify" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #1a2530; font-family: Nunito, sans-serif; margin-block-end: 0px; margin-block-start: calc(2 * var(--wp--custom--gap--baseline)); margin-left: auto !important; margin-right: auto !important; max-width: var(--wp--style--global--content-size);">Deep inside, you know you’re deceiving yourself to save the heartache. And the heart understands.</p><div><br /></div>
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinQNX7BaJ843TD-3bgfBOL-lkHekWKC-tCxACGkI2yCjtE_qBoTXrL8MbYAKgY_7wLW9vd1MPTFUa00lr_3RqwvUGliFV_friySDdrfiUdSG8h1gnG7cMglGyXD4vco22G6q3iO_qWtDeuZXAeaPaTIYMAygEvO9-dPNqNnmEHzWwRvMsbCXiZpcW3LgA/s5958/jake-stark-e_jgfrHKU7w-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2713" data-original-width="5958" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinQNX7BaJ843TD-3bgfBOL-lkHekWKC-tCxACGkI2yCjtE_qBoTXrL8MbYAKgY_7wLW9vd1MPTFUa00lr_3RqwvUGliFV_friySDdrfiUdSG8h1gnG7cMglGyXD4vco22G6q3iO_qWtDeuZXAeaPaTIYMAygEvO9-dPNqNnmEHzWwRvMsbCXiZpcW3LgA/s320/jake-stark-e_jgfrHKU7w-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a2530; font-family: Nunito, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; text-align: start;">I’m on Bluesky (@ruchirarambles.bsky.social), Twitter (@RucchiraM), Instagram (@ruchirarambles). I also sing and stuff. Check out my </span><a href="https://spotify.link/NJSal2aZiDb" rel="noreferrer noopener" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Nunito, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; text-align: start; text-underline-offset: 0.15em;" target="_blank">Spotify</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #1a2530; font-family: Nunito, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; text-align: start;">. Images are via Matt Hardy & Jake Stark via unsplash.com.</span></div><br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-63693860988526412122023-03-12T09:20:00.002-07:002023-03-12T09:25:05.574-07:00A Jumble of Thoughts<h2 style="text-align: left;">February</h2><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the parking lot, the fallen leaves flew around in that strangely sad afternoon light with it's detached indifference. I felt tired. Tired of thinking, tired of being myself, tired of the slight heaviness that weighed upon my heart in a constant throbbing ache, tired of how the ache rose up to my throat, tired of how I had absolutely no reason to cry and how I couldn't cry and how I wish I could. The leaves flew around me, with a freedom and abundance I didn't possess. The crows cawed at the dimming of the light as they returned home. I thought of how it was a lovely spring afternoon, or would be, if a cuckoo would sing in that moment. It </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">was</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> spring after all. Here and there in the city the <i>palash </i>and the <i>krishnachuras </i>flamed their defiant reds against the greys. I wanted to participate. I wanted to feel the fire in my heart, not this weary heaviness. I didn't want to be sad.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: start;">There are things I want to do but I keep freezing, distracting myself, going to bed guilty for the things not done. I wish I knew how to make myself work. Is there a button you press? Or a magic phrase you say? Everything I try returns with an error message. Systems dysfunctional. Human unproductive. Meanwhile time ticks on, and I just don't know what to start, and where, and fear builds up, and despair. And fear and yearning and disappointment all add up to that lump on my throat I don't want to remember. </span></p><p style="text-align: start;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">(Blank pages flicker. Loop of waking, work, doom-scrolling, bad sleep and repeat. Work isn't that bad, to be honest, but mainly because of food and people. There's a pile of examination script checking, slow at first, picking speed in the middle and then a collapse. Burn-out. But you aren't allowed to. Where did the month go?) </span></span></p><p style="text-align: start;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></p><h2>March</h2><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am about 98% sure that 'jumble' isn't a collective noun. Just imagine a scrawl of raggedy thoughts all crowding around </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">a traffic intersection, struggling to get out. Is scrawl a collective noun? Oh wow, I just had a phone call and forgot what I was going to say. Absolute Kubla Khan moment, except I wasn't building a palace. Or a poem. I wasn't building anything at all, which is why this is a blog and not a book.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlQd0j8YeQN0BSsImgzqghcXgMyqOmvQ-doJnPzMYK_Zxg76Y0ShsMb5KaL7tbWku_OcnfeXhInHPxrm_UNr7jd-LsNyZtSvR5WBdsyEhvTgVnliH_l1ZC2nLqGViy9EfQ_NnPfafuEKZ7hheocHLl_LV51eyCHkQt0ZF0CPYih8XCgI8xiIaAKDAL/s8192/pexels-ming-%E9%83%9D-10919836.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="8192" data-original-width="5461" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlQd0j8YeQN0BSsImgzqghcXgMyqOmvQ-doJnPzMYK_Zxg76Y0ShsMb5KaL7tbWku_OcnfeXhInHPxrm_UNr7jd-LsNyZtSvR5WBdsyEhvTgVnliH_l1ZC2nLqGViy9EfQ_NnPfafuEKZ7hheocHLl_LV51eyCHkQt0ZF0CPYih8XCgI8xiIaAKDAL/w213-h320/pexels-ming-%E9%83%9D-10919836.jpg" title="Photo by ming 郝 via Pexels.com" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://www.pexels.com/@ming-157988151/" target="_blank">ming 郝</a> via pexels.com</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">March has gone like February so far, but I'm trying to change? Worked out this evening and felt rather good. Now I'm writing. It's rubbish, of course, but hey... thought jumble aloud, right?</span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">I have a couple of squiggling thoughts. I tried to be helpful, to answer questions, offer reassurances, but it all got too much because it never stops, so I did. I suppose this is my AITA moment. Well guess what? I'm exhausted, this isn't my job, and Google is free. So I think, what I'm trying to say to myself (because even at burn-out point, the thought of being impolite bothers me) is that it's okay to say no. And if they don't listen, it's okay to not say anything more. NTA, I think.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">The other thought is this. People are just people. And when you work together sometimes things go wrong and sometimes they go right and people get upset or happy or stressed and all of that because there are a million deadlines breathing down everybody's neck but on some rare days you can get away from all of that. On some days, there's just laughter and camaraderie. On some days, people are just people.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">This has been a good evening. And you never know, might even sleep early tonight. Wake up and meditate. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's a toast to good days and memories.🍸 </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Here's where to <a href="https://linktr.ee/ruchirarambles" target="_blank">find me</a>. Cheers.</span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-4395721074532577342023-01-01T09:18:00.002-08:002023-01-01T09:18:39.300-08:00Happy New Year: Counting My Blessings<p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ49KH5xvxU6kMa3qoxdf8-_XsBceNtQ_sQ_79gzKCDARpVYwyATjKhVVco-mHHlghiRJzLp5M7pDO9r-2VZKNJp3SlwFOLfh9nZp0j-hQS3xgGLwWhuF7mB_4H35wgGAafirX26tIDoFKldppqnCk9ui2488tzubEgaOZsMGe0WVl-yEaiRtDXKVb/s3888/kostiantyn-li-pTfOKdj8whk-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="3888" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ49KH5xvxU6kMa3qoxdf8-_XsBceNtQ_sQ_79gzKCDARpVYwyATjKhVVco-mHHlghiRJzLp5M7pDO9r-2VZKNJp3SlwFOLfh9nZp0j-hQS3xgGLwWhuF7mB_4H35wgGAafirX26tIDoFKldppqnCk9ui2488tzubEgaOZsMGe0WVl-yEaiRtDXKVb/w640-h426/kostiantyn-li-pTfOKdj8whk-unsplash.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Photo by <span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px;"> </span><a href="https://unsplash.com/@leekos" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #111111; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; outline: none; text-decoration-skip-ink: auto; transition: color 0.1s ease-in-out 0s, opacity 0.1s ease-in-out 0s;">Kostiantyn Li</a> via unsplash.com</div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Yesterday, I was returning home from vacation and the whole dislike for waiting rooms and the existential dread of yet another year ending, with the reminder of all our forever dissatisfactions sent me off on spiral of longing and wishes. Which is fine, I guess. After all, this blog is where I come to think aloud. And two things can be true at the same time. You can love yourself and your life and still feel the pang of all that you haven't found yet. But today, on the first day of the year , I want to remember all the good things that happened.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I had three wonderful vacations. True, there were canceled and delayed flights and mad rushes and sleepless nights at the airports but where would the stories come from without these? And there were beauties, and long bus rides broken with song and afternoon soirees after mad days at work.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">I had a frantic summer at work, but I am glad I could share the load with people I love spending time with. Because of them, even if I hated the mind-numbing data recycling, I found things to laugh about in the midst of it. And if we were angry or frustrated or tired, we were angry or frustrated or tired together. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Birthdays feel increasingly foreboding these days, twenty-four hours of mild high borne on Facebook and WhatsApp wishes, followed by inevitable letdown of vague hopes for miracles, but nevertheless, this year was good because of my wonderful parents who decided to make me feel special. And all it took was a bunch of balloons around the house. We all like to be kids sometimes.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Yeah, sure, I could do with more listeners for <a href="https://linktr.ee/ruchirarambles" target="_blank">my music</a>. But the important thing is, I can write. A new song shaping up is an absolute joy and I am grateful for those moments of inspiration. Guess I will go write some more now.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Happy New Year. I hope you all find things (and people) to be grateful about in 2023. I leave you with a funny poem from Brian Bilston and a lovely message from Neil Gaiman, both about the New Year.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9rgcNCGc24W_QyURBrt9LD-FWOfWF8D7OjilXaFggirCMUGKP0kYn0B7uLbdEBUrO6FQX3FSrdWrAinInu1ZKcozlgcCUtIgvcSkSb45H26EKyoMvkoYOiw3ACvlE7NvbqUCn1EHG2PGGIcbxyyLEf5VqcSM32mLX9_NU_ZhpFHUCdRKjBZwnN2w/s600/bilston%20ny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="507" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9rgcNCGc24W_QyURBrt9LD-FWOfWF8D7OjilXaFggirCMUGKP0kYn0B7uLbdEBUrO6FQX3FSrdWrAinInu1ZKcozlgcCUtIgvcSkSb45H26EKyoMvkoYOiw3ACvlE7NvbqUCn1EHG2PGGIcbxyyLEf5VqcSM32mLX9_NU_ZhpFHUCdRKjBZwnN2w/w338-h400/bilston%20ny.jpg" width="338" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga-lxoSaccE-TmyYGSqvONzLvISV9IDCCKOHZRO_l8i13806by9diperFbl5Oqqcom_SpixAX-5QnJ6-_3gRLzm8_g6U9tRy0yVl-PWBV1OqCKfuEkr9gzneuGLSFra7VSsMms2t8ulSPcYb4XRvsZLaCHhlihS1B2UPnATJJqRWh23pT5EA4lLBxp/s960/neil-gaiman-new-year.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga-lxoSaccE-TmyYGSqvONzLvISV9IDCCKOHZRO_l8i13806by9diperFbl5Oqqcom_SpixAX-5QnJ6-_3gRLzm8_g6U9tRy0yVl-PWBV1OqCKfuEkr9gzneuGLSFra7VSsMms2t8ulSPcYb4XRvsZLaCHhlihS1B2UPnATJJqRWh23pT5EA4lLBxp/s320/neil-gaiman-new-year.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-2255162951498705772022-12-31T07:18:00.004-08:002023-03-12T07:23:28.150-07:00The Waiting Hall: New Year's Eve<p style="text-align: justify;"> On the last day of the year, we came down from the mountains at the end of our little winter vacation. As the car pulled into the 'Drop & Drive' lane, I felt the stirrings of a vague sense of anxiety. We were about four hours early for our train. The journey from Takdah to NJP station was motion with purpose, the train ride to Sealdah would also be movement towards certain destination. It was the waiting period in-between, with nowhere definite to go that was unsettling. </p><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;">I'm not much of a standing still person, I tend to pace around instead. Which is ironic considering how I've lived my life through little units of waiting. Waiting for this or that exam to get over so I could have fun afterwards, waiting for some movie to release so I could go and watch it with friends, waiting for vacations, waiting for birthdays (now increasingly accompanied by a foreboding sense of dread for the inevitable and inexplicable letdown), waiting (now as a teacher) for end-semester exams to end so I could breathe a little, waiting for replies...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fXJIbegsrzGpDZSWHLogZz-G-SId_8ZdLHO0BXoS8Ld97tOaJao4gjGFAU39CDYYRUta4qcFsrcXqooiEKwXCWouXD384RaMapmj608rbS6G26lWNXlEGuPJGDq4z1kBPv1XdMqZ7Wk/s4000/IMG_5903.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fXJIbegsrzGpDZSWHLogZz-G-SId_8ZdLHO0BXoS8Ld97tOaJao4gjGFAU39CDYYRUta4qcFsrcXqooiEKwXCWouXD384RaMapmj608rbS6G26lWNXlEGuPJGDq4z1kBPv1XdMqZ7Wk/w400-h300/IMG_5903.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by Author.</span></div><br /><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;">I digress. I was getting down at the NJP railway station, feeling anxious about the waiting period. If we could just get on the train, then we would be on our way somewhere, and it would be alright. I didn't enjoy being in the in-between. And it suddenly felt like a metaphor for my life. It explained the relentless undercurrent of anxiety that plagues my days. The strange fear that freezes my heart as I scroll through redundant timelines, waiting for answers. I'm not even sure of the questions. Sometimes, there are signs and synchronicities. On other days, I'm an idiot. I am terrified of being the idiot.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;">For the longest time, I have been waiting to arrive somewhere. Anywhere. It's like I'm looking for the train to board, and I'm just not sure when it's coming. New Years' Eves mean a cocktail of hope and doom. Last year I was actually at a party where they did a countdown. I naively looked forward to it till the countdown touched down to zero, leaving me like a discarded party favour. You've seen those coloured paper balls? Pretty, but so utterly pointless. I don't want to be pointless. </div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo0-vZRYSHBtnzOLCvKlE0J-BVTmEqkKPr6QnvZl2bhaAhjfpQR2UleNFoIYvhLGa6I2lOcJVsjJ9Q87746T-s8lnoATu9d_arBUjLY079IeGKnbsnhK7gbTMJ6SVN70Xx_WSFzKJQlbegVVnUICOSqHfm4kEcP7JiYlJI2IEWhxAT2ov5q_3H2kNp/s3024/anastasiia-rozumna-PgP9L5CWI38-unsplash.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo0-vZRYSHBtnzOLCvKlE0J-BVTmEqkKPr6QnvZl2bhaAhjfpQR2UleNFoIYvhLGa6I2lOcJVsjJ9Q87746T-s8lnoATu9d_arBUjLY079IeGKnbsnhK7gbTMJ6SVN70Xx_WSFzKJQlbegVVnUICOSqHfm4kEcP7JiYlJI2IEWhxAT2ov5q_3H2kNp/s320/anastasiia-rozumna-PgP9L5CWI38-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@rozumna" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #111111; font-family: -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, "San Francisco", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Ubuntu, Roboto, Noto, "Segoe UI", Arial, sans-serif; outline: none; text-align: start; text-decoration-skip-ink: auto; transition: color 0.1s ease-in-out 0s, opacity 0.1s ease-in-out 0s;">Anastasiia Rozumna</a> via Unsplash.com</span> </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;">I know a lot of it is inside my head. I mean, I got my PhD degree this year. Released two new songs. Finished my faculty orientation course. Have signed up for a refresher in January. When that is done I will be ready to begin the paperwork (oh joy) for my stage 1 promotion. But paperwork and data-entry aside, it's a stable job that I think I'm moderately good at. I enjoy the company of my colleagues, I (mostly) enjoy teaching, I get a regular salary. I have platforms to express my rambling word-salads (sorry about that), I go out to movie lunches with friends and I go on great vacations. For any same person, that ought to count as arriving somewhere. And I have arrived somewhere. It's just that I can't stand still. I keep wondering where I'm going next. I keep asking if my voice is heard, or if I'm singing my soul out into the vacuum. And I keep wondering if there's anyone out there waiting the way I am waiting, to arrive somewhere, together. I keep wondering if they will hold my hand. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;">This is not discounting one thing for the other. I've always hoped to be more than my job title, but I am also made of the things I do. I have spent seven plus years with Mervyn Peake and Gormenghast, and it has shaped the person I've become, just as the person I am has shaped the thesis that I someday hope to publish as a monograph. And it is because of who I have become as a person that I long for someone to see me as I am. </div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;">But so what if nobody does? Keep doing me. No one's ever perfectly happy, but I'd rather be unhappy the way I am than any other? Does that make sense? I'll have moments, I'm sure. That's the mind for you, harping on absences. And as much as I dislike waiting rooms, I'll never regret the journey that's brought me here.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;">And it's time to stop waiting, for now anyway. I'm on the train, gazing at flashing windows of light in the darkness, going somewhere. Here's to arrivals and to better journeys. Excelsior!🍷</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;">My music & socials can be found <a href="https://linktr.ee/ruchirarambles" target="_blank">here</a>.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><br style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: large;" /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-83383919624189464742022-08-09T10:39:00.001-07:002022-08-09T10:39:11.467-07:00An Elegy for My Lost Stories<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKzThLCGIAB66eXCwaD6AhVd1Qrut23-8G3iiLDvRp2jxSgSAlOY-j2JyvKT6NIi_v4JxGRJzfV3bqhHOz9vCnYyVXmuFrwGgp8dSRhj6R779PuMmImVwX_WPmZMMs8qzypAn_pNzXwFSo5fvuiI3QOP7Ygt4V_4v7B0GW1mt1DVikzC14ghUyDFVR/s6720/nathan-dumlao-LPRrEJU2GbQ-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4480" data-original-width="6720" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKzThLCGIAB66eXCwaD6AhVd1Qrut23-8G3iiLDvRp2jxSgSAlOY-j2JyvKT6NIi_v4JxGRJzfV3bqhHOz9vCnYyVXmuFrwGgp8dSRhj6R779PuMmImVwX_WPmZMMs8qzypAn_pNzXwFSo5fvuiI3QOP7Ygt4V_4v7B0GW1mt1DVikzC14ghUyDFVR/w320-h213/nathan-dumlao-LPRrEJU2GbQ-unsplash.jpg" title="Image by Nathan Dumlao via unsplash.com" width="320" /></a></div>Image by Nathan Dumlao via unsplash.com<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">When I was fifteen, a friend lent
me a book. I hadn’t asked her for it, I didn’t even know she had it, but she
lent it to me anyway because she had asked me if I had read it and I told her
no, but I wanted to. The book was called<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone</i>. To be honest, I didn’t really
know how big a deal this book was in late 2002. I had only passingly seen it
mentioned once in the weekly children’s page of the English newspaper I used to
read as one of those children’s books dismissed and criticized by adults as not
real literature. Some months later, there was a review of the film in the
Bengali newspaper which said the magic didn’t work because the lead character
couldn’t act. (Hey don’t throw stuff at me, okay? I mean, this isn’t even the
worst thing they had said about these films in subsequent reviews. I remember when
they reviewed the fifth film they actually made up their own plot for it).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then of course one of my other friends had
read the books (the first four, at that point) she would constantly talk about
Harry talking to a snake without knowing that he could talk to snakes and going
“how can I speak a language without knowing it?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So long story short, I eventually
got my hands on the first book and was immediately hooked. In fact, that would
be an understatement. I was sucked into the story and I couldn’t stop reading.
When I finished the book in the course of an evening, it felt like a bit like
bereavement because it was all over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
loved all the next books, and reread all seven a few hundred times,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but in my heart of hearts I yearned for the
magic of that first read, that sense of being so overpowered by a fictional
world that you couldn’t bear to not read and couldn’t bear to leave when you
reached the end. I’ve never forgotten how that first reading devoured my being
and became my world in half a day, how I dreamt of the corridors at night and
how it left an emptiness that ached in its wake. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">With Erin Morgenstern’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Night Circus</i>, it was the slow-burn
of an impossible love, the enchantment of an impossible story, the hollowness you
feel when the show is over and you must return to the mundane. I wish I could
see that magic circus, just once. Keep time with its wonderful clock. Explore its
tents.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I’ve talked about reading Neil
Gaiman’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Sandman</i> before. How I
could see the end coming, how I knew how it would end and dreaded finding out,
but read on anyway. I hope to revisit that grief in Netflix seasons to come,
someday. We really do open ourselves to this suffering, don’t we? But then, as
the Doctor would say, the point of being happy now is that you will be sad
later. All the stories we love leave a vacuum in the wake of their farewell.
And what do choric bystanders do when the main characters have left the stage?
They carry on, with the pieces that are left.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Every book, series and movie I’ve
ever given my heart to has shaped me in intangible ways into who I am today.
Every story that has shaped me has taken pieces of my heart with them. What
happens to me when those stories end? When the Doctor regenerates, and the
Avengers retire and the Boy Who Lived finds his seventeen years later?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">We love stories because they
shape our inner worlds. Stories give us the structure and meanings that we fail
to find in our shapeless, unwavering everydays, bringing us magic and comfort,
helping us trust in wild ideas like love and friendship and everything always
adding up in the end.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Lately, it seems, all my stories
are ending. Years and years ago, in what almost seems like a different age, I
finished reading the seventh <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Harry Potter</i>
book. No more waiting. Far away as I had been from the madness of midnight
releases, there would be no more heart-stopping speculations about the future
of the people we loved. Yet the movies allowed us to hold on to the magic a
little longer, like a lingering goodbye at the doorstep. We bought our tickets-
ah those crazy, crazy phone calls of pre-WhatsApp group days, matching
schedules and cursing the perpetually late friend because you had all the paper
tickets and she couldn’t get in without you- those were fun. When <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Deathly Hallows</i> Part I ended, we stayed
glued to our seats, till someone else from an equally dazed group said- Hey,
they won’t start playing Part II if we stayed here. In the summer of 2011, I
was travelling. And everywhere I went, there was one poster. Faces I knew and
loved, and words that I understood, even without knowing the language: It all ends
here.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">How the world shifts and stories
change, leaving me bereft and longing for bygone times. But then, that’s the
charm of stories. They remind us of this fleeting, transitory quality of life
itself- often unnoticed in the moment: the coffee-break banters, the stupid
in-jokes and backstories known only to prehistoric buddy groups. There were
friendships that didn’t last, bitter and painful at the time, but the stories
remain etched in memory. They will always be there. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The other day, we went to watch
the new Thor film. Fun watch, we laughed, clapped, had all the expected
reactions. But after we left the theatre, my friend said she missed the
Avengers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I knew I agreed. It had
not been the same since <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Endgame</i>. And
as much as I love the new Avengers, I will forever miss the banter of the
original 6, like I will remember how young and adorable the cast of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stranger Things</i> used to be. The past
flows into the present and leads us to the future, and sure, we do our
countdowns, we want it to happen. Nobody wants to stay in the past. But we’ll
always remember what it used to be, what is gone, and how you were happy when
the days were young. Still love it, still miss it, but you’d probably hate it
if it stayed too long.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">*I’m attending a faculty training
programme while also navigating through invigilating exams, grading
answer-scripts and prepping for new semester classes, so this post took forever
to write. I’ll just leave you with some lovely playlists that you might like.*<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7ob8TJRijNJKAEk6xqLvkb?si=82d4b1b361714eb1" target="_blank">Acoustic Reflections: Relaxing Melodies</a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5FJK13iZWhyI0A4WSXaXR7?si=347a4b41f81b4804" target="_blank">I Still Believe in Good Music</a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p><a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2RyJXLyTbVJcgAIo6p7Aco?si=de69c3888d6e431b" target="_blank"> Indie Discovery Pool</a></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Find my socials and other links at </span><o:p></o:p><span style="text-align: left;">https://linktr.ee/RuchiraRambles</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1fsqX2pFksRSYhfOTEw5jvzpzwCNcr1fBUNKPcQ_mHjpnrwxdLF2mB_qUWWJFQgKxL3Nt-qK0NXSzNbhOt-U_JRXj08LrXixEPujNppE-mIQVkbOed93rAhLV64kC6w-SeI1R-vOBS8W-6rD-LCYHYXADuSfajSeFxv9f558QVjJtxoYdWM0XP3us/s5760/katie-moum-5FHv5nS7yGg-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5760" data-original-width="3840" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1fsqX2pFksRSYhfOTEw5jvzpzwCNcr1fBUNKPcQ_mHjpnrwxdLF2mB_qUWWJFQgKxL3Nt-qK0NXSzNbhOt-U_JRXj08LrXixEPujNppE-mIQVkbOed93rAhLV64kC6w-SeI1R-vOBS8W-6rD-LCYHYXADuSfajSeFxv9f558QVjJtxoYdWM0XP3us/s320/katie-moum-5FHv5nS7yGg-unsplash.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />Image by Katie Moum via unsplash.com<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-6344541137593907202022-06-22T11:40:00.004-07:002022-06-22T11:40:43.676-07:00To My Love, Listen,...<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Imagine an empty room. Imagine a house. Or a world. Imagine an entire star-spangled universe with its make-believe show of beginnings and ends. A show that engulfs us, consumes us and drives us towards each other. Or away from. Even from ourselves.</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Now imagine us. Forget the noise. It's just you and I. All that I say won't matter in time. All that I say will echo across the stars forever, forming new words somewhere else, for someone else. But right now, in this moment, all that I say is for you. You know that. So listen. I love you. I've been looking for you. I hope we find each other, because what else is left when the sun is cold and we are all long gone? All we have is this moment, to be true and to live and to not burn ourselves out in this great cosmic pantomime that consumes us and drives us away from ourselves. </span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuhuB_lh-zMu87bF3cm6Y5vxQMkE0U4XCv_M19f61z8xDEfuxFO3cyw63mPfqTBVYN5xMU-lIKTLBC1pVwpKV6AR4z4K6w_Q46UQy0fDA2tLFkj9-8PlNm_bsfGayeWMhb8QBvIHSluzLqu_9l-sdnheAK5-ErcFPUHuexHvMydT-fw7DHJtPnDtZ8/s1231/photo-1501862700950-18382cd41497.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1231" data-original-width="1100" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuhuB_lh-zMu87bF3cm6Y5vxQMkE0U4XCv_M19f61z8xDEfuxFO3cyw63mPfqTBVYN5xMU-lIKTLBC1pVwpKV6AR4z4K6w_Q46UQy0fDA2tLFkj9-8PlNm_bsfGayeWMhb8QBvIHSluzLqu_9l-sdnheAK5-ErcFPUHuexHvMydT-fw7DHJtPnDtZ8/s320/photo-1501862700950-18382cd41497.jpeg" width="286" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">📸 John Fowler via unsplash.com</span><p></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">I found a Tumblr screenshot on Instagram the other day. I don't recall the exact language but it said something to this effect: that the universe was basically the interval between two Big Bangs, and we were the dust that settles after an explosion. An afterglow, if you please, if you want to be poetic. Imagine dust became sentient. That was us. I would give credit but I honestly cannot find that post so apologies for the bad paraphrasing. Anyway, it made me think of Olaf the Snowman from the movie, <i>Frozen</i>. Imagine you and I are just like that, brought to life and being at whim, for no purpose at all. We bring in so much strife into that, so much pain, so much longing, so much desire. And all I want to do is whatever snowmen do when it's summer.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKoO2H12YcHmHC3Ifm-cf6dKkg4bE399gamSu9Zd1_g7QJitSmdiigp3U9UivjXfGSGwFHFa07I6F2TfGNnxguyfjwogodh_D7eQ1--IfxWO_eHuDZntpmqN_NZr6GCK2SmDNeYlc3e9iMiTa_2xbi_37MymooRZOETHFE1uUYpp-uXFeo1sqAok_N/s269/images%20(14).jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="187" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKoO2H12YcHmHC3Ifm-cf6dKkg4bE399gamSu9Zd1_g7QJitSmdiigp3U9UivjXfGSGwFHFa07I6F2TfGNnxguyfjwogodh_D7eQ1--IfxWO_eHuDZntpmqN_NZr6GCK2SmDNeYlc3e9iMiTa_2xbi_37MymooRZOETHFE1uUYpp-uXFeo1sqAok_N/s1600/images%20(14).jpeg" width="187" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br />Hello again. I meant to have a post up here a week ago, on Bloom's Day. The hundredth Bloom's Day, in fact. Not because I want to speak of James Joyce, or of Ulysses, but because five years ago, on the 16th of June, I promised myself to restart my defunct blog, to give myself a second shot in believing that my words were worth writing down, even if only for myself. A friend reminded me that it was Bloom's Day, and I thought, what are the odds? I am going to go walking around in my head and see if I can make a grand story of it. And isn't that what we do? Stumbling through our days, looking for our glorious purpose, hoping to find some semblance of significance in the midst of this great make-believe of beginnings and ends?<br />Some find it in the past, a mythical era of ancestral glories where heroes came home to vanquish their enemies. Beneath a night sky lit by long dead stars, it is a terribly comforting thought. There was greatness once, and can be again. In the inevitable wheel of loss and death, they are no longer specks in the cosmos, but inheritors of greatness. Perhaps they too can slay their dragons.<br />But the dragon is in the mirror, perhaps dreaming of their own golden age. </span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Did you watch the Stranger Things 4 episode where the police were addressing the people in the town hall and the basketball team strode in, led by their captain? And did you notice how much it looked like a pose– the way they fanned out in perfect, symmetrical formation? It reminded me of another scene from a movie where the heroes had walked in into another assembly of confused, frightened people. </span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuAOODzQJQJ9Ocn8Zuus5AxVUp4arjzqAqNMUq3O6aqOwJTIhNMoZRkrEP-SSH3-XA3fnAZ8F0l3Dll0Gm_4jYDkSmhc3dYu989Wvkqw_xlxW7d0AMVUUg3K_Nf4s8SlVvvqigY1p1sjdNd-sqR-qxmEL5Q425SCbqEZw17lowFNpryYSHvDCVbpzR/s1660/img1655909206248.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1660" data-original-width="1660" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuAOODzQJQJ9Ocn8Zuus5AxVUp4arjzqAqNMUq3O6aqOwJTIhNMoZRkrEP-SSH3-XA3fnAZ8F0l3Dll0Gm_4jYDkSmhc3dYu989Wvkqw_xlxW7d0AMVUUg3K_Nf4s8SlVvvqigY1p1sjdNd-sqR-qxmEL5Q425SCbqEZw17lowFNpryYSHvDCVbpzR/s320/img1655909206248.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Same formation, but it had seemed so natural and reassuring back then and yet looked so insincere now. Not to the people of Hawkins however, who would rather clutch at the chance to go witch-hunting than deal with the fear that came with death and the idea of things beyond our knowledge and control. And sometimes hate is just that, a little chance to dress ourselves in shiny, heroic armour, making ourselves feel good in the face of the infinite unknown. And when the weight of insecurity becomes too much, imagine a glorious past when you had control. But nobody ever had control. Not in the grand scale of things. People are just good at lying to themselves. </span><p></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">If you're lucky, you know how to live in the present. But some of us are drunk on hope. Delusional, perhaps. Or naive. Or eternal optimists thinking things will be a better tomorrow. <br />Me, I've always looked to the future. Mostly. Towards an ever-shifting mirnage promising wonderland. And maybe I never find it, but I found you, now, reading my words. And I found myself, in ways that I didn't think possible. Have I found what I was looking for? No. But I have found something. That's enough to go on. For now.<br /><br />Anyway, I planned to have a post for BloomsDay and failed because I couldn't find my words and I was afraid. Afraid that I had lost my words, that I had nothing to say. On all the days that I drew blanks there were scratched out lines and deleted paragraphs. Yet, here I am, eventually, rambling my heart out and afraid that I am not making sense. <br />But even so, darling, stay with me. Listen. Even if it's for a moment, love makes it worthwhile. <br />And even though it's all a moment's illusion, I hope you are listening because I don't want to be alone in my silence. It's awfully silent without you. Say something. My ships have no harbour without you.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0yzDfE7N5qMR0mZShmsztIKMRy-EXBpXOUqlxOcxTS4bT5C8zFVf5dn4_1f3PkTEv7CL9q5_ZudcRUu7F8xi7tBXT9SAHtB9AXwnv3e12vqSPWgwugy0ZdH0BWkQQs8WoqPs62ISH_tulBoO9P0SvaWwnFqt94neeyKTGeNwitQ9dkrXWWU0qEaok/s6016/maximilian-weisbecker-Esq0ovRY-Zs-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4016" data-original-width="6016" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0yzDfE7N5qMR0mZShmsztIKMRy-EXBpXOUqlxOcxTS4bT5C8zFVf5dn4_1f3PkTEv7CL9q5_ZudcRUu7F8xi7tBXT9SAHtB9AXwnv3e12vqSPWgwugy0ZdH0BWkQQs8WoqPs62ISH_tulBoO9P0SvaWwnFqt94neeyKTGeNwitQ9dkrXWWU0qEaok/w320-h214/maximilian-weisbecker-Esq0ovRY-Zs-unsplash.jpg" title="📸 Maximilian Weisbecker via unsplash.com" width="320" /></a></div><br /> 📸 Maximilian Weisbecker via unsplash.com </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">If <span style="text-align: left;">you would like to listen to my </span><a data-id="https://open.spotify.com/artist/653SuA3u4IkHFSaPWcJhgw" data-type="URL" href="https://open.spotify.com/artist/653SuA3u4IkHFSaPWcJhgw" rel="noreferrer noopener" style="text-align: left;" target="_blank">music</a><span style="text-align: left;"> or follow my socials, you can find all the links </span><a data-id="https://linktr.ee/RuchiraRambles" data-type="URL" href="https://linktr.ee/RuchiraRambles" rel="noreferrer noopener" style="text-align: left;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="text-align: left;">.</span></div><br /><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-24514575809321437572022-04-19T10:25:00.000-07:002022-04-19T10:25:03.231-07:00Poems, memories and moving past heartbreaks<p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR0VnEq9oKBtWm7R36-cICU_Y6zNJtTkwsH1EnsCBb76wojzBjG3_fuOoW_5jQitIB_S4B6EO8vwvqDm1TQ6Oks1Krq9HaEQXDbCcnx5IUwBXoFizBnPBk5GjXf5kDws6NRHgQt1Qqc3cIOKJAJhgKna28Xod8T_oWkenDJ6Y4W1SkHxCPlCLK-6c3/s1242/20220419_141128.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1242" data-original-width="1078" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR0VnEq9oKBtWm7R36-cICU_Y6zNJtTkwsH1EnsCBb76wojzBjG3_fuOoW_5jQitIB_S4B6EO8vwvqDm1TQ6Oks1Krq9HaEQXDbCcnx5IUwBXoFizBnPBk5GjXf5kDws6NRHgQt1Qqc3cIOKJAJhgKna28Xod8T_oWkenDJ6Y4W1SkHxCPlCLK-6c3/s320/20220419_141128.jpg" width="278" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Day 17. Today I wrote a haiku for International Haiku Day, using the phrase 'gibbous moon'. This was the prompt from the Instagram page Kavyajananipoetry. The prompt from <a href="http://napowrimo.net/" rel="noreferrer noopener" target="_blank">napowrimo.net</a> was quite cool, it was just that I wanted to catch up with some of my reading lists, so I wrote only one poem. But I did think about the other prompt, you know, the prompt not taken, as it were, and it brought back memories. So what was it? Dogs, All the dogs you've known in your life. The prompt was developed by the comic artist Lynda Barry, and it asks you to think about <a href="https://twitter.com/fulmerford/status/1491838599058411522?s=20&t=EDIX-GcNmFUIS-Ojz_l51Q" rel="noreferrer noopener" target="_blank">dogs you have known, seen, or heard about</a>, and then use them as a springboard into wherever they take you. Cool yeah?</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I have never had a dog. When I was young, I was terrified that the neighbourhood strays would bite me and then I would have to take 17 injections (I don't exactly remember if the number was 17, but it was a big number). As I recall, the dogs seemed to bark a lot and always seemed angry, but the important thing was I was afraid, so my memory may have shaped it that way. The strays in our current neighbourhood often bark at each other, but they are mostly gentle and friendly. My mother's uncle had a big house and he had an Alsatian that was supposedly fierce. I never really met him, only heard him barking, because he was chained up when we visited. The other dog, the one that I had completely forgotten about till I saw this prompt, was this black and white dog that stayed in our school campus and shared its name, Loreto. Even now, I can't recall clearly what he looked like. All we knew was he was the pet of our Principal, Sister Cyril Mooney. Every morning, he would come running to meet Sr Cyril as she rode in on her creamy white scooter. Funny how someone who can be in the sidelines of your life for years and then disappear from memory.</span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif; font-size: medium;">I remember this sweet little puppy that followed me home once, till its mother dragged it back. I love watching dog videos now. When I have a more settled life someday, perhaps I will adopt one.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif; font-size: medium;">But to return to my memories of Loreto Sealdah, it was my first school, the place where I learned to read and to count and multiply. It's where I discovered Noddy and the Faraway tree, where I first read Pride and Prejudice, made my first friends and experienced the grief and heartbreak that comes with leave-taking. I remember my early teenage at this school. We were an all girls' convent school, so we spent all our newly charged, young emotional intensities on our girlfriends. Being someone's best friend was a big deal. There were even ranks, like first best friends and 2nd and 3rd best friends who were on wait-lists if the first best friends ever fell out. And there were such fierce falling outs, worthy of the messiest breakups in Rom Coms.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif;">It all seems so silly in retrospect, but back then it consumed our lives. Anyway I changed schools in seventh grade, and it felt like the end of the world. I was never going to have friends again. I was never going to be happy again. The first heartbreak came with the leaving. The second heartbreak came a few months later, with my reluctant realization that the weekly phone calls and letters (yes, we wrote letters. I am old) meant more to me than they did to the friends I had left behind, that I missed them more than they missed me. But they were right. You are supposed to move on. In my own slow time, I stopped missing them. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif;">I even made new friends at my new school. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif;">At first it hurt a little to think forever friendships were over, to not miss them anymore, but then one day I discovered to my surprise even that did not hurt anymore. </span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif; font-size: medium;">Funny side story. There was a girl I knew in my first school who was not my friend back then, but became my friend in college. And there were a couple of girls who I may or may not have befriended had I chosen a different college, but I ended up befriending them about five years later in another classroom. I think every friendship comes in its own time. We learn and grown, and perhaps give something back in return, being changed in small, subtle ways while changing others. I think it becomes easier as we grow, more secure in ourselves. </span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWYkOr1GOIJmhGQL7KLWSpTkCfkXcaiSajeFnp6323IaJH8XJBpgLs_B1cii2cHQ0CyNRN4bDhwFORHWTg1RhE1GLXou-0OJCKQk4RRFojoclIBLagBGld15frjba4e85sbvtDfcCkSuYxb2i6Pz_qmz6G3o0k8PBAMRoq6eMgp6ToUId_RLOKIVpr/s1496/20220419_141410.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1496" data-original-width="1078" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWYkOr1GOIJmhGQL7KLWSpTkCfkXcaiSajeFnp6323IaJH8XJBpgLs_B1cii2cHQ0CyNRN4bDhwFORHWTg1RhE1GLXou-0OJCKQk4RRFojoclIBLagBGld15frjba4e85sbvtDfcCkSuYxb2i6Pz_qmz6G3o0k8PBAMRoq6eMgp6ToUId_RLOKIVpr/w289-h400/20220419_141410.jpg" width="289" /></a></div><br />Day 18: The prompt from <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://napowrimo.net&source=gmail&ust=1650473288560000&usg=AOvVaw3Ryu2_hxlRHTj2MWVFrYq7" href="http://napowrimo.net/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">napowrimo.net</a> today </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", times, serif;">based on Faisal Mohyuddin’s poem “</span><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://twitter.com/TaraSkurtu/status/1493904815168106501&source=gmail&ust=1650473288560000&usg=AOvVaw1fVImTIAZznpGLwj0Pv_8A" href="https://twitter.com/TaraSkurtu/status/1493904815168106501" style="background: rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; color: #225e9b; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", times, serif; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration-line: none; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank">Five Answers to the Same Question</a>, <span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia, "times new roman", times, serif;">” which is an absolutely beautiful poem. Our job was to write our own poem that provides five answers to the same question – without ever specifically identifying the question that is being answered. The prompt from Kavya was to title the poem 'Poet's Garden' and go from there. I took the title to mean the things that inspire and drive a poet to write, and I guess my five answers are firstly answering the title, but there's also another question that is not specified that I was hoping to answer. I really loved writing this one, and I hope you love it too.</span></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;">Day 19:</span> Prompt from <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://napowrimo.net&source=gmail&ust=1650473288560000&usg=AOvVaw3Ryu2_hxlRHTj2MWVFrYq7" href="http://napowrimo.net/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">napowrimo.net</a>: Begin your poem with a command. Prompt from Kavya: "Use your clipboard as inspiration". Things on my clipboard were, firstly, my wordle block today (0/6 because I kept getting the 4th letter wrong through all my options <img alt="😭" aria-label="😭" class="an1" data-emoji="😭" loading="lazy" src="https://fonts.gstatic.com/s/e/notoemoji/14.0/1f62d/32.png" style="height: 1.2em; vertical-align: middle; width: 1.2em;" />), the poems I share everyday and the Spotify link to my EP. So, here goes nothing. Tried to keep the haiku stanza structure because it's fun to try and fit our truth in the space that is given to us, and isn't that what life is?</span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCd6eEoUX8ZQNbftjBamjKIrPOoG7meiiU5jFS49UUsErmLGJnAE0lG7HZ6_frsk53wifBkwO7ohyJT79fXTWumvHgeOURxQFsXGbXNkH_lpbwTXXGq_PTjJb5i1Hcvgi0YdkUZS71zVt-LbgutPti8JW14H0ylB-jALl5S131QlF0Usddl1TfyaLb/s933/Screenshot_20220419-221255_Gallery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="837" data-original-width="933" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCd6eEoUX8ZQNbftjBamjKIrPOoG7meiiU5jFS49UUsErmLGJnAE0lG7HZ6_frsk53wifBkwO7ohyJT79fXTWumvHgeOURxQFsXGbXNkH_lpbwTXXGq_PTjJb5i1Hcvgi0YdkUZS71zVt-LbgutPti8JW14H0ylB-jALl5S131QlF0Usddl1TfyaLb/s320/Screenshot_20220419-221255_Gallery.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p dir="ltr" style="text-align: justify;">If you like what I do, please consider streaming my debut EP, Timeline, on a platform of your choice. Links are available <a href="https://linktr.ee/RuchiraRambles" target="_blank">here</a>. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-27450921813575001232022-04-17T02:04:00.001-07:002022-04-17T02:04:16.669-07:00On Getting a PhD, NaPoWriMo & Stuff<p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sorry, it has been a while. Things just pile up on one another, you know. But here’s the main news. The thing I’ve been waiting for since last December finally happened. Last month, on the 16<sup>th</sup>, I got my TARDIS driving license. Which is to say, I successfully defended my PhD thesis. What? I’ve been waiting to make ‘Doctor’ themed jokes for a while now. But you know the strangest thing? Happy as I was (and still am) about the whole thing, the immediate aftermath of it felt a bit deflating. Like, what am I supposed to do with myself now? I mean, I have enough on my plate, don’t get me wrong- classes to teach, scripts to evaluate (how is about 80% of my life consumed by examinations and grading? I seem to remember these being a lot less frequent when I was a student myself!), data to collect and enter into endless excel sheets (did not sign up for this, smh) and then order and reorder, supervising student drama rehearsals, organizing intra-college poster contests and so on and so forth. But what about the things that matter? I go to work every day. Anyone could do that. Anyone could do what I do at work. What difference does it make? And then perhaps the other reason why it wasn’t as exciting was because nothing really changed that much. I dunno, when immensely important life-events happen, you think they would reflect in the external life somehow. Yet here I was, doing the same old things. Four weeks in, the feelings have now settled into more rational, sensible shape. I’ve also begun the slow process of turning the thesis into a book, and guess what, we are already halfway down my fifth NaPoWriMo. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I did my first NaPoWriMo in 2018, a couple of days after I was introduced to the ‘Write 100 Poems in a Year with Airplane Poetry Movement’ challenge. This was after I had had my breakdown in 2017, and I started blogging and singing and finally wrote the first 2 chapters of my thesis. Some people advised me to focus on the thesis more, and less on the creative things, but it felt like my PhD work had only started moving forward once I picked up the things I loved again, and as long as I had my poems and songs, the thesis would just go on fine. Oddly, this has been my hardest year. I have been using prompts from both <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://napowrimo.net&source=gmail&ust=1650258152911000&usg=AOvVaw3KLiEcTedR_NuuA_pHDbNe" href="http://napowrimo.net/" rel="noreferrer" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">napowrimo.net</a> and @kavyajananipoetry on Instagram, as I sometimes do- partly because I like the challenge and partly because I’m too greedy to choose one set of prompts, sometimes combining both in a single poem and sometimes writing two separate ones, and while I haven’t missed a day yet, it feels more difficult than ever. Perhaps I am exhausted. Perhaps I demand too much of myself. Perhaps it feels hard every year and I just don’t remember.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 15.6933px; margin: 0in 0in 8pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="line-height: 17.12px;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I have also been struggling to write this blog. One morning in February, when it was still pleasant and cool in my part of the world, I was up on the roof, walking, and I saw a bird perched on a branch and wrote a whole blog piece inside my head, knowing then that I wouldn’t be writing it that day. Or in several days, or weeks and months. And now I am writing, but the spring has gone, and that morning has gone, and the bird has flown away. Who remembers all the words that stream through the mind like a constant soliloquy? All I know is, on some nights I want to stay distracted. Some nights I am afraid to be alone with my thoughts because the loneliness just comes crashing through the silence of the stars, and on some nights, I write silly, light-hearted poems about cat getting your tongue. Anyway, here are my poems written so far this April. We’re halfway there.</span></span></p><div class="gs" style="background-color: white; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 20px; text-align: left; width: 950px;"><div class=""><div class="ii gt" id=":11j" jslog="20277; u014N:xr6bB; 4:W251bGwsbnVsbCxbXV0." style="margin: 8px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;"><div class="a3s aiL " id=":11k" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: 1.5; overflow: hidden; text-align: left;"><p></p><p style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.875em; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Day 1.</span></p><p></p><p class="has-text-align-justify" style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.875em; outline: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I almost failed the challenge on day 1 but bitch, not today.</span></p><p class="has-text-align-justify" style="color: #7c7c7c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.875em; outline: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf4xvZpaH2sjRmdyobwrCv5NIyyHOPNY4PXVbrcUUxLB6nZdxZmMGEuZyLGp2ZYk3XeAKMrICqu5cnANetv36Tm_uM8cvfgMdVBkNCXSOFT38oiiRlil-TO3RbiRn6FnnSwARl8Vg_fjEvQfrJ4LpDcAVsBU1RsDAKvMCayjCBNrtYK4xjG3WvXeGr/s352/Aragorn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="143" data-original-width="352" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf4xvZpaH2sjRmdyobwrCv5NIyyHOPNY4PXVbrcUUxLB6nZdxZmMGEuZyLGp2ZYk3XeAKMrICqu5cnANetv36Tm_uM8cvfgMdVBkNCXSOFT38oiiRlil-TO3RbiRn6FnnSwARl8Vg_fjEvQfrJ4LpDcAVsBU1RsDAKvMCayjCBNrtYK4xjG3WvXeGr/w400-h163/Aragorn.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This poem is a combination of 2 prompts. First, from <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://napowrimo.net&source=gmail&ust=1650258152900000&usg=AOvVaw00AfhL_LH8gAjtxJzJt6Lc" href="http://napowrimo.net/" rel="noreferrer" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">napowrimo.net</a> : "The idea is to write your own prose poem that, whatever title you choose to give it, is a story about the body. The poem should contain an encounter between two people, some spoken language, and at least one crisp visual image." 2nd, from @kavyajananipoetry 'how to be a poem.'<br /></span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdX5yiDByXBAVi2dV2petwAInQEv4WdY3pZvg8Zb4WRvBOsCAlVqdYUFeeFOc2hdQtd3gC3QyljhQEouBGVkSbvVp6WWsEAM_9Ta487kdoshruah5MxUgqf5N8H1vh9Vb8X7ccor15rAfop4fJEjUsuuLs99MPdznAaBjn88KvwcmuVei3rF7tX0BL/s1078/Day%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1062" data-original-width="1078" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdX5yiDByXBAVi2dV2petwAInQEv4WdY3pZvg8Zb4WRvBOsCAlVqdYUFeeFOc2hdQtd3gC3QyljhQEouBGVkSbvVp6WWsEAM_9Ta487kdoshruah5MxUgqf5N8H1vh9Vb8X7ccor15rAfop4fJEjUsuuLs99MPdznAaBjn88KvwcmuVei3rF7tX0BL/s320/Day%201.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The reason why this poem took me forever was because I wasn't brave enough to write a story about the body. But I did, anyway. <br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Day 2:<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">Prompt from @kavyajananipoetry: Ode to serendipity. Prompt from <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://napowrimo.net&source=gmail&ust=1650258152900000&usg=AOvVaw00AfhL_LH8gAjtxJzJt6Lc" href="http://napowrimo.net/" rel="noreferrer" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">napowrimo.net</a>, use a word from the Haggard Hawkins Twitter account (which by the way is awesome, please do yourself a favor and check it out.) Word I picked: Dèja-rêve.</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><br /></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Vrx07R71umhQ4ezQN5kn0Nz2Ns89Lf0vY48SDHn24DhZHX0uaHAXi4zr8kKropFz7K9wiQOHdl2eXPoSr5yKq-AsrF_wdrRFS8C5tpE8H2VMQoKGwC0ba8NracCbkNudmxCQDgNGHjftANflNHXpfA2C-i-4Tvu7leJlEnoQYI2XixVMaVTvgw0-/s1078/Day%202.1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1054" data-original-width="1078" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Vrx07R71umhQ4ezQN5kn0Nz2Ns89Lf0vY48SDHn24DhZHX0uaHAXi4zr8kKropFz7K9wiQOHdl2eXPoSr5yKq-AsrF_wdrRFS8C5tpE8H2VMQoKGwC0ba8NracCbkNudmxCQDgNGHjftANflNHXpfA2C-i-4Tvu7leJlEnoQYI2XixVMaVTvgw0-/w200-h196/Day%202.1.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEu3nEhNYU5QRLTej-joM9M4sbUWilA4jYcvcUFf_yk1UZhWTjjnphKLITHANPmFIVrpA9adYMsri4q8exyHRq_btXUgFZSTclRBSIiAcJtY8tJmmEuksR9J7d5vhH_GifpS4hZvAQe7F27WPDM8KxKbKCMJToQ5u3Sh8bDpSzpy8MdWQkbwwbTPA7/s1098/Day%202.2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1098" data-original-width="1078" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEu3nEhNYU5QRLTej-joM9M4sbUWilA4jYcvcUFf_yk1UZhWTjjnphKLITHANPmFIVrpA9adYMsri4q8exyHRq_btXUgFZSTclRBSIiAcJtY8tJmmEuksR9J7d5vhH_GifpS4hZvAQe7F27WPDM8KxKbKCMJToQ5u3Sh8bDpSzpy8MdWQkbwwbTPA7/w196-h200/Day%202.2.jpg" width="196" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Day 3. Prompt from @kavyajananipoetry- to read 'Packing Tips for a Time Traveler' by Michael Janeiro and write an after to it.</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihYpmCYkslBO6Lt3iZNS4gD9longtFlzQAvDHJWyxp6izNhxZbq3RKsTwzD95RnRvYEOgjsJofV5E4azY8pgMyI_gQPIX9UnLBvCQdK8v29AU1-CelAzf0LCdzrHLGNumgAUhk5cw_cc7NsoR3sJ1SIT7tFB8l0CT3RrTyQO3AyqaxF7rH6yCod40M/s1078/Day%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1044" data-original-width="1078" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihYpmCYkslBO6Lt3iZNS4gD9longtFlzQAvDHJWyxp6izNhxZbq3RKsTwzD95RnRvYEOgjsJofV5E4azY8pgMyI_gQPIX9UnLBvCQdK8v29AU1-CelAzf0LCdzrHLGNumgAUhk5cw_cc7NsoR3sJ1SIT7tFB8l0CT3RrTyQO3AyqaxF7rH6yCod40M/s320/Day%203.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The prompt from </span><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://napowrimo.net&source=gmail&ust=1650258152900000&usg=AOvVaw00AfhL_LH8gAjtxJzJt6Lc" href="http://napowrimo.net/" rel="noreferrer" style="color: #1155cc; font-size: large;" target="_blank">napowrimo.net</a><span style="font-size: large;"> was too technically specific to blend with this, so it became a separate poem. The prompt was to write a glosa, "literally a poem that glosses, or explains, or in some way responds to another poem. The idea is to take a quatrain from a poem that you like, and then write a four-stanza poem that explains or responds to each line of the quatrain, with each of the quatrain’s four lines in turn forming the last line of each stanza. Traditionally, each stanza has ten lines". This stumped me for a bit because the traditional quatrain style poems I loved (such as Keats) would require a more archaic style of writing if I had to repeat the original lines and then most of the 20th century poems I could think of were not quatrains. Finally decided on Wistawa Szymborska's 'Nobody Feels Fine at 4 AM'.</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Nobody feels fine at four a.m,</i></span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><i style="font-size: small;">If ants feel fine at four a.m,</i></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>We're happy for the ants. & let four a.m come</i></span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="font-size: small;">If we've got to go on living. </i></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i> - Wistawa Szymborska </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A night of running through familiar nightmares, chased by monsters,</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of ebbing and flowing faces speaking</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of promises made in the heady hope</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of youth. The monsters catch up.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now you die. Now you wake.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Too late for rest, </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Too late to forget.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sleep only taunts with a fatigued trance.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">No one feels fine at four a.m.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The clocks keep books. You can't run.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">You'd rather take the nightmares but</div><div style="text-align: justify;">There's no running from the day:</div><div style="text-align: justify;">All that 'rise and shine' and fresh starts</div><div style="text-align: justify;">You've probably had enough of,</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Waiting queues, like the ants' endless trek</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For a little sugar speck. Ever wondered</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What the ants dream of? I don't suppose </div><div style="text-align: justify;">That anyone's asked–</div><div style="text-align: justify;">If the ants feel fine at four a.m?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">People are all sorts.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Some thrive in the chase</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And bloom in the queues. Some at least,</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Love what they do. Good for them.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Not everyone can claim to make the world</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Shift, or find a purpose to their being.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ants at least know why they climb, and</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Let the air through the soil, and</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Find winter bliss. We're happy</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For the ants. Let four a.m come.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Meanwhile you turn in sleep.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The dreams you have failed come</div><div style="text-align: justify;">To mock at you. Do you think ants</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Are haunted by lost, waylaid grains?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Staying up at night, praying for home</div><div style="text-align: justify;">From the rains? Do the ants ever</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Wait and ache for spring at winter's close?</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Seasons, unlike fate, keep their turns. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Perhaps we ought to be more like ants</div><div style="text-align: justify;">If we've got to go on living.</div></span><p></p><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Ruchira Mandal 03.04.2022</div></span><p></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">Day 5. Prompt from @kavyajananipoetry, to write an after poem to a Sylvia Plath poem. Poem chosen: Lady Lazarus.</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtosmGQUZy-TEDDDQ8qggY01-0MBCPVpYyqwmtIL0dauptrI_z501EJ-4v7B49wBafWfvJgydrYSqKNL7MoSZ8pwm9yCjzJ06KDsq1lyvkQu7BJtBApQSW4GIgk9Olf_t_T4lbohDp93Om-HWfIWkvkql7BOK-NI0TwzrcwkBvLDeUSoEvRlCnRroU/s1078/Day%205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="1078" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtosmGQUZy-TEDDDQ8qggY01-0MBCPVpYyqwmtIL0dauptrI_z501EJ-4v7B49wBafWfvJgydrYSqKNL7MoSZ8pwm9yCjzJ06KDsq1lyvkQu7BJtBApQSW4GIgk9Olf_t_T4lbohDp93Om-HWfIWkvkql7BOK-NI0TwzrcwkBvLDeUSoEvRlCnRroU/s320/Day%205.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I skipped the prompt from <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://napowrimo.net&source=gmail&ust=1650258152900000&usg=AOvVaw00AfhL_LH8gAjtxJzJt6Lc" href="http://napowrimo.net/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">napowrimo.net</a> which was to depict a mythical character doing daily mundane tasks. I might revisit this prompt later someday. But I decided to let it go because I felt uninspired, and the more I thought about it, the more dreadful it became. This has been an experience during this year's challenge, especially the first week or so. I was so terrified of failing that I was dreading having to write the darned poem. So I decided to let it go and told myself that I am allowed to fail sometimes.</span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Day 6. With that permission to fail, I ignored the 6th prompt from Kavya. </span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Prompt from <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://napowrimo.net&source=gmail&ust=1650258152900000&usg=AOvVaw00AfhL_LH8gAjtxJzJt6Lc" href="http://napowrimo.net/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">napowrimo.net</a>: Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a variation of an acrostic poem. But rather than spelling out a word with the first letters of each line, I’d like you to write a poem that reproduces a phrase with the first words of each line. Perhaps you could write a poem in which the first words of each line, read together, reproduce a treasured line of poetry? You could even try using a newspaper headline or something from a magazine article. </span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">"So much universe, and so little time. " Terry Pratchett, The Last Hero.</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5KfqS3_7M4-O1IsnI5chvGLXhIoKx_m0GP-NEMJosPr54T7rAcSandesJdhgEMA-C64LgF9WM6Bi0KsdFEmzXFHDUSz9BzLeUIL_oGyZrjcVpVoNZo7fZx29jXKKbHO47DnNB3Q32ItzIwTiDERXXWL7gEvktV5yNH6p8EyzWcQfpb4Jhin_m0ARb/s1078/Day%206.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="1078" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5KfqS3_7M4-O1IsnI5chvGLXhIoKx_m0GP-NEMJosPr54T7rAcSandesJdhgEMA-C64LgF9WM6Bi0KsdFEmzXFHDUSz9BzLeUIL_oGyZrjcVpVoNZo7fZx29jXKKbHO47DnNB3Q32ItzIwTiDERXXWL7gEvktV5yNH6p8EyzWcQfpb4Jhin_m0ARb/s320/Day%206.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Day 7. This was the first time I had proper fun this month and the writing didn't feel forced and laboured. Especially poem 1, 'Cat Got Your Tongue' was really fun to write. Silly, perhaps, but I loved it.<img alt="❤" aria-label="❤" class="an1" data-emoji="❤" loading="lazy" src="https://fonts.gstatic.com/s/e/notoemoji/14.0/2764/32.png" style="height: 1.2em; vertical-align: middle; width: 1.2em;" /> The prompt from <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://napowrimo.net&source=gmail&ust=1650258152900000&usg=AOvVaw00AfhL_LH8gAjtxJzJt6Lc" href="http://napowrimo.net/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">napowrimo.net</a> was "Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that argues against, or somehow questions, a proverb or saying. They say that “all cats are black at midnight,” but really? Surely some of them remain striped. And maybe there is an ill wind that blows some good. Perhaps that wind just has some mild dyspepsia. " On that note, here's my take on 'cat got your tongue':</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS1J7Vxi7C6X-soxKU8CqoL7td-GGmjAv5wzj0eNLP_3EbrBPoXgCcUL8m-9SFzemIkgJLDKgBbdmG8Y-jjbtgTfvVfQ8Wtado292jeiuDzSu0cXG4t3OsSXVEwwPh86rZdi1Fw69hxQM0V5KHzHWxyEFAd5Xgut5AU_YqYAHS3yJP8dyFCNQRD2zh/s1078/Day%207%20Cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="888" data-original-width="1078" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS1J7Vxi7C6X-soxKU8CqoL7td-GGmjAv5wzj0eNLP_3EbrBPoXgCcUL8m-9SFzemIkgJLDKgBbdmG8Y-jjbtgTfvVfQ8Wtado292jeiuDzSu0cXG4t3OsSXVEwwPh86rZdi1Fw69hxQM0V5KHzHWxyEFAd5Xgut5AU_YqYAHS3yJP8dyFCNQRD2zh/s320/Day%207%20Cat.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />The reason I picked my phrase was because their use of the other cat phrase made me think of this one, and because I loved the way James Mcavoy delivered this phrase in book 1 of Sandman Audible.</span><p></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> The 2nd poem wasn't funny, I suppose, but it also rolled off rather easily. The Prompt from @kavyajananipoetry was to write something along the lines of feeling nostalgic. I am a nostalgic person, so I was pretty surprised by what I ended up writing. I also combined this with the day 6 prompt (that I had previously skipped) which was to use the line: "I could poem my way out of this shit, but I want to stay and deal with this unpoetically. "</span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0keQqygbVCrw2jzodXMxD-tAvDWtFLU4_LnmVaDa9DzLmZ2WnSBV4s9dcJg-eVqk44IrLKy1WVJST4kAFEA2TTGFi3pXsUsHLxeCX9d6zbT-aahMTZQL730QP8JC4TzigUViz4fihfHAGYDT4VEi7WQRkZ8qasdqrMQeo86lm2l0aidJCLEHL1EZh/s1549/Day%207%20Nostalgic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1549" data-original-width="1079" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0keQqygbVCrw2jzodXMxD-tAvDWtFLU4_LnmVaDa9DzLmZ2WnSBV4s9dcJg-eVqk44IrLKy1WVJST4kAFEA2TTGFi3pXsUsHLxeCX9d6zbT-aahMTZQL730QP8JC4TzigUViz4fihfHAGYDT4VEi7WQRkZ8qasdqrMQeo86lm2l0aidJCLEHL1EZh/w279-h400/Day%207%20Nostalgic.jpg" width="279" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Day 8: Poem 1: Prompt by @kavyajananipoetry: Write an 'after' for Margaret Atwood's 'Three Desk Objects'.</span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCXiIYt6z6QkSkzLOdIY69rm2SfQq-A51NBailCCM_pAOMkCSqSyU9EoxP-PN5Pgl-ZLzp3qWdHsimjMZkmga1QlPAH7L7-SuOrqlwVVxAc51fm3LCbxpc5bIZXx4cR3d9RN-ICmeZfO2LLiATsSN4leIsWkXG1VKX93eoSvcBLcIUcPCd8Cs6AS1i/s894/Day%208%20Atwood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="620" data-original-width="894" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCXiIYt6z6QkSkzLOdIY69rm2SfQq-A51NBailCCM_pAOMkCSqSyU9EoxP-PN5Pgl-ZLzp3qWdHsimjMZkmga1QlPAH7L7-SuOrqlwVVxAc51fm3LCbxpc5bIZXx4cR3d9RN-ICmeZfO2LLiATsSN4leIsWkXG1VKX93eoSvcBLcIUcPCd8Cs6AS1i/s320/Day%208%20Atwood.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Poem 2: Prompt by <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://napowrimo.net&source=gmail&ust=1650258152900000&usg=AOvVaw00AfhL_LH8gAjtxJzJt6Lc" href="http://napowrimo.net/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">napowrimo.net</a>: Write a poem about your alter-ego (funny because I have been watching Moon Knight and if my alter-ego ever wants to go on a crime-fighting spree as an avatar of am Egyptian deity, I would like them to kindly keep me in the loop so I wouldn't wake up in odd places). </span></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcsLXR6iGT3U43jen3ucTc5lrdjzqUYvp4Bh8e2qYEXwcrjCbpwJdM-3wXVnYo6tzG-DxdndSefIdf_ZcSwJsT2MS0jvUdAqHGvIoBr81JvFrkjjjbrEqaldzHDp4UL6ELDiUSKPydC0GLPHPN4zNXktFj-mfVmra5OfIloFiJbZDW1VGsFMyw9w49/s1078/Day%208%20Alter-Ego.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="908" data-original-width="1078" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcsLXR6iGT3U43jen3ucTc5lrdjzqUYvp4Bh8e2qYEXwcrjCbpwJdM-3wXVnYo6tzG-DxdndSefIdf_ZcSwJsT2MS0jvUdAqHGvIoBr81JvFrkjjjbrEqaldzHDp4UL6ELDiUSKPydC0GLPHPN4zNXktFj-mfVmra5OfIloFiJbZDW1VGsFMyw9w49/s320/Day%208%20Alter-Ego.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Day 9. Prompt from <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://napowrimo.net&source=gmail&ust=1650258152900000&usg=AOvVaw00AfhL_LH8gAjtxJzJt6Lc" href="http://napowrimo.net/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">napowrimo.net</a>: To write a #nonet : "a nonet has nine lines. The first line has nine syllables, the second has eight, and so on until you get to the last line, which has just one syllable.". Prompt from @kavyajananipoetry : To write an after to Neruda's 'You can cut the flowers, but cannot stop spring.' As I couldn't find the poem, I wrote a response to the first line. Also yeah, I got the date wrong on that screenshot.</span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfnIllF4Mfnp4GnxuHNeT2zkOcZyD-q62L8d52D1-K5zk-Nu5cTQdb0aNqiZITLB2y49lcPoUu1Fr1fXR_HRoHpjp0r_ktfWBB1Hu46Cr0LcXoxSda2j0mdh4_EvptIRAEUMGM7qvoC4bXQIP5Is2i5znfkx-QP8aR_yWYu6VPqoX63l2LgWe75IT4/s1004/Day%209.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="654" data-original-width="1004" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfnIllF4Mfnp4GnxuHNeT2zkOcZyD-q62L8d52D1-K5zk-Nu5cTQdb0aNqiZITLB2y49lcPoUu1Fr1fXR_HRoHpjp0r_ktfWBB1Hu46Cr0LcXoxSda2j0mdh4_EvptIRAEUMGM7qvoC4bXQIP5Is2i5znfkx-QP8aR_yWYu6VPqoX63l2LgWe75IT4/s320/Day%209.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: medium;">Day 10. Prompt from @kavyajananipoetry: Imagine you are a vending machine. What would you be vending? Prompt from <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://napowrimo.net&source=gmail&ust=1650258152900000&usg=AOvVaw00AfhL_LH8gAjtxJzJt6Lc" href="http://napowrimo.net/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">napowrimo.net</a>: write a love poem. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 19px; text-align: justify;">This is honestly one of my favourites, along with the day 13 poem.</span></p><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiz0gLVsIkhjnUJImThaDBFwhClbhHAEzvATNUD5cmBIVsQoZ_hmyCEXYVaLcxQxs8WQjKvOjkS1npLbanEYza6zBUKgZdsrOAJiG_JFC0xfMd66IQwRx3O7aqh6P4xkeiVr5bJjVSRyo6cqYEtFf9U6BB2E2kpaKB5l8lmW4MUamQgNMygqqbS53c/s1078/Day%2010%20love%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="936" data-original-width="1078" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiz0gLVsIkhjnUJImThaDBFwhClbhHAEzvATNUD5cmBIVsQoZ_hmyCEXYVaLcxQxs8WQjKvOjkS1npLbanEYza6zBUKgZdsrOAJiG_JFC0xfMd66IQwRx3O7aqh6P4xkeiVr5bJjVSRyo6cqYEtFf9U6BB2E2kpaKB5l8lmW4MUamQgNMygqqbS53c/s320/Day%2010%20love%20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 19px;"><br /></span></span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Day 11. Day 11. Poem 1. Prompt from <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://napowrimo.net&source=gmail&ust=1650258152900000&usg=AOvVaw00AfhL_LH8gAjtxJzJt6Lc" href="http://napowrimo.net/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">napowrimo.net</a>: To write a poem about something huge.</span><br /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPmLj_w5lknVyoOCZ8dc-GMxL9ZygVFNA2aYmZ5fM4DVAdlZocakZ7yOZuJtVn3H45D8aN3hCSanV_YD2blH_DhEW8cnNR4XaCDMaJIRKaI7IGlNN41JBg-A6E7FCAm2um3nqlKUVsFR83if_eaVS3SEqO-YUz13wk_rFTCRq_zxosGCUxZ1v7Si7m/s1236/Day%2011%20Iguasu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1236" data-original-width="1078" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPmLj_w5lknVyoOCZ8dc-GMxL9ZygVFNA2aYmZ5fM4DVAdlZocakZ7yOZuJtVn3H45D8aN3hCSanV_YD2blH_DhEW8cnNR4XaCDMaJIRKaI7IGlNN41JBg-A6E7FCAm2um3nqlKUVsFR83if_eaVS3SEqO-YUz13wk_rFTCRq_zxosGCUxZ1v7Si7m/s320/Day%2011%20Iguasu.jpg" width="279" /></a></div><br />Poem 2. Prompt from @kavyajananipoetry : write a foodie poem. This is a haiku because I wanted to keep it thought. I have realized I really more on thoughts and less on sensory impressions as a poet, perhaps I shall work on that at some point.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil66yobOnl2lxOS_8eRoZgukjrN_oNmmJCWzuauntwDJGzh8ExXn5shwbhiA5qswzz0wSnAEvqqXAjBat13IlYsASR_SMbaBYvEVhtpcqsEfc0lwVNrJ2dTT5wPB01Nm1Q0-Xe26_k33iMGvT41IXdGcC2XbVi6GrLPJ8EnU3zliBGwqMAzTkK8RZv/s710/Day%2011%20Food.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="402" data-original-width="710" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil66yobOnl2lxOS_8eRoZgukjrN_oNmmJCWzuauntwDJGzh8ExXn5shwbhiA5qswzz0wSnAEvqqXAjBat13IlYsASR_SMbaBYvEVhtpcqsEfc0lwVNrJ2dTT5wPB01Nm1Q0-Xe26_k33iMGvT41IXdGcC2XbVi6GrLPJ8EnU3zliBGwqMAzTkK8RZv/s320/Day%2011%20Food.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></span><br /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Day 12. Poem 1: Prompt from @kavyajananipoetry- a list of things that need fixing. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHzTtpDtI5UfWFO6qiSq2Ouy_Aelpc2eD4cf2tdToVt9-QVo1ptqR8fCI4-VIRn0XyzLBzeaHSs2596Otkjbd44JnjDxgGqFWRInkhWX1Kxx4mL6WsjK7wH_ldGnj4DdSLOou-Nuxcx_vCmYeXWLvxeVQRrK0lxtVTyUpaw7bevgcYdraUEMxQ6yHK/s1078/Day%2012%20List.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="636" data-original-width="1078" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHzTtpDtI5UfWFO6qiSq2Ouy_Aelpc2eD4cf2tdToVt9-QVo1ptqR8fCI4-VIRn0XyzLBzeaHSs2596Otkjbd44JnjDxgGqFWRInkhWX1Kxx4mL6WsjK7wH_ldGnj4DdSLOou-Nuxcx_vCmYeXWLvxeVQRrK0lxtVTyUpaw7bevgcYdraUEMxQ6yHK/s320/Day%2012%20List.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Poem 2: Prompt from napowrimo.net- a poem about something tiny. </span><br /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisXyp89vSisZ2jHKKJMu4VHTcxExDF2hofUWkWVA-DA7ws_mbmQV97n8yye0kFPti55clJxUkg9dceW0ow_B_F_VTX-obe8QyTq_d6pV7GZEVtKtZP3ALWUYrqjlvCfLaZamTcevCjTrEXNrskvCyNkJzE093jQZI8SkFVIvjKaIiYLmHCsltrMQ3G/s1078/Day%2012%20Tiny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="897" data-original-width="1078" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisXyp89vSisZ2jHKKJMu4VHTcxExDF2hofUWkWVA-DA7ws_mbmQV97n8yye0kFPti55clJxUkg9dceW0ow_B_F_VTX-obe8QyTq_d6pV7GZEVtKtZP3ALWUYrqjlvCfLaZamTcevCjTrEXNrskvCyNkJzE093jQZI8SkFVIvjKaIiYLmHCsltrMQ3G/s320/Day%2012%20Tiny.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Day 13. Ah, I got to combine the prompts again and this was deeply satisfying. Prompt from <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://napowrimo.net&source=gmail&ust=1650258152900000&usg=AOvVaw00AfhL_LH8gAjtxJzJt6Lc" href="http://napowrimo.net/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">napowrimo.net</a>, to write a poem that joyfully states that “Everything is Going to Be Amazing.” Sometimes, good fortune can seem impossibly distant, but even if you can’t drum up the enthusiasm to write yourself a riotous pep-talk, perhaps you can muse on the possibility of good things coming down the track. Prompt from @kavyajananipoetry- to write a piplikamadhya poem (consisting of unrhymed tercet stanzas consisting of 12-8-12 syllables).</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCzvmTuU7PZFXhe-2eFaPRn-fSdvI28ZbVM6yKB7oMt9IAxgak5AJSpUgWTIu_ZOppIFbjxTg_MkvlysOobwYStXm1bOstLYlQyAo7U1n3k3zKGWdQMY99Klo928zASQN0E8k5DMB4rynrDt9AC2zC1THNElfxSbLSUtbx1_w0dgwdtlpEabi60R3F/s1166/Day%2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1166" data-original-width="1078" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCzvmTuU7PZFXhe-2eFaPRn-fSdvI28ZbVM6yKB7oMt9IAxgak5AJSpUgWTIu_ZOppIFbjxTg_MkvlysOobwYStXm1bOstLYlQyAo7U1n3k3zKGWdQMY99Klo928zASQN0E8k5DMB4rynrDt9AC2zC1THNElfxSbLSUtbx1_w0dgwdtlpEabi60R3F/s320/Day%2013.jpg" width="296" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Day 14. Prompt from <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://napowrimo.net&source=gmail&ust=1650258152900000&usg=AOvVaw00AfhL_LH8gAjtxJzJt6Lc" href="http://napowrimo.net/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">napowrimo.net</a>: Write a poem describing the first scene of your biopic. Skipped Kavya's prompt because couldn't think of déja-vu moments. </span><br /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqEcY4QS_3RzqA7YKtTL5P3A9a3k8SMg_TaxOqKH5rSx0oj4He2BXvrTvcajWHg_yfFLvYk1c3waBGRiXerE0zMvYhVwZVRi-agL6cg4HRL_1DeM45MDDiXVvu0eipNQakZJTSfSwGxEThD06vNPuyNDRsWS3Z61cC5KrYiaGFH2k0mYgAoZJ6QYWQ/s956/Day%2014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="956" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqEcY4QS_3RzqA7YKtTL5P3A9a3k8SMg_TaxOqKH5rSx0oj4He2BXvrTvcajWHg_yfFLvYk1c3waBGRiXerE0zMvYhVwZVRi-agL6cg4HRL_1DeM45MDDiXVvu0eipNQakZJTSfSwGxEThD06vNPuyNDRsWS3Z61cC5KrYiaGFH2k0mYgAoZJ6QYWQ/s320/Day%2014.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />..</span><br /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Day 15. Poem 1, prompt from <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://napowrimo.net&source=gmail&ust=1650258152900000&usg=AOvVaw00AfhL_LH8gAjtxJzJt6Lc" href="http://napowrimo.net/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">napowrimo.net</a>: To write a poem about something you are not interested in. So I read this long article called 'Cryptocurrency for Dummies' and no, I still don't understand. I really didn't want to write this poem but I guess that was the challenge. <span style="height: 1.2em; width: 1.2em;"><img alt="🤣" aria-label="🤣" class="an1" data-emoji="🤣" loading="lazy" src="https://fonts.gstatic.com/s/e/notoemoji/14.0/1f923/32.png" style="height: 1.2em; vertical-align: middle; width: 1.2em;" /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjLSYtkwV6swNJjCdkYm9boIG1zkly0Lu5Z2MjXPBrBbHYrjMQro2MDBYKN5Ifon-AEKQtj1RGu-pnl7vPjLWHPdmsysY5g-BxMVBw6tlVl3BuAqEaGHK3TeKv45rMKL2v1So-DX2UnCBu8C9C86XHYjQeP8IUkvXtJ-TXlPypGoXjYP59S-1KB0fD/s1057/Day%2015%20Bitcoin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1057" data-original-width="928" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjLSYtkwV6swNJjCdkYm9boIG1zkly0Lu5Z2MjXPBrBbHYrjMQro2MDBYKN5Ifon-AEKQtj1RGu-pnl7vPjLWHPdmsysY5g-BxMVBw6tlVl3BuAqEaGHK3TeKv45rMKL2v1So-DX2UnCBu8C9C86XHYjQeP8IUkvXtJ-TXlPypGoXjYP59S-1KB0fD/s320/Day%2015%20Bitcoin.jpg" width="281" /></a></div><br /></span><br /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Poem 2, prompt from @kavyajananipoetry : To write a love-poem to your favourite word. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 19px;">I don’t know if I have a favourite word, but ‘longing’ is the first word that popped into my head when I read the prompt, and here we are.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR5e2mP9JbyRDHfAAbVi3kW1GNp_AJNZbn_4CJLr6Ivw1lLw34eI8glE5QK8J8m3lcS8ATwguq9eo52tSjZxJeqLKQiz0S7_fj1vFwmtXJ10t4lhjJxh7eJJ594s4yuzNoPrq99TVjorUpBFYx2xRMFiToyisrMSInvxEFnibpAckEK_rpbqMjRzip/s992/Day%2015%20Longing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="902" data-original-width="992" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR5e2mP9JbyRDHfAAbVi3kW1GNp_AJNZbn_4CJLr6Ivw1lLw34eI8glE5QK8J8m3lcS8ATwguq9eo52tSjZxJeqLKQiz0S7_fj1vFwmtXJ10t4lhjJxh7eJJ594s4yuzNoPrq99TVjorUpBFYx2xRMFiToyisrMSInvxEFnibpAckEK_rpbqMjRzip/s320/Day%2015%20Longing.jpg" width="320" /></a><p></p><p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><br /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Day 16. Prompt from <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://napowrimo.net&source=gmail&ust=1650258152900000&usg=AOvVaw00AfhL_LH8gAjtxJzJt6Lc" href="http://napowrimo.net/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">napowrimo.net</a>: To write a #curtalsonnet , which has 11 instead of 10 lines, the last line being shorter than the preceding 10. Prompt from @kavyajananipoetry : To write an #ekphrasticpoem inspired by one of the paintings from the National Gallery of Art. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2NxTWaYVhET2wQ6nh8v42nvWS-qMsGpHbv9GHsL3Nc6LpgMbZD1nFdTz2g5dweHScAR9Mgs6du9gKmO4Eh0tak_qUWOMqnHrTAEnDZDwMAodCci_SPlr6HhdzMICjRdSw1e8fqBdyINLT72b8PLIwk3pUiLflR2QQ2H5pQkUSSxYPKiDaEypW0JHO/s1078/Day%2016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="812" data-original-width="1078" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2NxTWaYVhET2wQ6nh8v42nvWS-qMsGpHbv9GHsL3Nc6LpgMbZD1nFdTz2g5dweHScAR9Mgs6du9gKmO4Eh0tak_qUWOMqnHrTAEnDZDwMAodCci_SPlr6HhdzMICjRdSw1e8fqBdyINLT72b8PLIwk3pUiLflR2QQ2H5pQkUSSxYPKiDaEypW0JHO/s320/Day%2016.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">The painting I chose was Classic Landscape by Charles Sheeler. I really struggled with Kavya's prompt because while I have written ekphrastic poems before, the artwork on display wasn't quite my type, which is to say, it didn't feel Romantic or evocative to me, even if I liked the art for itself. Had to do a second scroll past to discover Sheeler's landscape. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh88trRAawllKoJv3K04hHgpYqJxKMVjI6qx5vm18Bt7-oXrnDsuUsBKt_GZTtlDK7cDP8xcIsO-Am_nSOG_bS2dLMwpfOChRxuYBDYoMdzcCt9G8ew7WWuFAIPiau5swnUHlpAdnyGO_VI_jor8yMOjRqBwNcOkIxl0D2FqKAe44kbpjvnwB_9IbgG/s1134/Sheeler%20Landscape.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="1079" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh88trRAawllKoJv3K04hHgpYqJxKMVjI6qx5vm18Bt7-oXrnDsuUsBKt_GZTtlDK7cDP8xcIsO-Am_nSOG_bS2dLMwpfOChRxuYBDYoMdzcCt9G8ew7WWuFAIPiau5swnUHlpAdnyGO_VI_jor8yMOjRqBwNcOkIxl0D2FqKAe44kbpjvnwB_9IbgG/s320/Sheeler%20Landscape.jpg" width="304" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br />And here we are.</span><br /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 19px; text-align: justify;">And that’s me, halfway through my 5th National Poetry Writing Month Challenge.</span><span style="color: #7c7c7c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 19px; text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Something that seemed to have changed since I first started posting my poems on Instagram is the decline in engagement. Perhaps it's only happened to me, in which case I don't know what I am doing wrong. While I have never been particularly popular on social media, I remember getting more views during my first NaPoWriMo. Now, I can only depend upon a handful of regulars to read my work. On the other hand, as soon as I post a poem, or a song, I get at least 1 or 2 comments that go, "Hard DM @thewriterswarmth". During this April, I've had about 20 such comments and I blocked every single one of them. What's this about, then? When did Instagram become the platform where these 'promo' accounts get more engagement and more followers than the creators of the works whose work they use, and the creators actually pay them to share their work,to zero benefit for themselves. And then they have a shit ton of bot accounts who swarm like mosquitoes as soon as they smell the scent of a new poem, which is often within a second of the work being posted. Absolute energy vampires, this lot. And creative artists need to stop falling for their promises. Our work shared on their pages bring <i>them</i> traffic, not us. I just wish I could figure this whole promoting your work thing.</span><br /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Anyway, if you like my poems and would like to read more, please follow me on Instagram (<a href="https://www.instagram.com/ruchirarambles/" target="_blank">@ruchirarambles</a>). And if you would like to congratulate me for completing my PhD or just generally support me, please stream my EP, Timeline on Spotify or Apple or Tidal or Amazon. I know I recorded it in my bedroom on my phone, but anything can be listened to once, right? The links to all of these are on <a href="https://linktr.ee/RuchiraRambles" target="_blank">my linktree page</a>.</span><br /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Thank you for reading, and hope I'll be back soon.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p></div></div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-33879841587249280672022-01-24T01:23:00.001-08:002022-01-24T01:23:46.411-08:00Monday Musings<p> <span style="background-color: white; color: #7c7c7c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: justify;">I have a folder full of grading to do. Just the grading. Put a number against the white, no evaluation required. I am paid for my signature, not my opinion. I have four different excel sheets to fill up and I can’t bring myself to open my laptop. I keep wondering when you reach the breaking point. I keep wondering what tells the straw it’s the last one. What if the camel’s back gets so used to the pain it doesn’t realize when it finally breaks? Maybe it broke years ago and we just carry on out of habit like the coyote chasing the roadrunner across the air before it remembers to look down?</span></p><p class="has-text-align-justify" style="background-color: white; color: #7c7c7c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.875em; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: justify;"><br />So anyway, as an act of rebellion, I have been holding off listening to those voice messages and reading poetry instead. And there are words so simple, so casually written that shake you up. Like, how could they know? These strangers? And why couldn’t I write it? Or maybe we all wrote our poems and wove them into our collective dreams. And who knows, maybe someone has read them too. And one day, they will let us know.</p><p class="has-text-align-justify" style="background-color: white; color: #7c7c7c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.875em; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: justify;">So anyway, if you like the words I write here, maybe you will like the ones I turn into songs. Take my hand, stand by me, hear my song, isn’t that all we ask for?</p><p class="has-text-align-justify" style="background-color: white; color: #7c7c7c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.875em; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: justify;">(Timeline: EP by Ruchira Mandal is now streaming on all digital platforms. Links <a href="https://linktr.ee/RuchiraRambles" rel="noreferrer noopener" style="background-color: transparent; color: #0087be; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">here</a>. )</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidIUwiyIkMpnN2ZfXd-NVZEKukkBbuAQMsU6gjFijAv5imwpntKVC8xsYxUa2x3Dpj4FGgMT9IL1acmY7lpwkw4SfqaIhUxvDWSiKahUWtW5X-PJo2wdUvV5xMDp2DJOLq1XP-d38Vn6UaSaamXKbK7oVPrqb98NJ7VNTORNlj__dr_M_WhXesiN_N=s793" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="793" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidIUwiyIkMpnN2ZfXd-NVZEKukkBbuAQMsU6gjFijAv5imwpntKVC8xsYxUa2x3Dpj4FGgMT9IL1acmY7lpwkw4SfqaIhUxvDWSiKahUWtW5X-PJo2wdUvV5xMDp2DJOLq1XP-d38Vn6UaSaamXKbK7oVPrqb98NJ7VNTORNlj__dr_M_WhXesiN_N=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="has-text-align-justify" style="background-color: white; color: #7c7c7c; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; margin-bottom: 0.875em; overflow-wrap: break-word; text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-55013512748772137462021-12-20T09:42:00.005-08:002021-12-21T09:48:35.986-08:00The Anatomy of Waiting<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I’ve been
looking for things to say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have been
afraid of staring at blank pages. What if someday I have nothing to say
anymore? What if nothing I say interests anyone anymore? What if no one hears
me? What if they hear me and laugh at my naiveté? So what am I going to write
about?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Like most
of my recent posts, this too has been weeks and months in the making. I’ve been
running away from saying the things I want to say. What if I say too much?
Share too much? What if they laugh and roll their eyes, muttering about my
presumptions? What if no one says a damn thing and I fall through the
rabbit-hole of silence once again?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">On
some days, I listen to one song on loop, willing it to weave a story in my head
that transports me from my present. On other days, I run through my playlists,
discarding old favourites like a moody teenager picking at food, too distracted
to allow for the distraction of music and rhythm. Somebody perhaps I’ll sit
down and write songs again, feel the words coming for me like old friends.
Someday I’ll break this cycle of distraction and disappointment.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">All this is
nothing but the disconsolate ravings of a heart craving for stories. For in
stories we find somewhere to go home to, to someone to go home to, direction, a
purpose, a narrative fulfillment where things happen for a reason and nothing
is ever caught in the mire of nothingness and stasis. Unless you are Beckett,
of course. Then nothing happens twice, and keeps happening over and over again
as bicycle wheels go out of wind and hills grow steeper and no one knows where
the windows are anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">If I
thought less, perhaps it would be quieter inside my head. But we can’t all be
existentialist philosophers. If I roll my stone up the hill, there will be
music in the sound of the friction. It may not be much, but it carries my heart
in its notes. And maybe that’s reason enough to do it again. “Tomorrow night,
if the dreams come along, I’ll catch them all and spin up a song…”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">A part of
me wants to rail against the unfairness of nothing ever changing. The other
part chides me to remember all the changes within me, of the little steps I
have learned to take, and how different that makes me from who I used to be.
The first part quietens down, but not quite. But what’s the point, it whines,
if nothing changes on the outside? Did you make a sound in the forest? What is
more important, the tree or the one who saw it fall?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I wake up
every morning expecting a miracle that never comes. And the hands of the clocks
tick away, day rolling into another night of praying, leading to another morning
of hope, and days into weeks into months into years. Yet I never stop, because
without hope, what would be the point? And we carry on the days of sameness
shaping up into our ordinary lives. Yet the extraordinary happens, and when you
look back through the lens of years you see how today’s ordinary had seemed
impossible five years ago. Perhaps the external circumstances of your life
hasn’t changed so much, but you learned something, you failed at something, you
did it again, hey at least you tried! Isn’t that a miracle?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">For the
longest time, I’ve been living and repeating a cycle of hope and heartbreak. It
used to be my friends, movies, planned outings: waiting for something good to
happen, counting down to weeks and days to one afternoon of miraculous escape from
routine, only to return alone in the cold light of dusk, upstream in a street
of happy crowds, amongst people who all had somewhere to go, someone to be
with. There were books by beloved authors, but stories end as sure as they
begin, leaving you starved for more and more and more. Until you breathe, close
your eyes and take a leap of faith. And start creating your own stories.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I remember
the heady feeling of elation when my first poem was published. I remember too,
when my first story was published. The world, as they say, was an oyster, and I
wanted to do it again. I did too, a couple of times. And then the cycle
started. Attempt, hope, rejection, void. I remember pinning all my faith and
all my desires on one piece of submission, for weeks and months, only for it
all to end in nothing again. Then I decided that perhaps I didn’t have what it
took in me to write. Perhaps I wasn’t a poet after all. I didn’t sound like the
poets who were published in these journals, yet my language was my own and I
could not fake a voice that did not belong to me. And so, I didn’t have it in
me to be a poet. Old Man Eliot had talked about how the true poets were the
ones who continued to be poets beyond their twenty-fifth years, and I was
giving up, taking those words as further proof of what I didn’t have.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">My love for
writing started when I was fairly young, springing perhaps from my love of
reading and of stories, but also from the simple pleasure of putting words
together and watching something grow. Recognizing this, my mother entered me into an essay
contest when I was in Junior High School. The contest was in Bengali, and the
topic was the generic ‘Your Aim in Life’. While my mother meant well, there
were two problems with this situation. First, we hadn’t started essay-writing
in school yet so I knew nothing of the philosophical paraphernalia about
rudders and ships that was expected in this essay. Second, I wasn’t shaped yet,
not bothered by the relentless thoughts of significance and the truth of life,
so how could I write about my aim in life? It was a simpler time, not having to
think, not knowing to think, and the very thought of continuing through life
like that makes me gasp for air. Nevertheless, young, clueless me stared around
the room and clutched on the one thought that landed, and I wrote about how I
wanted to be a singer and how I needed to practice hard for that. So the good
thing that came out of that debacle was that my parents signed me for music
classes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I continued
to go those classes for around thirteen years, once a week, making friends,
learning things, but sometime during those years, I learned to hide in the
corners, recognized there were better singers than me and shifted my ambitions
back into expected academic lines. Thus when I quit my music lessons some six
years back because I couldn’t cope with adjusting the demands of my job and
showing up in class every week, I did so only with the slight regret of letting
go of a hobby that had overstayed anyway. It wasn’t as if I was going to be a
singer, I remember telling myself. I had a clearly defined career path as a
young academic, I loved my job and I was still yet to experience all the
existential questions about purpose and meaning.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">It took
about a year more for that rosy tint to fade. Then in the middle of 2017, I had
a breakdown of sorts. I functioned adequately on the outside so nobody really
saw how I had to drag myself out of bed every morning because I couldn’t bear
to go through another day but I did it anyway because the possibility of having
to explain was even more exhausting. I felt absolutely disconnected from
everyone. My life had run into a tight little box that was choking me out. And
I couldn’t bear to imagine the future stretching out before me, like the deserts
of futility. I only had a couple of temporary escapes, sleep and the book
(series) I was then reading- Neil Gaiman’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sandman</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I had then
recently rediscovered Gaiman and fallen in love in the second attempt. His
first work that I read was ‘The Problem of Susan’, probably in 2012 and while I
loved the story from Susan’s perspective, the end always creeped me out. But then
in early 2017, thanks to a book review of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American
Gods</i> by a Facebook friend, I went to the kindle store and looked up the
novel. And I think it changed my life. Not on the outside, perhaps, but that
single decision helped to widen my world just a little bit. That review was by Alex,
who had only become my friend because we were both in a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Percy Jackson</i> fan group. I had only got into Percy Jackson (and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Song of Ice and Fire</i>, for that matter)
because I wanted to expand my reading of fantasy literature for my MPhil
research. I had only got into MPhil without any sort of planning because a
friend called me out of the blue and asked me if I was going to apply because a
couple of universities had their forms out. Funny how life leads you,
sometimes. And that is why I am a big believer of synchronicity, and of little
things adding up.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">But anyway,
one evening in June 2017, in the middle of a silent breakdown I was pacing in
my room and I heard myself humming a song that I hadn’t heard before. Just a
couple of lines that went- ‘Give me tomorrow night/I’ll make things all
right/Sweet Lady Death, give me tomorrow night.’ I have no idea where that came
from, except for the Lady Death part, which certainly came from Sandman. I had
not planned on a songwriting career, ever. Even back in Junior High when I had
casually written an essay about becoming a singer, I didn’t think that singers
could write their own songs. The singers I had grown up listening to were not
songwriters. In my head, the singer was one person and the lyricist was a
different person and the music composer was a different person, names I had
read in all the inlay cards inside cassette cases. But I sat down and wrote
that song, now called ‘Tomorrow Night’, the third song of my debut EP, Timeline,
released just a couple of weeks ago. And since I didn’t know what to do with my
new song, I started doing a couple of other things. First, I told myself, if
nobody would publish me, I’ll write on my own blog. And second, I started doing
vocal workouts again. Thus my then defunct blog, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ruchira’s Ramblings</i> started its second innings on 16<sup>th</sup>
June, 2017, and by the end of the year, I had created my own YouTube channel,
uploading cover versions with the aim of ultimately singing my own songs.
Blogging led me to other friends, and in early 2018, inspired by one such friend,
I signed up for Airplane Poetry Movement’s ‘Write 100 Poems in a Year’
challenge in 2018, and a few weeks in, I started believing that I was a poet
after all. And last year, APM brought out its anthology titled ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Letter, A Poem, A Home</i>’ and I found a
place in it, right next to Rudy Francisco, no less. I know there are better
poets out there, and sometimes I read stuff I love so much that I almost regret
that I didn’t write it myself, but then, sometimes I revisit a poem of my own,
and I think, hey, I’m okay too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Last year,
Taylor Swift released not one but two albums, the second one, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Evermore</i> coming right after I had
(finally!!!) submitted my PhD thesis and what with the resultant vacuum, the
lyrics about feeling unmoored in December somewhat hit home. And I very, very
naively thought, what does it take to make an album? How many songs? How do you
release them? By the end of 2020, I had written around six songs in bits and
pieces, only two of which- Timeline and Flying are actually in the current EP.
By January, I had my research completed. I knew how many minutes it took to
make an EP and how to get your songs distributed. And then I waited. I recorded
and deleted songs because I hated how I sounded. I couldn’t figure out what to
do about the music because I did not have an orchestra or even a keyboard or a
guitar and I knew my ukulele strumming was less than perfect. I wrote another
song called ‘Everybody Gets a Little Tired’, decided to dig ‘Tomorrow Night’
out of the archives and shelved some of the songs I had originally written for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Timeline</i>. Recorded and deleted again.
Then I had covid at the end of May. It was pretty mild, but it put my voice out
of action for a couple of months. From mid-July to the end of August we were
dealing with the online examinations of five different semesters and I could
probably write a whole different blog post (or several posts) on that subject
except the thought of it makes me want to curl up and cry. By early September,
classes for the new semesters had begun. I was growing increasingly desperate,
frustrated and furious at my own failure. More recordings were made and
deleted. The last song, ‘Thinking of You’ was written on a whim just a week
before the final recordings, and I thought, bugger it, I am not going to make a
perfect album with my current time and resources, so let’s just get on with it,
shall we?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">If a tree
falls in the forest, and nobody is around to hear it, does it make a sound?
Depends on how the tree feels about it, doesn’t it? Okay, wrong analogy there. If
nobody watches a hatchling take its first flight, the wind still rushes beneath
its wings. My point is, sometimes we are chasing dreams not for the world but
for ourselves. To tell ourselves we can do it. To teach ourselves we can do it.
And those are our little miracles.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I keep
listening to tarot readings hoping they will tell me something new. I keep
falling asleep hoping the world will be different in the morning. I keep
scrolling through my timeline searching for something I’m not quite sure of. I
keep weaving symbols into thin air and meanings unto symbols. Perhaps I am
becoming a mad woman. Someone once told me I’d die a crazy cat lady. I don’t
have cats. I’ve never been drunk except on joy, on little moments and words I
could relive for eternity. 60 streams become 71 in a day, then 74, 78, and then
another leap to 90, and I look at listeners from Philippines, Vietnam, Germany,
the USA and count my little blessings. Thank you.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Someday in
the future all of this will make sense. The waiting for magic, the anxiety and
the disappointment and the steady slipping away of time–it will all lead to a
magnificent homecoming. Isn’t that what all the stories say? The stories we
bond over, the stories we kill for, the stories we define ourselves by, the
stories that make us who we are: they all promise a reward at the tunnel’s end,
a happy ending.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">If I
refresh my feed enough times, will it be already time for the new episode, the
new movie, the new-whatever-I-use-to-fill-up-the-pages-of-my-days? My hours
slip away like I’m constantly crossing time zones to the East, trying to create
sunrises out of despair. What next? What now?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">And in
desperation for an answer, I’ve put my imperfect but honest songs into an EP (I
learned this term while researching album technicalities) and sent them out
into the world. My heart and my voice are all I have. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Wishing a
very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all of you. May 2022 bring out the
magic within us. Happy Holidays.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Timeline: EP</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> is now streaming on <a href="https://open.spotify.com/album/79JkxmiIUE9feDBmPyd8um" target="_blank">Spotify</a>,
<a href="https://geo.music.apple.com/in/album/_/1594825011?mt=1&app=music&ls=1" target="_blank">Apple</a>, <a href="https://geo.music.apple.com/in/album/_/1594825011?mt=1&app=itunes&ls=1" target="_blank">iTunes</a>, <a href="https://music.amazon.in/albums/B09LMHGY28?" target="_blank">Amazon Prime</a>, <a href="https://listen.tidal.com/album/204755312" target="_blank">Tidal</a>, <a href="https://gaana.com/artist/ruchira-mandal" target="_blank">Gaana</a>, <a href="https://play.anghami.com/song/1034096077" target="_blank">Anghami</a>, and a bunch of other places, available on my <a href="https://linktr.ee/RuchiraRambles" target="_blank">Linktree </a>page. Let
me know what you think.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUkS-1wI-4NeXfRLUc0908smoHGYkECTK4HrdQvDewbvGg0vjLKxs1NxUZx19nQs2wSNWZgdVuDJ7gf7yM8nHawnjsVhNtWYbJ2SewceHka-21h2N0Nlyujk2D-xhTu1ZOyxMywnzONPv4ZjcCvijrkfAaqekk2_EVZUMWxVD6yWvued1g8BlMhTsK=s251" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="201" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUkS-1wI-4NeXfRLUc0908smoHGYkECTK4HrdQvDewbvGg0vjLKxs1NxUZx19nQs2wSNWZgdVuDJ7gf7yM8nHawnjsVhNtWYbJ2SewceHka-21h2N0Nlyujk2D-xhTu1ZOyxMywnzONPv4ZjcCvijrkfAaqekk2_EVZUMWxVD6yWvued1g8BlMhTsK=w320-h400" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-30416974571463533132021-10-21T06:52:00.004-07:002021-10-21T06:52:34.932-07:00When I Fear I May Cease To BeIsn't the Mercury Retrograde over yet? Everything seems suspended in a strange sort of stasis. We return to our lives that used to be with the shadow of a fear. I just want us all to be happy again.
In the room where I got my vaccine doses, the lights on the ceiling were soft and dreamy, and the rows of cushioned chairs slanted down a steady slope. I looked around and realized we were in a movie theatre, although the screen was covered up by the make-shift cubicles where the nurses met the unvaccinated. The realization hit me like a slow ache, bringing back memories of movie dates and lunches and friends I hadn't seen in ages.
When our biggest festival came round, I spent the time in my room, flipping through facebook memories, recollecting a decade's worth of plannings and anticipations and picking out dresses and mad traffic and melancholy evening goodbyes.
This is an old bereavment of mine, this traveling home after a happy hour or two, the crowd somehow always flowing opposite, a happy stream from which I am alienated, because I had left my world behind.
Vacations end, and we return to the grind, from home or otherwise. Except, I don't know what I am doing anymore, and why. What purpose do I serve in the grand scheme of things? Birth, fill up the data sheets, death, is that it? Is it too much of a <i>mauvaise foi</i> to imagine that things ought to mean something? That there are living hearts and minds behind the data, and they ought to count? Do they count? Am I just stupid?
Things that I fear- that I shall die turning this futile cycle and it will amount to not a single damn thing. That I will never hug a friend again. That the magic mail will never arrive. That I will pour out all the love in my heart and they will just be words among words– funny shaped scribbles against the blank.
All of this means nothing anyway. I think I have forgotten to write. Maybe it would be easier if I felt it less. I dunno. Who reads this anyway? Why? Do I ever make sense to you?
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-68354233483755205372021-07-03T11:08:00.003-07:002021-07-03T20:28:15.538-07:00Anniversaries & Anxieties<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">16<sup>th</sup> June, 2021</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">. Bloom’s Day. I mark the date
because it’s my blog-anniversary. This is my space to think aloud without
judgment and prudent advice, to ramble my heart out, to find my way as all who
wander lost may someday find theirs. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">It’s been a
strange world, a strange time. Where would you wander when paths were closed?
And the people died, without help, without love, without dignity. And the world
carried on, in light that was always eight minutes late, as moments turned into
memories, as memories faded into dull, half-forgotten heartaches, as all aches
blurred into the fog of the blank spaces. And the light was always eight
minutes late. We woke, opened our eyes, saw the world in delayed light, tried
to make sense of it all, and no wonder we got it all wrong. When the darkness
came, we looked up and said our prayers, pinning all our hopes on God. “Move
him into the sun”, we said. And God was eight minutes late.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I wonder,
if tomorrow, in some moment of inexplicable cosmic mystery, the sun exploded,
what would happen to us? Would the earth shift first, or the warmth? Or would
we have eight minutes of borrowed light from a dead star? I’m sure the
astrophysicists know. Perhaps we would be long gone before the sun. I am just
thinking aloud, like I always do.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Someday,
this will all be over. We shall pick up the pieces and walk out in the sun,
again. Someday again we shall touch each other, letting the wind lift our hair
off our faces as we run to embrace long-lost friends. Or maybe, we shall sit
down to grieve, in silence, and those of us who survive shall avert our eyes,
swallow our words and know the guilt of the living. And then we will move on,
because that’s what we do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We shall live
like we have lived before, longing for the stars, dreaming of the skies, and
yearning for love. We shall survive. We hope. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd4zZRaEQe1qaY-FFsPFX9C1g0XWX8-aEDf5bStmYqLNyBs6ua1RMpfBONDFR0t5aewQOukHSJpz_sSKUdSnXkZw3S20V5wet_-QquoGYCxnD6XuLOKNkFBEQA6Dp_qDcJjs1yFdPvsh4/s2048/rohit-ghadge-kDImw8j8Iyo-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd4zZRaEQe1qaY-FFsPFX9C1g0XWX8-aEDf5bStmYqLNyBs6ua1RMpfBONDFR0t5aewQOukHSJpz_sSKUdSnXkZw3S20V5wet_-QquoGYCxnD6XuLOKNkFBEQA6Dp_qDcJjs1yFdPvsh4/s320/rohit-ghadge-kDImw8j8Iyo-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rohit Ghadge via Unsplash.com</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">17<sup>th</sup> June, 2021</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">. I have to put down words for the
blog, and I have run out of things to say. Not that I don’t have thoughts
crawling to come out, but some of it is political with a chance of provoking
ugliness, and some of it is perhaps too specific for the general tone of
this blog. For instance, my feelings about the approaching series of deadlines
for yet another cycle of semester end formalities and the futile pile of
paperwork and intense, joyless screen-time that comes with it, feelings I have
expressed quite thoroughly in my <a href="https://magicnmiranda.blogspot.com/2021/05/the-data-cycle-teaching-on-cbcs-syllabi.html" target="_blank">article </a>about my teaching life for the blog
section of the academic journal, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sanglap</i>.
As the meetings pile up and the dates advance, I increasingly feel this
overwhelming inclination to hide away in a bubble where none of it can reach
me, coupled with the slightly paradoxical, mild anxiety to resume my classes
and complete my assigned syllabi, something that I have been unable to do for
weeks now thanks to a mild visit from the Covid19 virus.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Should I
even be writing about this stuff? Do I even have the right to complain when
people I know are fighting for their lives? A sort of guilt weighs me down,
interwoven with gratitude for my own survival. Gratitude and guilt, guilt and
gratitude, fear of what’s to come, anxiety for what might come, turning away
from the newsfeed, feeling even greater need for the respite of a bubble. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">18<sup>th</sup> June, 2021.</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> Slept off the whole day. Had cups
of hot tea. Coughing bout in the evening after receding for a day. This thing
doesn’t seem to go away.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">19<sup>th</sup> June, 2021.</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> I remember looking at the windows
of patisseries on happier days, looking at chocolate boats and blueberry
muffins with you. I remember the madness of reckless laughter in the stolen
weekends of our exhausting schedules. Was that in another lifetime? Then why
does the exhaustion remain while the laughter feels so remote?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I remember
days that felt like adventures, Sunday afternoons walking through empty
by-lanes of an old, sleepy city that felt so different from the rush-hour
hustle of our weekday routes that it almost felt like I was someone else, some
character in a book I would enjoy reading. We could have found a dragon egg
that day, or an infinity stone. I wish we had. Perhaps we did, in an alternate
timeline.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">30<sup>th</sup> June, 2021.</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> Ooh, long break! I ended up not
marking Blooms Day on the blog this year after all. Part of it was because I
had just posted on the 13<sup>th</sup> and didn’t want to change the link in my
Instagram bio so quickly. That’s my second problem with Instagram, they don’t
allow links in the posts themselves. (The first one will always be
photo-cropping. Ugh!) But the other reason why I didn’t have a Blooms Day post
this year was because I didn’t seem to have things to say to warrant an entire
post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve always been afraid of that,
that someday I wouldn’t be able to come up with a new blog post, someday I will
be all out of poetry, someday I will not know what songs to write. It’s why I
announced renewing the blog on Facebook back in 2017. I thought if I made a
public declaration of it, I would be compelled to motivate myself to keep on
writing. Not that it works that way. Social Media is both distracting and
distracted, and it has a rather short term memory. No one would have minded if
I had not posted anything in 2017 after the FB announcement, no one did mind
when I took a hiatus last year to finish writing my thesis, and no one will
mind if I go off again, I think. No one except me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The voice
inside my head that will go crazy trying to figure out the purpose of going on
from day to day without making a mark. And when I am done writing, that same
voice will ask the point of writing something that nobody reads. But I’ve
always found the flow of words a goal in itself, even without a tangible
meaning. Terry Pratchett once said we were trying to understand the mystery of the
universe with the aid of a system of signs and sounds that was designed to
communicate where the best fruits were, and thus we forever fall short of our
intended meanings. Who knows the meaning of all that I ramble here? I certainly
don’t! Yet words are all we have, to see and understand and love one another,
picking a clue here, etching a pattern there, weaving a design. And isn’t that
beautiful? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">2<sup>nd</sup> July, 2021.</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> Birthday month. The onset of July
brings me mixed feelings these days. One gets old, you see. Old and tired and
disillusioned and wondering if one is too late for miracles. But one enjoys
feeling special for a day, nevertheless. Chocolates and cakes and birthday
greetings. The anticipation for the little wishes that make you feel good, the
unexpressed hope for a little sprinkle of miracle from the universe that never
comes. Or maybe it does. I am alive, still dreaming, still hoping, and that’s
something, isn’t it? City of stars, are you shining just for me? Just a little
bit? Could you maybe give me a hint?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Thus I move
from one beginning to another, from a blog-anniversary to my own turn round the
sun. So many lessons, so many renewals, it’s got to take me somewhere, right?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">3<sup>rd</sup> July, 2021.</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> Back when we travelled, I would sit
by the train window and look at little roads disappearing into places I never
learned the names of. Where were the roads going? Where could I go, if I followed
the road?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Sometimes
in strange towns I have crossed twilight streets beneath a magic lamp,
half-expecting to run into you. And maybe you were there, just a little early.
Or late. Perhaps we were both there, or will be. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wibbly-wobbley, timey-wimey stuff</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj33ocrhVob0R7g0s5BUORAAdBEt5P5cOSRrOcotemo_T5RgxAkbuhDCbARlSXsBR3pdkM8Ld2W-QNvDZptt4CyDTHLCNDJ9aiFcgNEOcb8qQZGL5TPL_1TWD7XRxGQ2ra_YRLCIwtLkFI/s2048/majid-rangraz-IPMaxeoHXi4-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1266" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj33ocrhVob0R7g0s5BUORAAdBEt5P5cOSRrOcotemo_T5RgxAkbuhDCbARlSXsBR3pdkM8Ld2W-QNvDZptt4CyDTHLCNDJ9aiFcgNEOcb8qQZGL5TPL_1TWD7XRxGQ2ra_YRLCIwtLkFI/s320/majid-rangraz-IPMaxeoHXi4-unsplash.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Majid Rangraz via unsplash.com </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>… All the immense<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">images in me—the far-off,
deeply-felt landscape,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">cities, towers, and bridges,
and un-suspected turns in the path,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">and those powerful lands
that were once<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">pulsing with the life of the
gods—all rise within me to mean<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">you, who forever elude me.-
Rainer Maria Rilke<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">My social media handles:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/RuchiraRambles/" style="font-size: 12pt;" target="_blank">Facebook</a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><a href="https://twitter.com/RucchiraM?s=09" target="_blank">Twitter</a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/ruchirarambles/" target="_blank">Instagram</a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><a href=" https://www.youtube.com/user/mirandatook" target="_blank">YouTube</a><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Blogger is doing away with the email subscription system in some months
so you might want to consider following this blog on <a href="https://ruchirasrambling.wordpress.com/">Wordpress</a>.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-59631164708284844622021-06-12T10:58:00.000-07:002021-06-12T10:58:10.035-07:00A Game with Time<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEz8LZv3dxpiIzkxZb1kL8Fqi8Bl2yL5Oz0cCShr-vW_plBi9sBM5Fp1IRLz7jM_z1wZitAva-W4PN5mgPw15TTBTj6pRiqHZRes1088GLEEjTVtUlvRYZt7ujgOAKKt0LxTCM9sLx4mw/s2048/brett-jordan-UiSLNUxH7sM-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEz8LZv3dxpiIzkxZb1kL8Fqi8Bl2yL5Oz0cCShr-vW_plBi9sBM5Fp1IRLz7jM_z1wZitAva-W4PN5mgPw15TTBTj6pRiqHZRes1088GLEEjTVtUlvRYZt7ujgOAKKt0LxTCM9sLx4mw/s320/brett-jordan-UiSLNUxH7sM-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><strong style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; text-align: justify;"><br /></strong><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">For the past several months since
my thesis submission, I’ve made a few attempts to return to this blog. Here’s
what those attempts look like. This is not where I am right now, although
perhaps I am a little bit or it wouldn’t take so long to finish this piece and
get back to these pages. But mainly, I would like this to remain as a record of
a mindscape, if that makes sense. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">December 2020<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">So, *deep breath*, I just submitted
my doctoral thesis on Mervyn Peake’s <i>Gormenghast
</i>novels. When I submitted my MPhil thesis (on the politics of secondary
fantasy worlds) some seven and a half years ago, the most overwhelming emotion
I remember feeling was relief to have finished, seconded only by a strong
desire to never, ever read my thesis again– I was that sick of it. I eventually
got over that second feeling and over the last few years I have gone and
re-read bits and pieces of it, but I don’t think I’ve ever done a full read. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I got into the PhD programme around
a year after submitting my MPhil thesis. I had been a UGC-NET JRF at JUDE and I
needed to enroll in PhD to be able to keep my fellowship. But I was intimidated
by the prospect, and I just couldn’t come up with a research question that was
good enough for my supervisor. I thought then that I would feel the same kind
of relief when I submitted my PhD thesis as I did when I submitted for my
MPhil, that I would feel just happy to be done with this thing. Nobody had told
me that I would feel so… adrift. Which brings us here.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I have been trying to work out why
I feel so differently about the two submissions. It was not that I didn’t love
the subject of my MPhil thesis. I did. I still do. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">All of a sudden I don’t seem to
have a purpose anymore. The work I do, it’s not mine. The work I want to do, I
somehow can’t seem to manage. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">All my days and all my nights I
find myself longing for that one thing. The thing I can’t name. The thing I‘m
not sure is real. May be I’m just a little funny in the head.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">January 2021<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Well, it has been a while. I began
this blog back in December, right after I submitted my thesis. Then I couldn’t
write. Then I thought I would take a couple of weeks and then bid the year
goodbye. But, I still couldn’t write. Then I was going to come back for the New
Year, but I didn’t want to write. And besides, I was too tired.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">February 2021<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">And here we go again.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Days rolling in an endless tumble
of same old nothingness. Words I think of in my head that dissipate like
morning dreams when I hold my pen, sketchy plans I am afraid to work on- of
what, I’m not sure.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I mean, if I fail, I remain where I
am, where I already am by doing nothing. But then, as long as I haven’t tried,
the possibility remains alive. If I try and fail, it’s gone.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Am I so very wrong for seeking
purpose? Everybody lives and dies and everything that’s wrong with the world
keeps on happening yet what can I do? Am I so very mad for wanting to be happy?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Looks like February isn’t going to
be my writing month either.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">But I’ve been lately thinking about
who I am. On Twitter in particular, and in life in general. My bio reads- Nerd,
Fangirl, Academic. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">May 2021<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Nerd, fangirl and academic. That’s
where I stopped last time. I think it’s cool being a nerd, it gives me a
multitude of universes to play with inside my head, and it helps me connect
with others with a shared platform. The ones calling for social media platforms
limited by borders just don’t get it. I joined Twitter to follow Harry Potter
actors, to participate in #FlashFictionFriday, to follow MCU accounts and calls
for paper on #AcademicTwitter. My Instagram feed is a mix of Doctor Who,
Merlin, Sherlock, Percy Jackson, HP and Marvel memes. Some food and travel,
some fashion, because everybody needs a little TLC. What on earth would I do on
Koo? Who would I talk to? The other day I panicked and downloaded three years’
worth of Instagram poetry. Which was probably wise to do in retrospect, even if
not immediately necessary. I ought to keep back-ups of these things.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">June 2021<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Yeah, downloaded all my poetry from
Instagram. At least, I hope I did. Did I miss something?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">And I took more than half a year to
gather my thoughts. I wonder why that is. The world has been a mess, of course.
People you know falling sick. Then I falling sick myself. But that was only
last month.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The thing is, for a long time now,
I have sought safety in classrooms- actual physical ones as well as the idea of
it as in finishing a course/thesis. I suppose because the classroom offers this
comforting sense of being in progress, still learning, still growing, still
becoming. Without it, I’m only the societal labels ascribed to me, and I’m
suddenly left to find a direction without anyone teaching me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">And the world goes around the
mulberry bush and drags you with it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Do you want to run?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">But where to?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">No one’s given me a syllabus. Or a
deadline. Yet every today that passes on just like yesterday leads me to an
ominous tomorrow of nothingness, and I ask myself, what ought I do? What am I
doing wrong? What am I not doing? How do I go wherever I want to go? Is there a
somewhere to go? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p><strong style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; text-align: justify;"><br /></strong></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF3Zd9RlR-JHa5wyuMaeDr1KNv2hyJ6xxpNp-4jlqC84KgSRkYyeUkL6H_uINh7B89qbAQCD-LKZW-5koNXUu2Jsn2OsXKPWwbcNh_-Ax0plChqk6r5HVsOB5K1BKfwVxH-Qt164z4qAI/s2048/brett-jordan-YEDq63E_psU-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF3Zd9RlR-JHa5wyuMaeDr1KNv2hyJ6xxpNp-4jlqC84KgSRkYyeUkL6H_uINh7B89qbAQCD-LKZW-5koNXUu2Jsn2OsXKPWwbcNh_-Ax0plChqk6r5HVsOB5K1BKfwVxH-Qt164z4qAI/s320/brett-jordan-YEDq63E_psU-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><strong style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; text-align: justify;">©</strong><span style="background-color: white; color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; text-align: justify;">Ruchira Mandal. Photographs by Brett Jordan via Unsplash.com</span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Follow me on other media:</span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://twitter.com/RucchiraM?s=09" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Twitter</span></a></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/RuchiraRambles/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Facebook</span></a></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/ruchirarambles/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Instagram</span></a></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/user/mirandatook" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">YouTube</span></a></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://ruchirasrambling.wordpress.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Alternate Blog</span></a></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-22711450644067928352021-05-28T10:00:00.006-07:002021-11-28T01:06:23.835-08:00The Data Cycle: Teaching on the CBCS Syllabi during the Pandemic<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"> <span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="font-size: 14px;">Published: 04/05/2021 on <a href="https://sanglap-journal.in/index.php/sanglap/outoftheblox" target="_blank">Out of the Blox: Sanglap Journal</a></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-F2NCmoPb4Yeo_WmsATyMLPEaLLTAAr_rIW2_Sy0UR0LlH8p9UklbCQVmEW8oVfZk42C12gm9eGSTyq1IKJQPjK278RenRfo2gNH5oITvUDtKiu4fgnm04-UE8icFszkpvneAQNIzjFA/s774/paperwork.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="581" data-original-width="774" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-F2NCmoPb4Yeo_WmsATyMLPEaLLTAAr_rIW2_Sy0UR0LlH8p9UklbCQVmEW8oVfZk42C12gm9eGSTyq1IKJQPjK278RenRfo2gNH5oITvUDtKiu4fgnm04-UE8icFszkpvneAQNIzjFA/s320/paperwork.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #444444; color: #f3f3f3; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span color="rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.87)" face=""Open Sans", sans-serif" style="background-color: #444444; color: #f3f3f3; font-size: 14px;">‘Why am I doing this? What am I changing? Am I doing any good at all?’ In my professional teaching career in Higher Education of over six years, I have often found myself confronted with these questions. </span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px; margin: 20px 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">As I sit here almost regretting my hasty promise to Arunima to write this piece, I am drowning in a virtual whirlpool of overlapping exam schedules, batch-wise email addresses, and timings and uploading to portals, and the only thing that I can say with any certainty about my experience as a college teacher under WBES during the pandemic academic year is that we are woefully understaffed. Not simply for the online mode of examination, but also for the new (running on its third year now) <a href="https://ugc.ac.in/pdfnews/8023719_Guidelines-for-CBCS.pdf" style="box-sizing: border-box;">CBCS system</a>, with its ambitiously wide syllabus and its multiple-component examination scoring system. This becomes increasingly apparent as we advance further into the system, with higher semesters unfolding and new batches coming in, leading to multiple semesters running simultaneously which results in a constant rush to meet multiple deadlines.</span></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px; margin: 20px 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">In 6+ years of college teaching, as a teacher of English literature, I have drawn the following inferences:</span></span></p><ol style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><li style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Students who have scored above ninety percent in English in their school-leaving examinations often struggle to construct simple sentences in English. While this is not true of all students, the number is still significant enough to raise questions on the state of English learning in school. So where does the rot lie? My money is on the increasingly general tendency to make education a scoring system rather than a system that focuses on what the pupils actually learn. A common rebuff I hear these days is that one needn’t learn the colonizer’s language to be deemed educated or respectable. True enough, but that doesn’t explain why a student aiming to take up English language and literature as a bachelor’s degree course is unsure about the basic grammar of the language. And if this is what happens in one subject, one can’t help but wonder about the gap between scoring and learning in other subjects as well.</span></span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Something of that mindset is carried over in the CBCS system where all the extra columns of data contribute to making scoring marks easier but without any scope of originality of thought and analysis. Don’t get me wrong. I am not against students scoring marks, seeing that I was one not so long ago, but I am exhausted by the endless cycle of reading made-to-order essays and compiling more and more data. Compile, upload, save, print, repeat. It’s an endless cycle.</span></span></li><li style="box-sizing: border-box; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">The CBCS system is, on paper, a more flexible system. But it does not take into consideration the disparity across India in student-teacher ratio and student demography, nor is the individual college teacher given any autonomy in designing their courses and assignments. During the early days of lockdown last year, before the official directives for online classes came in, I experimented with assigning out of syllabus short stories and poems to my tutorial group, asking them to write their responses. At least sixty percent made an attempt to come up with original responses, making grading a more joyous experience than it usually is. A system where departments/teachers are given more autonomy could actually encourage students to learn to express their own ideas rather than reproduce the learned by rote material of guidebooks. On the whole, I don’t think our education system is designed to make students think. As a result, we get the same rehashed material in the form of thousand-word essays submitted as projects. Producing a redundant cycle of grading and uploading of marks causing increasing disillusionment and constant exhaustion.</span></span></li></ol><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px; margin: 20px 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">On a related note, I was privileged enough to not only have parents who enjoyed reading and inculcated that love in me, but also to go to schools that actively encouraged reading in the form of a weekly library class in the routine. When I was a school student, everybody read. Even friends who later on went on to study engineering and medicine. And they continue to read today. While in my classes I encounter an increasing number of literature students who don’t read. Neither in their mother tongues nor in the language they professedly ‘love’ enough to come and seek a Bachelor’s or Master’s degree in. As a student of literature myself, I have a naïve faith in the power of fiction to inculcate empathy, understanding, and imagination, the therapeutic ability to create one’s own inner world – qualities I believe are needed in today’s divided world. It’s unfortunate that this finds no place in anyone’s election manifesto, but we need more libraries. Instead, we get ballot-politics-driven cosmetic surgery of the education sector to garner quick brownie points– more colleges (without infrastructure), superficial syllabus changes, and the supposed choice-based credit system. </span></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px; margin: 20px 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Under the CBCS system, all core and general papers have three components (four, when you count attendance but as a saving grace the University has been giving full attendance to everyone in lockdown) - internal assessment, tutorial, and theory. In the offline system, the teachers upload marks for attendance, internals, and tutorials. In the online mode, the attendance component has been replaced by theory/end semester exams which are now held online and arranged by the colleges/departments. The process for uploading these marks for all these different components is complicated. First, one must generate foil numbers for each of these components from the examination portal- generally one foil number per component per batch of students, but for bigger batches, there are often two or three or more foil numbers for every single component. Next, one must enter the subject and paper code for each component to make the marks entry. Then enter the details again to verify. And then enter the details for a third time to generate the statement of marks. This process is repeated for every single foil. Even without network crashes, which are frequent, uploading data for a single department might take two or three hours. The OTP for log-in is sent to a single phone registered to the institution, which means some 19 departments with one phone between them are trying to upload details of 50+ components (per department) in the limited period when the portal is open. At the end of the ordeal, one wonders why one studied literature (or anything) at all!</span></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px; margin: 20px 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Ironically, in offline/non-quarantine mode, the supposedly digital CBCS system generates more paperwork than the previous system. While earlier an examiner filled up one big mark sheet per paper, also signed by the scrutineer, now there are the foil numbered sheets for each of the 2 or three components per paper, duly filled in and signed, and an equal number of portal generated statements for the examiner. And the scrutineer generates their own set. What with frequent server crashes, network glitches, and the disparity in teacher-student ratio, it seems to me that we have adopted a system we are not equipped for, demographically or technologically.</span></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px; margin: 20px 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">I did a quick math for our upcoming exams as I was writing this, and we have 37 components of marks to upload to the university portal at the end of March, and the number could go up to 58 if the university office splits up our two longer batches into separate foils. If this all sounds a bit technical for an article about teaching experience, it’s because the teaching part seems now to be subsumed by endless, redundant cycles of technicalities.</span></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px; margin: 20px 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">That last observation holds true in other areas of the job as well. For the last four years, my college has been preparing for National Assessment And Accreditation Council. Same data, different formats. Sent to X. Re-formatted and sent to Y. Edited and sent to Z. Sent to X again in a completely new format. And on and on the data cycle repeats. Because at the end of the day, what counts is not creativity, but data. One of my 2020 work-from-home highlights was converting above seventy documents from PDF to word files and then renaming them in the course of an evening. On the plus side though, I’ve learned all the MS Excel stuff that three years of actual clerical work for the Jadavpur University Department of English BA admissions didn’t teach me.</span></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px; margin: 20px 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">I was a bookish nerd as a student. I enjoyed going to college, sitting in the classes, watching my teachers open whole new worlds every day. I had assumed that the experience from the opposite side would also be as magical. But now, 6 years in, I find myself increasingly mired in a cycle of data and paperwork, and more paperwork. The CBCS system was supposed to make education more flexible. We have Honours papers broken into internal assessments and tutorials now, but all that they have come to mean is just more columns in the datasheet. Mechanically grading projects that are merely repetitions of the same old questions that have been asked. And a part of me can’t help but think- it would be fun to have a theatre workshop as a tutorial for the Shakespeare paper instead of writing the same rehashed thousand-word essay. But where is the time for that when we are speeding to meet university decreed deadlines? After all, what’s the material value of a theatre or a poetry workshop? Instead, the ‘project’ has become another exercise in the familiar book-learning dead-end. Perhaps one reason for this state of affairs is the imposing of the ‘science’ model on all disciplines, without taking into account the course objectives. The tutorial is after all the Arts stream’s substitute for the ‘Practical’ component in the science disciplines. This tendency spills over in other areas of academia as well. The requirements of promotion for college teachers involves, among other things, the stringent accounting for time spent inside classrooms, not heeding the time spent preparing for lessons or out-of-classroom interactions. The same tendency to quantify what are essentially qualitative concerns is seen in one of the criteria of NAAC, which tries to assess the mentor-mentee relationship and the quality of student counselling through MCQ surveys. </span></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px; margin: 20px 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">When the lockdown initially put a hold on regular schedules and examinations, I used the online medium to mix up things a little. Apart from the weekly assignments on out-of-syllabus fiction and poetry, I arranged a mini-seminar where the students read their own papers on film and television adaptations of <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Wuthering</em> <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Heights</em> and set ‘Google form’ quizzes to assess their understanding of in-syllabus texts in terms of current world events. After all, how could anybody teach Faulkner’s <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Dry September</em> in 2020 without talking about George Floyd? When we did return to full-fledged regular classes and exams, albeit via Google Meet, I tried to use the tools of the digital mode to my (and I hoped, the students’) advantage. For my classes on Comedy as a genre, I edited clips out of Shakespeare productions and uploaded the video to my own channel. After a week, there were exactly five views. After the initial disappointment, I understood why. The system didn’t require my students to laugh at comedy or to appreciate comedy. It only required them to learn some words about comedy and reproduce them on paper.</span></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px; margin: 20px 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">And yet, I know that our students are capable of creativity if given the opportunity. One rewarding experience for me has been supervising the English drama/musical for the last three years. The calendar of the semester-divided year has now put this little breath of fresh air into question. Last year, we had to curtail one day of the programme to accommodate last-minute exam schedules that ran right up to Christmas. And yet, shouldn’t a true ‘choice’ based credit system include credit for innovative activities?</span></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px; margin: 20px 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">But whatever my impression of the system, I can’t deny that the journey has helped me in many ways to discover myself. Back in my own college days, I used to stare at my teachers with awe. I was sure I would never be able to talk by myself for a full forty-five minutes, and if I did, I thought I wouldn’t be assertive enough and for the first few months of my career, this second part was true enough. I remember being mistaken for a student by the library staff on my first day of work and being mistaken for a student by a candidate on my first invigilation, and I think it had more to do with how nervous I felt rather than how I looked. And then, to my surprise, I learned that I knew how to raise my voice. That I had things to say and I could talk for forty-five minutes and more, and people would listen. I’ve enjoyed hours inside classrooms that have gone a long way in compensating for all the tiresome, redundant, mechanical labour. I’ve discovered I’m not bad at my job. But the other lesson has been this, that sometimes, my abilities to connect and communicate depended on my students. This last lesson has been emphasized by the lockdown experience.</span></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px; margin: 20px 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">There’s a line in Andrew Marvell’s ‘The Garden’ where the poet declares that women’s beauty is nothing in comparison to the amorous greens of his precious garden. Apollo and Pan chased maidens, he says, but found in the end that the laurel tree and the reed were far more superior as sources of solace. This dismissive retelling of what are essentially stories of attempted rape always incites a sardonic comment from me when I am teaching the poem in class- nothing practiced but an automatic eye roll, a shared chuckle with the students. This semester however when I paused to declare how the speaker sounded like he was bitter about a bad rejection, I suddenly found myself unsure. I didn’t know these first semester girls, never interacted with them in a physical classroom, I couldn’t even see their faces (due to network issues, our students keep their cameras off and interact through the comment box or by unmuting themselves), and I wasn’t quite sure if I could be as informal through my laptop as I was when actually interacting with students in person. I had no way of knowing if they were laughing at my jokes. And sometimes, this feeling of uncertainty was true even in offline classrooms. Sometimes, the <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">only</em> questions I am asked at the end of a class are about potential examination questions or the selection of pages one should read for the exam. Sometimes, teaching is a two-way performance in which I am only as good as my audience. This is especially true for literature as we are dependent on teacher-student dialogues and interactions between students themselves. And I’m not sure that simply imposing the model of the physical classroom into an entirely different system can do justice to the discipline. Perhaps we need to devise a new set of tools for this ‘new normal’.</span></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px; margin: 20px 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"> I’ve always wanted to share with my students the sense of wonder that I experienced (and still do) as a student of literature. Fresh off a grueling examination season that generated excel sheets quite proportional to the sense of futility it evoked, and facing another semester of speaking into the void of online classes, I only have one question. Does the data cycle have any space for wonder?</span></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px; margin: 20px 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">"Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@krystagrusseck?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="box-sizing: border-box;">Christa Dodoo</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/paperwork?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText" style="box-sizing: border-box;">Unsplash</a>"</span></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px; margin: 20px 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px; margin: 20px 0px; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: #444444; color: #f3f3f3;">All views expressed here belong to me and not to any institutions I am part of.</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-67846260358379278242021-05-27T11:09:00.003-07:002021-05-27T22:38:15.834-07:00Thursday Throwback: Two Travelogues<p> For a variety of reasons, it has been difficult to get back into the groove of blogging. I will try to come back but meanwhile, here are a couple of travelogues from the past. The first one about the Midnight Sun was published first on Yahoo Travel India in 2012, and the 2nd one on Antarctica was published around 2019 on travelandy.com. Since we can't travel now, let's revisit some old trips.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>I</b></span></p><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 19.5pt; font-weight: bold; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><u>In the land of the Midnight Sun</u></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: 8.25pt; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">First published on Yahoo! India Travel </div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It was summer in the land of the Midnight Sun. Summer drawing to a close, admittedly, seeing that it was almost August, but the sun was still holding out pretty strong against the impending darkness. It was bizarre, getting used to the never-ending daylight of Tromso. We pulled down the window shutters of our hotel rooms before going to sleep, trying to pretend it was really night outside, but the shutters couldn't keep out the cries of the seagulls, that like the sun, were on duty 24 hours a day.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz6S3ZpZEsGUQl1eiSmuYrJm8EmZJHTiEeBR5Q8mfampWZbvUCtPCdO-cGBiuc0AuakpPP6NMzIx7OzNLe5CoC6GmegoL1CCrEHndy3QgXtb1d-xX37DHBzetdAcNNXvJTXTWri9a28WA/s3072/00139.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz6S3ZpZEsGUQl1eiSmuYrJm8EmZJHTiEeBR5Q8mfampWZbvUCtPCdO-cGBiuc0AuakpPP6NMzIx7OzNLe5CoC6GmegoL1CCrEHndy3QgXtb1d-xX37DHBzetdAcNNXvJTXTWri9a28WA/s320/00139.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On the date we had chosen for a midnight rendezvous with the sun, however, it remained hidden behind the clouds. It was a damp, wet sort of a day and the dip in the mercury did nothing to help our already plummeting spirits. However, luck smiled on us later in the afternoon, as the skies cleared. We packed our scarves and mufflers, had an early dinner at the Chinese restaurant we had discovered on our first morning in Tromso and then set off towards the Arctic Cathedral on Bus No. 26. (I'd like to add here that the bus service in Tromso is wonderful. There are charts detailing information on routes and bus timings at every stop, and the people are friendly and eager to help out the tourists with directions. The buses also have something called a 'one-hour ticket' for return journey provided you return by the same route within an hour).</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We arrived at the Arctic Cathedral to find the striking, somewhat triangular structure bathed in glorious sunshine, and its doors firmly shut. The notice on the door said the church remained open to visitors till seven in the evening in summer; we wondered why it was closed in broad daylight before remembering it was nearly 11 pm by the clock. We could have waited of course, for it to open for the midnight concert, but we wanted to experience the Tromso midnight from a higher viewpoint.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So we left the cathedral behind and walked on. Stopping to ask for directions a few times, we finally arrived at the cable car station. One cable car ride later, we were atop a mountain, the monarchs of all Tromso, with a wide expanse of fjords and mountain ranges unveiled beneath for our survey. Although the 'Paris of the North' is mostly pleasant in summer, it was freezing cold at such high altitude, and there was a strong wind blowing, chilling us to the bone. But we braved it all, waiting for midnight. All around us, people were getting their cameras out, ready to capture the moment. We were nearly there; the sun was right above the mountains facing us, blazing bright, as if daring us to contradict its presence. And then the clock struck twelve. It wasn't like a sunrise in the hills, or a sunset at sea; there were no blending of colours, no play of light and shadow. But the Midnight Sun was still magical, in its own inexplicable way.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbibfcYcri24dIFc41JAa_sYbpSq8gdMy1EB9d5Vjp5CvaAXAruILph65D4e0l23El5T9vKV29E6SJKjdLHhk0lHYFbFGtJtAPOnSDpsLxgRoCKZQI4o9TlGzxod7LysENSkOfvlHBudQ/s3072/00165.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbibfcYcri24dIFc41JAa_sYbpSq8gdMy1EB9d5Vjp5CvaAXAruILph65D4e0l23El5T9vKV29E6SJKjdLHhk0lHYFbFGtJtAPOnSDpsLxgRoCKZQI4o9TlGzxod7LysENSkOfvlHBudQ/s320/00165.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But our night wasn't over yet. We dawdled for a bit, before taking the cable ride down, and consequently missed the last bus to town. There was nothing else for it, so we began walking.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: start;"></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The city was asleep. The very air breathed slumber over the peaceful Scandinavian cottages. We walked along empty streets, past silent houses and closed shops. It wasn't dark, but the sun had disappeared for a few minutes and was now coming out again. We could see a faint pink blush along the eastern sky, while on the west hung a ghostly silver moon. It felt like we had walked into the picture of an enchanted city in a book of fairy-tales.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: calibri; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We had to cross the long bridge connecting the mainland to the island city. After walking for more than an hour, we reached our hotel. The warmth inside was inviting. We wished a cheery good morning to the man at reception who returned the greeting with an amused smile. Up in our rooms, we hit the pillow straightaway; daylight or not, we weren't about to relinquish our sleep.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">How to get there</span>: Tromso is located in Northern Norway. One can reach Tromso via road from Helsinki (there are daily buses in summer) or take a train from Helsinki to Rovaniemi, and then a bus to Tromso from there. There are also SAS (Scandinavian Air Service) flights connecting Tromso to Oslo, Bergen and other Norwegian cities.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">II</span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="color: #222222; text-align: start;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><u>Antarctica: The wild wild South</u></span></b></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: georgia; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">It was far away… a rather small and indistinct structure. But spotting your first iceberg is special. And it was the first of many firsts for me that happened on our trip to Antarctica. But let me start from the beginning.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-weight: 700;"><span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;">Safety drill</span></span></span></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">We reached our Buenos Aires hotel at three in the morning.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">It had been a long day with delayed flights and all I wanted to do was sleep. But breakfast was at 5am before the next flight to Ushuaia, Argentina’s southernmost town, from where our ship would depart. Once we got to Ushuaia, we found out the ship would be ready for boarding only in the afternoon. So, we did a bit of local sightseeing before returning to the pier and queuing up to board MV Fram, our ship.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">We had barely managed to drop our bags when the ship’s public announcement system came to life and we were asked to assemble on the various open decks for the regulatory safety drill. We learned where the lifeboats were, where to assemble if the alarms sounded and how to put on a life-jacket.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">But most importantly, I learned never to come to open deck without hats, gloves and socks again, no matter how desperately tired I were.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-weight: 700;">The solitary bird</span></span></span></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">Perhaps it was the effect of those icy winds, but once all the action was over, I suddenly wasn’t sleepy anymore. My mother and I explored the ship, settling finally on Level 7 with long, slanted windows and chairs, music and tea for comfortable sea-gazing.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">We watched as the mountains of Ushuaia slipped away, and the horizon opened up as a solitary bird braved the waves at dusk. Where was its family? Where was home? Who knew?</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">That night after dinner, we met the captain of the ship, and more importantly, the Expedition Team, who we would see a lot of in the next two weeks. They were a mixed bunch of highly qualified experts — an ornithologist (expert on birds), a geologist, a couple of veteran adventurers and snow sport enthusiasts, trained travel guides, marine biologists and mineralogists. It was a veritable faculty, and yes, there were daily lectures on Antarctica onboard. Schedules would be announced on the PA system in English and German, and anyone who wished to learn could attend. But first, we needed to get our sea-legs steady.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-weight: 700;">Rough waters</span></span></span></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">As the Captain warned us of the dreaded Drake Passage in his welcome address, the calm waters of the evening had already given way to a more restless ocean. From the windows of the seventh deck, we could make out the rising and falling of the waves. When we woke up on our first morning on board, the ship was rocking like a pendulum. It was impossible to walk around without clawing at the walls.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">After breakfast (some chose to skip it due to the nausea), I stepped outside in the open deck to breathe in the fresh air, and was dazzled by the sight of petrels and albatrosses gliding along the invisible slopes of the air. Black and white wings against the deep, rich inky blue of the ocean broken by snowy white froth where the waves crashed: all sharply defined colours acquiring a richness far greater than the mundane world I was used to.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">Some time during the night, we had left the ordinary familiar world behind, and stepped into a fairytale.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-weight: 700;">Iceberg</span></span></span></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">Later that day, we spotted our first iceberg. It was far away, a rather small and indistinct structure, but for us it was a miracle, our cameras failing to capture our amazement. It was the first of many.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcNuQvfpO9jJlvJHDn2V-4zOREQwJg43Spg5WGPtXAUbWNhOl99EZwFHSWV3tizdE9MMAYFwyEEHeAOrAr2OuFlpNAoITt7oN5b_0hIraDInARmsdaCGmVo2u519pEPzSZWdQ7cesLxqU/s4000/IMG_6551.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcNuQvfpO9jJlvJHDn2V-4zOREQwJg43Spg5WGPtXAUbWNhOl99EZwFHSWV3tizdE9MMAYFwyEEHeAOrAr2OuFlpNAoITt7oN5b_0hIraDInARmsdaCGmVo2u519pEPzSZWdQ7cesLxqU/s320/IMG_6551.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">By the third morning, it was smooth sailing. After breakfast, we were called to try on the boots for our landing expeditions, having tried out the water-proof parkas the previous day. We settled into our new gear, vacuumed our pockets and backpacks to make sure we carried no germs or seeds on shore and occasionally popped out onto the open decks to photograph a bird or the blue-white, myriad-shaped icebergs which were now appearing with increasing frequency.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">On the lounge on the seventh deck where most of us hung around, there was tea, coffee, cakes and the pleasant aroma of anticipation.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-weight: 700;">Right of way</span></span></span></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">Antarctica was, as John Chardine, the resident ornithologist explained in the compulsory orientation class held that afternoon, wilderness like we had never seen before, and it had to be protected.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">We received practical training — a demonstration of how to dress, and were made to memorize a ton of rules:</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: start;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;">1. Keep to the paths marked by red flags. Do not wander off on your own.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">2. Do not take anything from the continent — not even a blade of grass or pebble or moss, for one minute speck could contain a huge ecosystem.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">3. Do not leave anything behind. No flags, scarf or even a cigarette butt.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">4. Do not touch or approach any bird or animal. If approached by one, stand and let it pass. In Antarctica, the penguin has the right of way.</div><p></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">All these and more were together a set of rules that were part of the International Association of Antarctica Tour Operators agreement.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">Our first close-up view of Antarctica happened that afternoon when we passed the Elephant Islands. There was rain and snow but we all scrambled to the open deck to take pictures of the glacier and the penguins dotting the vanilla slopes. Later, the Expedition Team arranged 30 minutes of zodiac (air-filled rubber boat) cruising for everyone. We sailed passed stunning blue-white icebergs, exclaiming at seals and penguins while trying to handle cameras without taking off our gloves. It was a magical half hour.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhefCOmIZVJ2XfH2jdxI1IQ6TiX48v1X9G0Lr_Owj8w-7HzpknnamqOEwOpF8EeFHGTj8F18FvPmEmy1VFvXFfwxCsrTC_9YXsRrfclp7jwB2mpcZGXy42gu15HV0-oeEFeMrs9Mgcy13A/s4000/IMG_6799.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhefCOmIZVJ2XfH2jdxI1IQ6TiX48v1X9G0Lr_Owj8w-7HzpknnamqOEwOpF8EeFHGTj8F18FvPmEmy1VFvXFfwxCsrTC_9YXsRrfclp7jwB2mpcZGXy42gu15HV0-oeEFeMrs9Mgcy13A/s320/IMG_6799.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-weight: 700;">Reward beyond all riches</span></span></span></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">Soon we fell into the rhythm of the Antarctic routine. Waking, showering, breakfast, waiting for announcements. Then the layers: thermals, woollens, jackets, waterproofs. Waiting for our boat group to be called, then going down to the armoury to don our shields and weapons — wriggling our feet into the boots was a challenge, taking them off proved an even greater one — and the lifejackets had far too many straps. </p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">Filing out in single queues to the boats, we felt like medieval soldiers walking out of castle doors. Into battle we go. Except that the battle was with ourselves, and the reward beyond all riches.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">Boarding the polar circle boats from Deck 2, we would arrive at the landing site where the expedition team would be waiting to brief us on the hiking routes. The terrain was slippery, but those muck boots had good grip, and we mostly managed, taking a few falls in our strides. Sometimes the snow needled our faces, sometimes we sweated beneath all those layers, and sometimes the wind was so strong that one feared toppling off the slopes and into the sea.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">The penguins mostly minded their own business, sometimes wobbling like little people, sometimes crawling, sometimes simply resting. A curious few advanced near enough to check us out. We saw Adelies with fully black heads, the Gentoos with white stripes on the top of their heads, the Chinstraps with the black stripes below the beaks and the occasional Macaronies with their yellow crest feathers.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzlYcRjUknK4ajXtcHBBQ37G-hEoEbm9ZKMhoVnEXBs1E6GR8Jj3e8-6h6xKVt1czH0bz18_nXZBfWwW841Tdz348SENkXUkYTINVr3TP6jhj8Xlom_1JExI7QwEpe_KP_hBk8iPMx3T4/s4000/IMG_6635.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzlYcRjUknK4ajXtcHBBQ37G-hEoEbm9ZKMhoVnEXBs1E6GR8Jj3e8-6h6xKVt1czH0bz18_nXZBfWwW841Tdz348SENkXUkYTINVr3TP6jhj8Xlom_1JExI7QwEpe_KP_hBk8iPMx3T4/s320/IMG_6635.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">There were seals sunning themselves, sheathbills as white as the snow, and skuas that hunted as if we were invisible. The silent snow-song enchanted the soul, and we drank in.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">At Arctowski, we saw the Polish research centre. Neko, Cuverville and Half-Moon islands provided great views from the top. At Deception Island encircling Whalers’ Bay, where the water was warm, some adventurous souls decided to go swimming. I wasn’t brave enough.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-weight: 700;">Blizzard</span></span></span></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">At Danco Island, we encountered a blizzard and the world went white and opaque. I had taken my own pace on the hike and suddenly, I was alone, middle of nowhere, my glasses fogged up, my face frozen, the ship and the penguins hidden by the snow curtain, and the cold wind was like a living, moving, wrestling wall.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh4rywXd152u1mqthDftcRaIBOwKNg3ilmUc47o_2YBkj9DKpUysJyBhOMBUIPUFioKzjQTgJPFNMiGFDE6zWoQ1RYctQPkSX6azRPYxA5cyTs_fp45LtixEELkB0SOtjtRduevJrOk1Y/s4000/IMG_6564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh4rywXd152u1mqthDftcRaIBOwKNg3ilmUc47o_2YBkj9DKpUysJyBhOMBUIPUFioKzjQTgJPFNMiGFDE6zWoQ1RYctQPkSX6azRPYxA5cyTs_fp45LtixEELkB0SOtjtRduevJrOk1Y/s320/IMG_6564.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">After what felt like an eternity, I managed to reach the top. Waiting for me there was a magnificent, unbelievable view of a glacier. I could have stared forever, but time was limited. By then it had stopped snowing and the island, along with the surrounding ocean with our ship in it had shifted back into focus. But the paths were gone. Fresh snow had made them disappear. After trying to trudge through knee-deep snow, I decided to slide down the slopes and eventually reached level ground.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">When we were not on land, we watched the sea from the ship. There were icebergs in so many shapes and sizes — tables, gateways, boats, abstract art, the blue underwater ice-chunks making the sea look like spilled ink. Films of ice covered the almost frozen sea, little pieces of ice scattered over still waters like diamonds. Snowflakes fell in Brownian motion — each flake seemingly weaved to the others through some invisible material, making the world shimmy through the glass windows, turning the tables and deck chairs outside into Christmas cards.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">We reclined on the lounge-chaises with a book and warm drink in our hands, and gazed at the Antarctic “wilderness” that was “paradise enow” [Omar Khayyám: ‘Here with a loaf of bread beneath the bough’, trans. Edward Fitzgerald]. The whales loved playing hide-and-seek, dipping on the starboard to rise on the portside, and we chased them on the freezing deck with hastily pulled jackets. Sometimes, the penguins swam along, dipping their funny little heads into the water, taking occasional breaks as they sunned themselves on the icebergs.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">Later on, we encountered the frozen ocean as our ship cut through the ice. Everywhere we looked, the sea was endlessly white. We were at the forgotten edge of the world.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyW7mNc2HIRMff3vEf5gzl3Q9RpeWTwFyku4v3GTgbrGYcbfuBodNGRdTx2xyEG05VrFPPugM4R61CQS5kFFYD0MuSpVMhdPkS16k1MXPv5q3YejnwF7J58GuvJ6QmFAGJv5qpjfVwUq8/s4000/IMG_6752.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyW7mNc2HIRMff3vEf5gzl3Q9RpeWTwFyku4v3GTgbrGYcbfuBodNGRdTx2xyEG05VrFPPugM4R61CQS5kFFYD0MuSpVMhdPkS16k1MXPv5q3YejnwF7J58GuvJ6QmFAGJv5qpjfVwUq8/s320/IMG_6752.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="font-family: georgia, serif;"><span style="font-weight: 700;">End of a dream</span></span></span></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">We had a second cruising in the magnificent Lemaire Channel amidst huge, majestic icebergs that could have only been sculpted by a race of giants from the age of fables, now forever gone from the world, leaving behind only the remains of their former homes. It was a dream, and dreams end, and so one fine morning we arrived at Port Lockroy for our final landing in the world’s southernmost continent. This British island had a post-office and a museum about the earliest explorers, and penguins and sheathbills as usual.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">Our return journey from Antarctica began. Icebergs became less frequent, the sea unfroze and the slanted window panes of Deck 7 cleared of melting snowflake. We had gotten used to beauty, and now beauty had passed and as the melancholy set in, we realized how much we had taken for granted. How much we take for granted every day for the last complete wilderness to be so far out of man’s life.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;">The dreams lay behind, we returned to the world.</p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><strong>©</strong> Writing and photographs belong to Ruchira Mandal. </p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Follow me on other media:</span></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://twitter.com/RucchiraM?s=09" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Twitter</span></a></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/RuchiraRambles/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Facebook</span></a></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://www.instagram.com/ruchirarambles/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Instagram</span></a></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/user/mirandatook" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">YouTube</span></a></p><p style="color: #58595b; font-family: vollkorn; margin: 0px 0px 10px; text-align: justify;"><a href="https://ruchirasrambling.wordpress.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Alternate Blog</span></a></p></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-55816434709823247382020-08-08T09:57:00.006-07:002020-08-08T09:57:38.631-07:00Islands<p style="text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijRK1cKJ5bLa425PrIwdTsCL_sPiLUQg8-dusqNMkS24M_V9ur3eaE-YZ4pu3XR5qnxq2auZaoVqSgbkRHmSnmi8kFTrmhPDDf_WWesnjr2XYeQIb3qqFbx5QaWwIPnghYoCN1s8in34E/s2048/IMG_4263.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijRK1cKJ5bLa425PrIwdTsCL_sPiLUQg8-dusqNMkS24M_V9ur3eaE-YZ4pu3XR5qnxq2auZaoVqSgbkRHmSnmi8kFTrmhPDDf_WWesnjr2XYeQIb3qqFbx5QaWwIPnghYoCN1s8in34E/w640-h480/IMG_4263.jpg" title="Photo by Author" width="640" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijRK1cKJ5bLa425PrIwdTsCL_sPiLUQg8-dusqNMkS24M_V9ur3eaE-YZ4pu3XR5qnxq2auZaoVqSgbkRHmSnmi8kFTrmhPDDf_WWesnjr2XYeQIb3qqFbx5QaWwIPnghYoCN1s8in34E/s2048/IMG_4263.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;">Photo by Author. All rights reserved.</a></div><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The world breaks down into faraway
islands. Yesterday I could have found you in a chance meeting, a couple of
wrong turns or an unexpected phone call. Today you are on a different planet.
And I am hiding out in my little bubble. It is peaceful, I admit. I haven’t had
such a luxury of solitude in a while. But when you pull down the shutters
against the world, you don’t expect the world to shut you out as well. Funny
things, islands. One gets tired of all the noise from the busy ports, and one
gets tired of the sound of water lapping against the stone. People are the same
way. They want to run and they want to stay still. They want adventures without
things changing, and when things change too much, or stop changing at all, they
wonder why they’re still standing where they were. And sometimes, it’s not the
world standing still or the world spinning too fast that is the problem. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">We are, to use a cliché and a curse,
living in interesting times. When we read our history books or watched our
disaster movies and imagined ourselves being heroic, we hadn’t really counted
upon reality writing the worst disaster movie plot of all times. Turns out, saving
the world isn’t all that fun, and the mundane wasn’t all that boring. Somewhere
in the world, men and women and children had trudged miles and miles on foot in
search of home and food. They hadn’t asked for a quest. Somewhere else people
bleed on the streets, they would rather be inside and happy. Perhaps alive. And
all this while, we search for words to say, the right words, the correct words
that will keep us safe. And yet we want to be heroic. Back when the world was
only the little island you could see around you, you thought people were saner.
You thought people were good, and you were right, and so was the world. Then we
opened the world into our little rooms and you heard the fear and the rage and
the virulence and the disbelief of difference. The angrier people got, the more
they huddled together into little islands. And now it seems we are either going
to splinter apart or keep ramming into each other till we are only the remains of
our mangled flesh and blood. Yet we persist in all the anger and all the hating
and the carrying on and staying alive. I wish I knew of a way to live without the
fear.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Somehow, when we thought of the end
of times, we had envisioned a countdown of sorts, a certainty of an end, a
knowing. But what we have instead is a protracted limbo as we wait out our
days, suspicious of our own selves while we watch each other over old sailors’
telescopes. And we drift further and further apart into unfamiliar islands of
forgotten names, like a backtracking history of unraveling potentials. We
become strangers, to ourselves and to others.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Dear Stranger on your dove-gray
recliner and your bottled cocktails and your utterly adorable dog, I watch the
forest swaying in the breeze outside your window through a screen barely bigger
than the palm of my hand, and you are worlds apart. Shall we never meet again
in strange places? What of the adventures we planned? What of the wild dances
on a drunken beach at night? What of the joyous hugs of long-awaited meetings?
What of holding hands in the dark? What of spontaneity? What of all the people
I could have met and would have met and should have met? Shall we now all hide
behind our screens, working as cogs in remote sync, our stories permanently
frozen into stasis? If we came from stars from millennia back that still move
in our disparate bloodstreams, how can we let the stories halt midway?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Or perhaps life will pick up the
pieces in the end and we shall return again, to our boardrooms and waterparks
and classrooms and theatres. We will forget the fear of being and go on as
before. Or we will learn to live with our fears, when we pick out our
groceries, pass the coins at the till, stop for a drink on a tired evening,
even when we’re alone with ourselves. Everything begins and ends as we’ve
always done. As they’ll always do. We can put on armors- building walls,
lighting prayer lamps or drowning the silence with our own loud voices, but at
the end of the say we’re always alone, our armors melting away like a daydream.
Meanwhile there are travel plans and schedules and reservations, and everything
can’t be put on hold forever. Once upon a time we lived in smaller worlds, with
smaller stories to guide our steps. But that was long ago. We can’t go back to
the savannahs neither. We’ve told ourselves the world’s our oyster, we’ve told
each other we are one world (while we still bleed to keep the other away from us
and ours), we have hashtags and forums and platforms cutting across meridians
and we need each other and our stories to love and hate ourselves. No, I don’t
suppose we can keep the windows barred forever.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">But I see you there, by the window,
your little rescue dog asleep in the sun as you tell me how you’ve been doing
up your new home, and I wonder if we’ll ever meet again. Or if at all.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I would have liked to meet you.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">...</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I am just thinking aloud. You can catch
me on<o:p></o:p></span></p>
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<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">You can also follow this blog on <a href="https://ruchirasrambling.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Wordpress</a> .<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Thank you for reading. Please like, share and subscribe.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-42309962987244644722020-07-21T10:52:00.000-07:002020-07-22T01:02:47.099-07:00Lost/Affirmations<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I don’t know who I am anymore. Who I once thought I was has
been dead for years, who I want to be is nowhere to be found, and I seem to
falter at every step I take towards that elusive self. Projects fail. Hours of
toil amount to nothingness. The last remaining egg fails to hatch. The world
breaks your heart. And meanwhile the past you want to leave behind keeps
intruding.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilcYim1Oz3I-ZMZBw35pcUpGtHLwaIchyphenhyphenxpk3YVphF6LYDe2B18qpoEukXu37Z4EpwheVRcC1-ujx6Vdv1kOR6dsxFSRQqY5YPbnq5NaJKEL456-wgth2oIkLMr38_RQabpR3GogNNLgo/s1600/finding-dan-dan-grinwis-O35rT6OytRo-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1202" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilcYim1Oz3I-ZMZBw35pcUpGtHLwaIchyphenhyphenxpk3YVphF6LYDe2B18qpoEukXu37Z4EpwheVRcC1-ujx6Vdv1kOR6dsxFSRQqY5YPbnq5NaJKEL456-wgth2oIkLMr38_RQabpR3GogNNLgo/s320/finding-dan-dan-grinwis-O35rT6OytRo-unsplash.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Dan Grinwis via Unsplash</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
This blog isn’t going anywhere, is it? I know all the
advice. Have read them all a hundred times. I know I don’t offer a service here,
nothing that a reader may gain for spending their precious minutes reading
through my ramblings. But that’s not why I started. I started because I needed
to hear out my thoughts before they imploded inside my head. I write here
because I can’t speak my madness and my fury and my melancholy out in person,
and I don’t know who to talk to. Oh I have friends. Perhaps you are one of
them. And I know you would listen. But what do I tell you?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Should I tell you how I forget how to push the air out of my
lungs every-time the phone rings? How I spend hours and minutes counting
moments of unproductive inertia because I am too frightened of failing at life?
Do I tell you of the desolation of my heart? And will you ask me why? There is
no answer to that. There is no reason, no rationale behind this sickness. Not
any I can justify anyway. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
And so I go on, rambling and rambling and pouring my words
out to unburden a heart I am afraid to look into in case I find it a shallow,
stilted space. I do not want to lose the solipsistic luxury of this whining.
And yet, I am sad this blog isn’t going places. And yet, I am glad it allows me
to speak out loud without being really heard.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A part of me wants to block the whole world out. A part of
me wants to belong to the world. Yet perhaps, it is not such a great
contradiction as it seems to be. They are different worlds, you know? I spent
my whole life preparing for one, believing in it, and now that I am in it- I
don’t care anymore. The fairytales never say what happens in forever. Is there heartache in forever? Is there disillusionment? Anxiety? Despair?
<a href="https://youtu.be/-3JGxZ9PVuE" target="_blank">Rumpelstiltskin, can you make me some happiness out of hay</a>? I wouldn’t know
what to do with the gold anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I am so tired and I keep sending laughing emojis and I want
to hide from everything that I hate that keep breaking down my boundaries,
screeching for attention. And I am just being dramatic over little details because
here at least, I have the luxury of not being heard.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I quit. Right now. From everything that puts a leaden weight
on my heart. From everything that is not joyful and impassioned and glorious
and beautiful. From everything that is just pointless details. From everything
that is not meaningful, I quit right now. I go chasing the harmony of the
golden deer. Starting now. Right now. Life without joy isn’t worth the effort
and the toil. I go searching for my joy. Now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVbhI2JthM9awtRToLt2VLqJbTodIg9-fwA_4XKP86Agkwbab-0PzS17vHUW-Ppz54Z8vcfRKVyHLu2WLu0gifWcjDdA0LXIT2UVaC_m_uWP8K0p8nsTe1hhLoMuyqduHMpK8u3ADyVGU/s1600/kaylee-brayne-P2twuTki024-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVbhI2JthM9awtRToLt2VLqJbTodIg9-fwA_4XKP86Agkwbab-0PzS17vHUW-Ppz54Z8vcfRKVyHLu2WLu0gifWcjDdA0LXIT2UVaC_m_uWP8K0p8nsTe1hhLoMuyqduHMpK8u3ADyVGU/s320/kaylee-brayne-P2twuTki024-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Phot by Kaylee Brayne via Unplash</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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(I’m only thinking aloud. If you like it here, please do share and subscribe.)</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-50844179524363829702020-06-19T10:58:00.002-07:002020-07-21T10:54:02.891-07:00The Belated Bloomsday Blog<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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Pre-Script: If you came over from my <a href="https://www.instagram.com/ruchirarambles/" target="_blank">Instagram</a>, my YouTube channel is <a href="https://www.youtube.com/user/mirandatook" target="_blank">here</a>.</div>
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...</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQo1fHdGCcaeKyaAivhh_JFflXNEOK4n4gNVapHomWDXyjHrdM7xkPE9qp5Q6gRdOYrV6S8-Uk6F4apODyLH-3BEw2JeaDdbfv67qT5h7woHJ5caq-vlDN1BFAfr4t2N5AB5t-yBoe1dQ/s1600/body-of-water-286588.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQo1fHdGCcaeKyaAivhh_JFflXNEOK4n4gNVapHomWDXyjHrdM7xkPE9qp5Q6gRdOYrV6S8-Uk6F4apODyLH-3BEw2JeaDdbfv67qT5h7woHJ5caq-vlDN1BFAfr4t2N5AB5t-yBoe1dQ/s400/body-of-water-286588.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By Kaique Rocha via Pexels</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Another Bloomsday gone. It has been three years since
I announced the intention to revive my blog on Facebook. The aching sense of
lack that drove me to that decision back then still exists. Of course a lot has
happened since then. A lot has changed, a lot has been done. But sometimes, in
the middle of the doings and keeping busy and ticking boxes, you ask yourself,
what has really changed? Why are you here, anyway?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Leopold Bloom walked the streets on a meandering search for
purpose. Sounds like a fairytale in the middle of this lockdown. Still, we’re
all making our ways through our daily schedules through the meandering
signposts that keep us reassured that we’re doing it right, that we’re doing
something, at any rate. Online, offline, or inside our heads.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Perhaps it’s selfish to talk about personal ennui at a time
like this. So let me ask instead, where do we go from here? Will we ever travel
again? Embrace our friends? Somehow, I imagined a countdown, an end-time
recollection. Instead we are here in limbo.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ZtVroRr9cQFbvKzxWc_JCoBbPocx8rEugAR_qOYny7lcHm8VBRGSR8YvkR_0in6Gbg_BFBKj2cV78j6TCv38frARbtn6LVEdoThhj3CZqLKiUVXCFndGcRcF_pyLEPfvmUN8Y0gaoGw/s1600/selective-focus-photography-of-wet-glass-457712.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ZtVroRr9cQFbvKzxWc_JCoBbPocx8rEugAR_qOYny7lcHm8VBRGSR8YvkR_0in6Gbg_BFBKj2cV78j6TCv38frARbtn6LVEdoThhj3CZqLKiUVXCFndGcRcF_pyLEPfvmUN8Y0gaoGw/s320/selective-focus-photography-of-wet-glass-457712.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By freestocks.org via Pexels</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
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Even on days like today, with the rain turning the
windshield into a portal to a dream, what keeps me going is the thought that
somewhere on this surface is someone who knows exactly what I mean when I speak
of the irrelevance of everything in terms of infinity, and the certainty that
we share a planet together. That’s why I ramble. To find them. And for them to
find me. But mostly, I ramble to pour out the streaming incoherence of my mind.
And sometimes I ramble because it is all I can do to drown out the silent
hollow ache in my chest. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I read a short story
the other day. It was by E.L. Bangs in an anthology called Bikes in Space
(Volume II).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bangs imagines a post-crash
world which has run out of fuels where mobility is no longer an assured right.
Despite the difference in context, the idea of people spending their entire
lives in one place because travel is impossible felt curiously analogous to our
times. Of course we’ve already started to gradually move out of lockdown as I
write this, but whoever thought the world could close away into little islands
before this year? All of us, in our homes, wondering if the world would ever
open up like it used to be, or if we should settle into our little places,
memories of the wider world shriveling into oblivion over years? Of course,
oblivion isn’t really possible in the digital era, or so one hopes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9QJrOh-CIEl5zLsNi5Ww8imrHI2ipcGdVwEw_eFItDAsJwbrnCxH6SwtH_W-VMpWBqX7_O7wuhMi-hH-jw56I_qUi8dLmptV1OBJbYIhFWwM89xZFfnIizN6T-yA1bPlgya9yjQGqFQ8/s1600/man-sitting-in-front-of-turned-on-screen-2736135.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9QJrOh-CIEl5zLsNi5Ww8imrHI2ipcGdVwEw_eFItDAsJwbrnCxH6SwtH_W-VMpWBqX7_O7wuhMi-hH-jw56I_qUi8dLmptV1OBJbYIhFWwM89xZFfnIizN6T-yA1bPlgya9yjQGqFQ8/s640/man-sitting-in-front-of-turned-on-screen-2736135.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By Adrien Olichon via Pexels</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<o:p>
</o:p></div>
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I drafted this piece up to here before the 16<sup>th</sup>,
in time for Bloomsday blog. But somehow I failed to put it up on time. Part of
this is of course because I misplaced my dates- not the first time to happen in
this lockdown. But I could have still put it up on the next day, when parts of
the world were still on the day I had lost. I could have, but I couldn’t. For
the last several days, I have been assailed by some sort of acute paralysis. I
feel this physical abyss within which I can’t cover up unless I am immersed
into another, someone else’s story. Distracting myself from myself seems to
have become the goal. My brain wants to do certain things- stuff to write, some
of which have already been drafted, stuff to sing- I have the lyrics arranged
and the chords noted, there are things that I make me feel good- meditative
dancing, for instance, but I can’t seem to move, for some reason, although I
function perfectly outwards. So many things I want to do, but every time I
conceive of doing them, there’s this hollow pit somewhere in the region of my
heart that freezes me up, and I seek quick distractions. Sometimes it is
overpowering enough to make me want to cry. Or sleep. Escape. And a part of
this paralysis, I recognized this afternoon from a long ago memory is fear. The
way you feel the evening before the examination when you know nothing of the
syllabus. The way you dread the advancing hands of the clock.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgngoX9VTtJhhgtrUdl_cGWHs5dtFFRRUNTkcrOgUqFlVyI8ZHvu-G2CVAV0VDxu_5KCLhxxaeHoSNigKs1jjJtnxZyKkcPJiz3CIIMV5-su8OwZl-KAEPDOiwmK1Kkh1WN_jrtGaLByMw/s1600/tijs-van-leur-5ANUhTGGWR8-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1068" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgngoX9VTtJhhgtrUdl_cGWHs5dtFFRRUNTkcrOgUqFlVyI8ZHvu-G2CVAV0VDxu_5KCLhxxaeHoSNigKs1jjJtnxZyKkcPJiz3CIIMV5-su8OwZl-KAEPDOiwmK1Kkh1WN_jrtGaLByMw/s400/tijs-van-leur-5ANUhTGGWR8-unsplash.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By Tijs van Leur on Unsplash</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I am paralyzed
with the fear of failing at life. I am afraid that all my chances are slipping
out and I have no idea how to do the things that I want to do in order to
succeed. I am afraid I will never be able to reach the next stage which comes
as a reward for passing your examinations. And I desperately want to reach the
next stage. I am afraid I am trapped in a box that I am never getting out of. I’ve
always been scared shit of boxes. There’s only so much positive affirmations
you can practice. You try to say the words and they disappear in that giant
hollow pit inside you. And I realize I am waffling about invisible demons in my
own little head in a world that for all purposes has gone bonkers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I think I am sounding repetitive.<o:p></o:p></div>
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What I know that if tomorrow the world changes into what it
used to be, the ache will remain. I wasn’t too fond of the world as it used to
be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The vague stasis and shapeless
confusion have always been there. Lockdown has merely turned it into a more
visible physicality.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
But this is what I am saying here. I am acknowledging that I
am afraid. I am acknowledging that I am anxious. I am acknowledging that I am
sad. And in writing it out I feel a little lighter in my heart. I feel weighed
down by an absence, but this too shall pass. As the Cap says- Whatever it
takes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrFIHaPaHZpjSuFNyL4nkmYoih7zev4TMFIo29m1QlWEcQLwZd75vHKUD7K0Vel_Ry2tjCqDckDjnMGeEYGJ_LoWimbAhGcgmoUD69CtMsR7Dl4m3ELdDgR7qsjrTqbg7cpLLeggGwpJg/s1600/k-mitch-hodge-IqSaG9zv2e0-unsplash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrFIHaPaHZpjSuFNyL4nkmYoih7zev4TMFIo29m1QlWEcQLwZd75vHKUD7K0Vel_Ry2tjCqDckDjnMGeEYGJ_LoWimbAhGcgmoUD69CtMsR7Dl4m3ELdDgR7qsjrTqbg7cpLLeggGwpJg/s400/k-mitch-hodge-IqSaG9zv2e0-unsplash.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By K Mitch Hodge on Unsplash</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
You can follow me on <a href="https://twitter.com/RucchiraM?s=09" target="_blank">Twitter </a>& <a href="https://www.facebook.com/RuchiraRambles/" target="_blank">Facebook</a>. Instagram & YouTube links are at the top of this post.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I also host this blog on <a href="https://ruchirasrambling.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Wordpress</a>.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-53086752445851526682020-04-15T10:18:00.000-07:002020-04-15T10:18:11.041-07:00Longings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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In the spirit of National Poetry Writing Month, I thought of doing a prose-poem for the blog. But before that, a small announcement. I have a song up on an episode of the London Theatre Podcast- episode titled –We Need to Talk –New Writing Showcase Part 1. It’s only 11 minutes long and you can listen to it on <a href="https://open.spotify.com/episode/54Nfox3YbibR752MUwwq18?si=1tPny3A1Rn63vEQkowvwFw&nd=1" target="_blank">Spotify</a>, <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast/the-london-theatre-podcast/id1200776428" target="_blank">iTunes</a>, <a href="https://m.soundcloud.com/user-762290068/we-need-to-talk-writing-showcase-part-1" target="_blank">SoundCloud</a>, <a href="https://www.blogger.com/"><span id="goog_23327139"></span>PlayerFM<span id="goog_23327140"></span></a> or <a href="https://thelondontheatrepodcast.podbean.com/e/we-need-to-talk-writing-showcase-part-1/" target="_blank">Podbean</a>. Let me know what you think.</div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
<u>Longings</u></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
What does a love story look like? What shape is it? What are the ingredients you need to make one, and most important, where can you find them? I feel like there is space in me for a story, if I could only write one. Or does it get written for you? How does this work?</div>
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Does an island long for a ship? Do the walls of a little room long for rain to break in? Does a river raging in the rain forest feels incomplete for the space by your side? How does this work?</div>
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When you speak your words, and no one hears them, were you alive? If you spoke at all, and nobody else spoke your language, were you heard? Is it better to be heard and not heard, or to die of the weight of unspoken thoughts? Do you know how this works?</div>
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The flotsam drags me down as I search for a quiet hour. I only want a quiet trip away on a little boat. Beyond the waterfalls, there’s a cave, opening into a rainbow sea and quiet harbor. In the forest the silence buzzes in a choir of earth and life- water running, birds chirping, the wind rustling, insects droning, and your deep, slow breaths in the chill air, alone and in love with being alive, the beating heart teeming with the joy of the immense universe. Is that how it works? But does it really work if no one else knows how it works?</div>
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Must be nice, to be able to look into the water and forget the world. Perhaps we all look into the water now and then. Does the water never look back? What do you do, to make the water look back? </div>
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Dusk lightings are the worst. Life streams around you in celebration of another day lived, as you trudge upstream, all spent. That curious half-light seems to whisper of magic, but you aren’t invited. The street lights stand like a banquet, in defiance of night. Little food stalls with the smell of fries, people who have dressed up for a little shopping stroll, voices in song but you are off-key again. All you can ask is why. Why do I go on? Am I going somewhere? When will I find out if this works at all?</div>
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I’m not a broken piece. I’m incomplete only because there’s so much more to see, so much more of me to become. On most days, it’s fun to find yourself. On bad days, you sit and toil and let the words come. As I am doing now. But sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be fun ‘becoming me’ with someone who spoke the language. Someone who fills up space. Someone who makes it work. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Are you doing the #NaPoWriMo challenge? I am writing a poem every day and you can read them on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/ruchirarambles/" target="_blank">Instagram</a> and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/RuchiraRambles/" target="_blank">Facebook</a>.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
You can also follow me on <a href="https://twitter.com/RucchiraM?s=09" target="_blank">Twitter</a> and <a href="https://www.blogger.com/"><span id="goog_1616222473"></span>YouTube<span id="goog_1616222474"></span></a>.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
And finally, I also host this blog on <a href="https://ruchirasrambling.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Wordpress</a> if that suits you better.</div>
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If you’re new here, please subscribe and share. Stay in, stay safe. Lots of love.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-50122501594424128602020-03-31T00:59:00.003-07:002020-03-31T00:59:51.074-07:00A Certain Type of Sadness <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfbyHfZwLVBf_UHXYbMhvyTeqToukWUgv1T_X8P3b6JuDdlR9q3dDy5xOrkYOjDAnZEsJBuOucAiyDENSQ6wEV65NjtqMSTGME3cMND9YZAkQwk1VcjgbetNqdk17IfV21hC7C9Yhs1bE/s1600/grayscale-photo-of-person-standing-on-seashore-2174623.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfbyHfZwLVBf_UHXYbMhvyTeqToukWUgv1T_X8P3b6JuDdlR9q3dDy5xOrkYOjDAnZEsJBuOucAiyDENSQ6wEV65NjtqMSTGME3cMND9YZAkQwk1VcjgbetNqdk17IfV21hC7C9Yhs1bE/s400/grayscale-photo-of-person-standing-on-seashore-2174623.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Engina Kyurt via Pexels.com </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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There’s a certain type of sadness you fear in those you love. A sadness you can’t name, can’t put your finger on, can’t even properly describe. It comes out in flickers of petty, domestic discontent. The tele-soaps have all got it wrong. All those grand conspiracies, lofty heartbreaks come with an end-goal. Unhappy homes are made of smaller stuff- things misplaced, little forgettings, rotten fruits in the refrigerator, an unclicked switch, a harmless question. Even a shared anecdote. For a while, I have been watching. Counting. What breaks the ceasefire? What disrupts the peace? It is, as the saying goes, always the little things. </div>
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Truth is, nobody cares about the little things. The little things only reveal an absence. Most of human history isn’t about momentous matters, and thereby lies the discontent. There are no great goals for most of us, so we find our goals in others. A leader, a hero, a loved one. We are told to be a certain way, do certain things, love and live. Mostly, that keeps us distracted. Sometimes we love so well that it is all we do. And our loved ones become our momentous matters. And it is beautiful and glorious and blessed most of the times. But then the sadness that can’t be named creeps in and we complain without knowing why. We lash out. We bristle at contact. We are so, so weary. One expects life to be beautiful after all this time. We’ve done all we were told to do. We’ve played by the rules, paid our dues. We deserve our rewards, do we not? But nothing goes one’s way and it’s exhausting and pointless and drab. We despair, forget, laugh and repeat. And circles and circles and circles.</div>
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We all have our own realms of hell. Some of us are good at putting on masks. Some of us are falling apart. And some of us are walking on egg-shells, tip-toeing on glass, trying to hide from the sadness we can feel radiating from those we love. A certain type of sadness that weighs on your heart till you’re drowning in deep sea with a mountain round your neck. And all you’ve ever wanted is a little song and air to breathe so you could forget briefly your lack of a sky. But every time you inhale, you can feel your lungs shrink a little bit more, the sadness of others enveloping the space around your heart, sadness that drains into you like ink into a sponge, making you desperately wish for a little lonely room.</div>
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Then you wish you could have been a little indifferent. That you cared a little less. Or wear a wall of insulation. Brush off the petty hurts that happen every day. </div>
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The peculiar sadness snakes around you, like a guilty worm boring away at your soul, and you wonder if you have failed at being someone’s momentous matter. And you wish, just this once that you could just be you. The sadness you cannot name breaks your heart.</div>
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There is a certain kind of sadness that you cannot name. A persistent longing for the unknown that won’t let you be. A certain strain of melancholia that you can’t put into words, shape into song or explain with a diagram. You pick the pen but it only makes lines and scrawls against the white- if there’s a language for that, it hasn’t yet been discovered. All you want is to be someone else at someplace else. Somewhere were magic happens.<br />
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You are waiting for a door to open somewhere, like a magic wardrobe leading you to your own Narnia. And you don’t want to be the promised one. You don’t want to be warrior queen. All you want is a patch of green from your window that is utterly, completely attuned to your music. You want a world where there are music and lyrics for the song you haven’t been able to find yet. You want a pen that knows what you seek before you do- a story that is yours.</div>
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There’s a certain kind of sadness that we recognize in the stories we tell ourselves- born of a longing for the sky, and a love for the earth. And we can’t have both at the same time. Yet we want both at the same time. We want it all- sky and earth, moon and sun, sea and snow- never together, always calling. And this is all our glory. This is our inevitable tragedy. A certain sadness built of uncertain joys. </div>
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(I’m only thinking aloud. If you like it here, please do share and subscribe.)</div>
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And if it's more convenient for you, I also host this blog on <a href="https://ruchirasrambling.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Wordpress</a>. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-18698605796926018952020-03-21T10:26:00.000-07:002020-03-21T10:26:36.993-07:00Cooking for a Decade & More<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Ucass6bZDl0NUQjd4kjFnFbTRqsJ_oP5slXpwCO7PQGnS3AlblQZBfCBA2vMkpqgm7YEb92zZU-a2JurvYKQaqk_iOaARnEAvGD68zQ5U8XsingGK7SUZ0si4JJpPhwmQislSGH1KoM/s1600/20200321_200226.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="782" data-original-width="1080" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Ucass6bZDl0NUQjd4kjFnFbTRqsJ_oP5slXpwCO7PQGnS3AlblQZBfCBA2vMkpqgm7YEb92zZU-a2JurvYKQaqk_iOaARnEAvGD68zQ5U8XsingGK7SUZ0si4JJpPhwmQislSGH1KoM/s320/20200321_200226.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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“If it has passed from the high and beautiful to darkness and ruin, that was of old the fate of Arda Marred; that was of old the fate of Arda Marred…” J.R.R.Tolkien, <i>The Silmarillion</i></div>
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I don’t believe we pass from necessarily from beauty to darkness, but something in that last sentence from The Silmarillion awakes a heartache within me for something I don’t even recall longing for.</div>
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It is in our nature to long for the past, not simply because things often appear golden in retrospect, but also because innocence has its own charm. The first time you read a new book is magic. You can return later and discover the things you missed of course, but that first magic is something else. When I read the first Harry Potter book for the very first time at fifteen, when I read The Sandman at thirty, I knew as the pages turned that something wondrous and enchanting and beautiful was drawing to a close, and it would never be the same again.</div>
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Others have their own magic. That first time you watch the coastline coming into view, the blues opening into expanse, the first time you see the rising sun kiss the snow… of course the sea is still eternal and changeless and magnificent every single time, and the mountains are glorious, filling you with gratitude just for being alive to see them, but that first overwhelming wonder doesn’t quite come back again.</div>
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The sea does not change. You do. You are not as naïve as you were at five, not as carefree as you were at fifteen. How could the joy be the same when you know everything changes? Find a story for the first time, a journey that is just beginning, and you are immersed in that magic. When you return to this world after the inevitable heartbreaks, the laughter makes you ache for what is never going to be the same again.</div>
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But these things happen. Years begin with new optimism, ending with weary compromises with a mundane reality. You grow old, gain some and lose some, driven by nostalgia and discontent and the inexplicable desire for something else, somewhere else. And one more page on the calendar is done with. We mourn the passing of the golden age, but we’re always also discovering ourselves anew in newer joys, experiences that changes us in subtle, invisible ways so that even if some miraculous time machine took you back to the past, you wouldn’t experience it the same way as you did before. </div>
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Well, congratulations to me. I’ve finally found time to put up my new year’s post at the end of March. You know how it is, stuff got in the way and I was tired but better than never, right? But turns out, it’s also a new decade.</div>
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2010. How long back was that? What a stupid question, you’re thinking. Of course it was ten years ago. And how long is ten years, exactly? In 2010 I completed my Masters. In 2020 I might just manage to complete my PhD (fingers crossed). Also, in 2010, I was beginning to expand my social media circles. Blogs were big back then and for a while I followed the #FridayFlash prompts and <a href="https://magicnmiranda.blogspot.com/2010/12/surprise-santa.html?m=1#comment-form" target="_blank">this little superhero story </a>I wrote back then is actually a good marker of the difference between 2010 Me and 2020 Me. Imagine mixing up DC and Marvel and being so casually dismissive about all these imaginary people that present-day-me will die for? I am so sorry, Iron Man. And I love you 3000.</div>
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Jokes apart, I think stories are a good measure of who we are, who we become. The stories we inhabit between one point of time to another in some ways help shape how we think and what we believe. For me at least, this is true. And sometimes, they give us the words to explain this path. Who we have been, who we could be, where we are running to.</div>
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For the longest time, I had been looking at 2010 as the end of a road, the end of a cycle of examination and stress and anxiety and disappointment that had begun as early as 2002 with the preparation for my Class 10 boards. I was looking forward to the freedom of not being a student anymore. An unexpected phone call changed all that in 2011, starting me on a new cycle of academic milestones on the road where I find myself proofreading my thesis on the Gormenghast novels today, just as another chance phone call led me to apply to the job I hold today. You know that famous line from <i>Om Shanti Om</i> right? In my case, it’s been more a case of the universe conspiring to push me into paths I hadn’t envisioned. </div>
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But the question that was merely an airy fancy back in 2010 has become somewhat more urgent now- what next? And why? I have been running from this question all my life, giving myself external goals- the next exam, the next cricket match, the next world cup, the next Harry Potter book, the next holiday. I ducked behind classroom desks when this question reared its sleepy head- after graduation, masters, an MPhil, a PhD and so on. I thought I had worked out the answer at the onset of the last decade, but I was wrong. So what next? Do the Immortals ask themselves this question as they run, leaving a trail of history behind them? Or do they simply slink away into the corners of time, content to be living?</div>
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On certain rainy mornings when the world around seems transformed, when there are stories hidden beneath the everyday and the mundane and you are almost sure that you would be a different person in a different world if you could just find the portal, the longing becomes unbearable. The longing seeps like rainwater through the gap between the door and the threshold, and the grey-lighted sky pours in through all you walls and shut curtains. Where do I go? - You ask yourself. Where can I go so the rain in me can blossom into life? The dewy wind keeps calling.</div>
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“We all change, when you think about it. We’re all different people all through our lives.” And the night streams away, far beyond the iridescent mirror of the sky where the sunrise reflects itself. Morning rolls in with its quiet sounds- here a bird chirps, here a voice rings out sharp through the space of silence, snatches of passing ringtones, odd fragments of fleeting conversations, the ringing bell of a bicycle- a spring day awakes into being, the slightest chill of the air still clinging on, or is it me doing the clinging, holding on to light shawls and scarves like little warm pockets of comfort and safety? Summer arrives anyway. And just like that, a year is gone, and then a decade. We bubble, like stone soup, in the cauldron of the universe. Who knows what the end result will be, once the ingredients are all added? </div>
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We are all running away, at varying speeds, from who we were, carrying bits and pieces of who we used to be, and running towards who we are going to become. Sometimes when I turn the pages of old diaries I don’t recognize the girl who wrote them. And yet, outwardly, I’m still me. Still asking, still searching. What next? Where next? And why? In the time and space given to me, what can I do that matters? Who am I? That’s a big enough question to ponder for the next decade, I think.</div>
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In crazy balance at the edge of Time</div>
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Our spent days turn to cloud behind today-</div>
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And all tomorrow is a prophet’s dream-</div>
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This moment only rages endlessly</div>
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And prime</div>
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Is always the long moment of decay.</div>
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(‘Balance’, by Mervyn Peake, c.1939)</div>
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Quick 2019 review before you go. Wrote my <a href="https://youtu.be/l9sBcOEubZY" target="_blank">first rap</a>. Wrote my <a href="https://youtu.be/AkxcmEuDju8" target="_blank">first Bengali song</a>. Sure, I could do with better recording equipment, but still, I do what I can! Speaking of which, last month, my <a href="https://youtu.be/Of8cjYP7w38" target="_blank">second original song</a> got performed at the Vault festival in London. I couldn’t get there to do it myself (because I haven’t got my own TARDIS yet) and I have no receipt that it happened except an email and this poster, but hey, first international proxy gig, yeah?</div>
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What else? Wrote a bit of my thesis, completed another napowrimo and my first inktober. A few shocks. Ups and downs. I am grateful for everything anyway.</div>
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You can keep up with the stuff I do at the places below:</div>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/RuchiraRambles/" target="_blank">Facebook</a></div>
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<a href="https://twitter.com/RucchiraM?s=09" target="_blank">Twitter</a></div>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/user/mirandatook" target="_blank">YouTube</a></div>
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I also run this blog at <a href="https://ruchirasrambling.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Wordpress</a> if you prefer that to Blogspot. And I uploaded a <a href="https://youtu.be/4d-OW9ACgCc" target="_blank">new song</a> today.</div>
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Happy 2020 to you. I know it’s looking hard at the moment, but we will tide over it.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-31112344909534028522020-03-01T10:31:00.000-08:002020-03-02T04:28:47.861-08:00The Stone Soup, or the Point of Everything<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjNFLuDBQcjl-wITaVeU-3ta8yxcEOutXU0-tV7apKW01jTA7-f2ZevrOD8lLySP2H1A71PEM-X4aJLVZWji1q04c3xWnPb32dXy5VMMu71GHZCaay5MQAgZnIlncWB8cBaiahoITGXA0/s1600/download.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" data-original-height="228" data-original-width="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjNFLuDBQcjl-wITaVeU-3ta8yxcEOutXU0-tV7apKW01jTA7-f2ZevrOD8lLySP2H1A71PEM-X4aJLVZWji1q04c3xWnPb32dXy5VMMu71GHZCaay5MQAgZnIlncWB8cBaiahoITGXA0/s1600/download.jpeg" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;">I write a poem. Scratch it out. I write it because I am angry. I scratch it out because it is futile. I see the fissure on the earth, but I don’t know the magic words to close it. Every word that is said, mine, yours, his, hers, theirs, ours seem to widen and widen the gap. I am angry because I don’t have the right words. I am angry because I don’t matter. I am angry because we seem to be all tumbling down together, clawing and lashing and bleeding to a point of no return.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;">An old acquaintance says we ought to listen. Learn why they hate. Try not to convert. Does it help? If I know I am right and they know they are right and if everybody is right and if we understand why they hate but if my words don’t reach far enough if my words don’t mean enough are not strong enough if their words only tell me I do not belong if I do not conform- what good does listening do?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;">Someone I really like says both sides- there should be both sides of the views. No more fake news or biased views, see it all for yourself. But people believe what they want to believe. They believe whatever gives them a reason for being. And what they don’t believe are lies.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;">Listen? No filter? I have seen that. Twitter trends. Hashtags. I have fought the good fight and exhausted myself. You never change anyone by reason or truth. No one’s ever changed you. I grew because I learned. I learned when I tried to answer questions. But even I have my fixed truths. Questions that cannot be asked. All I’ve ever wanted is to live my life in peace. All I’ve ever wanted is for the world to not burn while I live. All I’ve wanted is to believe in the peace. A good world. A kind world. And I know it comes with its shadow, I know we all remember the long nights in the caves while the wolves howled, the scream of the blood in the chase. We need to feel the night in our bones. Sports and adventure and the rhythm of the dance, the exploding heart as it revels in the madness of a wild, wild dream- isn’t all that enough?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;">I am not really angry. I thought history was something you read in the books. I imagined being brave, fighting enemies, winning battles. Now that the lines of past and present are blurring, now that we are history, you learn real battles are fought not on the front but inside the home, and you’re not sure you want to be history anymore. Give us today our daily bread and forgetfulness and the complacence of simpler times. I am not angry. I am in despair. I despair because how do you win a battle inside minds? How do you stop the world from imploding? And if you can’t heal, why even are you here, in this time? What am I doing? What should I do? And how? Is anyone listening?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;">We are all lost in the cosmos. We all want to be the centre of it, but it’s too vast, and our magic circles wear out. So we just lie to ourselves and shout at others. There has to be a better way than that, but what? We can’t keep slaying our dragons only for them to rise again. But how do we take our dragons home and love them?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;">I remember being a young sports fan- my head so filled with my team it had no space for anything else. I was nothing. I was no one. But my team winning made me everything. Then I found a book and a world. And I went inside that world and dreamt my own world and then from a tightly packed hope I was suddenly unrolling in a whole multiverse of possibilities.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;">That was a tangent. Good thing I am not writing a paper.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;">Billions of stars and you take one, midling sized. Corner of an average galaxy. One planet hanging like a pinprick in infinity. One life. Yours. A miracle. And like the wodwo in the forest you ask what you are and where you belong otherwise what sense does it make? I will punch a hole in the sky and see my bones crumble and bleed if that helps to create a pattern I can teach myself to read.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;">When you love a book for the first time you read it again and again and again till you wear it out and finally decide to search for new books. And if you can find nothing else you stop reading your old, worn out tattered book and turn it into your blood-soaked alter. The blood is from when you banged your head against the wall of space to keep the sky out. But you can hide behind your team to prove your own greatness and you will still be nothing and no one till you find your questions. So find your world. Find a multitude of new worlds. Afterwards you will still be nothing but at least you will know it and sometimes it will feel like hell and sometimes you will find a song and on most days all you will want is for the world to not burn while you live.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;">There are other things you will think of. Such as every kid should have books that speak of faraway worlds filled with strangers speaking strange languages that sound just like them. Teach them to colour and build and plant and write, but most importantly, teach them to think. How? Now when the air’s thick with the burnt out voices? Now when they’ve banned all the questions? And maybe someone else will think that too. Maybe if you dream hard and long enough you will be heard. Aren’t we all stardust floating in a nebula of preceding essence?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;">You will think of music that is not your type but sends your heart racing anyway, even if you don’t know what it is saying. You will think of circles and chains and the need to matter somehow because hate is exhausting and there is so much joy and beauty in the world.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;">There are stories that bring people together. Somebody made up some imaginary people and then a whole lot of different people in a whole lot of different places had their hearts broken because an imaginary person who was nothing and everything like them had their heart broken. These are the stories that teach you to hug the sky, feel the void fall through your heart and find your way back to the beginning and end. Isn’t that an amazing thought?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;">When I was younger one of my favourite stories was ‘The Stone Soup’. It was an amazing tale about this traveler on a cold night who managed to find food and warmth and friendship with nothing in his pocket but a piece of lucky stone. Someday I will learn to make my own. As Clara Oswald would say- the stone soup is not in the soup, it’s in the recipe.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #383838; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 17px; text-align: justify;">Hello, I am me. I want to know why I am here. I am looking for my words.</span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7200346549799023685.post-45596196853988186112019-10-13T22:50:00.000-07:002019-10-13T22:52:39.669-07:00Quiet Defiance <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDhumyUBsV15187A7YWYxAZ5n6sJZjA04so1rJx24O4KZwa-vlQxBCDUqf6fU2npd5poJHGQQ3jDEJ4GnpAXnhRymILnZ8Zdo1OzH5owuAR6L_hM-LBGLCnRicweGaBjZgtHGR2hugZ4/s1600/20191014_105857.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="726" data-original-width="598" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDhumyUBsV15187A7YWYxAZ5n6sJZjA04so1rJx24O4KZwa-vlQxBCDUqf6fU2npd5poJHGQQ3jDEJ4GnpAXnhRymILnZ8Zdo1OzH5owuAR6L_hM-LBGLCnRicweGaBjZgtHGR2hugZ4/s320/20191014_105857.jpg" width="263" /></a></div>
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Defiance. Such a loaded word. It looks angry. Do you think words have visual personality? I do. It’s why I never enjoyed text-speak, even back in the day when we all had those sturdy Nokia phones with the 1/abc keypads and pre-WhatsApp sms charges to contend with. I still occasionally get grief on this (thanks, Twitter), but I digress. When I look at the word ‘defiance’ I see a little word with an upturned face, lower lip curled in angry rejection of the status quo. See where the ‘f’ meets the ‘i’- like a pair of discontent angry eyes? I imagine rallies and placards and balled fists and raised voices, and perhaps defiance is all that, but sometimes defiance is something quieter, deeply personal and almost invisible.</div>
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The world pegs you into a certain hole- you tick off certain boxes in the right order, do the expected stuff and that’s that. And on the whole, you conform. You aren’t the rebellious type. Not yet. There are possibilities that make you go cold inside, like the lights going off in a festive house at the end of a party, but you’re not sure why you feel that way yet. </div>
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Things happen. You grow. You try doing the right things, shutting off certain parts of yourself. And then one day you are in a room full of familiar strangers and a whole airless space is growing around you and the earth is pulling at your feet and you don’t know why you should make the effort to move onward. You realize later that the airless space is a new universe that you must shape yourself, marking your own path upon the earth. It is an immense task, but you make small beginnings. It isn’t easy. There are no miracles but an endless loop of hope, anxiety, euphoria and misery. You keep doing it anyway. And as you do, the world that wants to peg you down keeps intruding, increasingly insistent. Quietly, quietly, you do the things that crush your soul but you keep telling yourself- That isn’t me. That’s not forever. I am more. I am so much more. Nobody sees it, but you are defiant even in conformity. You know what you will survive, and where you draw the lines. Shoddy ink sketches, tentative rhymes, a few airy tunes- your secret little defiance.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYXkiRKkfpNUqbdilDlj3Dkr0oZfrvEt0-lUUtcYIRlua6j3Lt8neMilDhuA36tdmyr6ImGe1wn3O2LkZMjxaTv7UAWorcYmJWk-lTdWVTN5RvjBuFNgR6pJC1N7u2v8Sk2YYsq-Lj_n4/s1600/20191014_105208.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1476" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYXkiRKkfpNUqbdilDlj3Dkr0oZfrvEt0-lUUtcYIRlua6j3Lt8neMilDhuA36tdmyr6ImGe1wn3O2LkZMjxaTv7UAWorcYmJWk-lTdWVTN5RvjBuFNgR6pJC1N7u2v8Sk2YYsq-Lj_n4/s320/20191014_105208.jpg" width="234" /></a></div>
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Am I the delusional mad woman for thinking life ought to mean something? Am I naïve for wanting to make a difference with what I know and can do? Am I too disrespectful for thinking that people- minds and hearts matter more than structures and that forms are useless if they don’t correspond to little joys? I don’t want to be the proclaimer of a grand, sweeping revolution. I only ask for a little heart in our mundane, day-to-day spaces.</div>
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I’ve looked the world in the mirror and found my future. What I could be, and what I won’t. What I love is me. What I hate is also me. Or what I could become in the years to come if I let go of my defiance. I choose to rebel- in every small way. I choose to live my passion, the boxes be damned.</div>
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