Believe

I'm reading my favorit-est book, Twilight. Reading about Bella Swan who fell in love with Edward Cullen. Twilight, the inescapable phenomenon that is the vampire love story that is so loved...

And so hated. It saddens me, really, that there are haters; that there are people who want to stay away from fantasy, afraid that if they give it a chance they might actually end up believing in it. They'd rather stay grounded, stick to reality. Cowards. I'd rather believe. I'd rather live in fairyland. Its about taking the leap of faith. It saddens me that so many people are afraid to do that. 

This isn't your average definition of what is intellectual, they think. It’s just a silly story that a silly girl thought of. Her fantasies. Condensed in prose. In the form of an ill-famed bestseller storybook.

But I’m not here to defend the popular Edward Cullen against the haters. This isn’t meant to act as a saviour against the vandalism for Twilight and for Edward. What I do want to defend is the act of believing. Because I don't think it is un-intellectual to believe.

As children, we believed a lot. We believed in Santa Claus, we believed in magic tricks, we believed in the power of good over evil, we believed the princess always got her prince. What happened to all that belief along the way? We grew up and it is annoying and extremely depressing to me that a lot of us today seem to have forgotten how to believe anymore. 

If this is what growing up does to you, I urge you, haters, to please un-grow, to un-learn. Believing is like a primal instinct but you've buried it under all this tarnish - all the many years of wisdom that education and the society has brought on you. Uncover it! Let it shine!

It's in you, somewhere. I think we all fantasize about an Edward or a Bella. I think we all want him or her in our lives. We’re always on the look out. It's out constant subterfuge. We hope. We know, from history, from legends, that hope kills. Remember Pandora’s box? But we hope, in spite of it all. And then, we give up. Like some of my erstwhile friends. They think there’s no such thing as a perfect relationship. “Compromise!”, they say, before you‘re too late and end up a spinster in your fifties, just waiting endlessly. They've grown up, forgotten how to believe. And I don’t like it. I belong to the other group: The believers.

I say: Believe! Think of Peter Pan and of Wendy! “I do believe in fairies! I do, I do!” Belief can cure all. Believe. And maybe the impossible will happen! Don’t give up! Your Edward or your Bella is out there, just about on the verge of losing hope, like you are! Don’t! Cause if you do, there’s nothing to keep you going. It will happen. He or she will come. The reality around you is a farce and it’s killing you. All your childhood dreams, all your aspirations are dying a slow death, everyday. So forget reality. Forget being wise or rational or intellectual. Forget the prejudice. Take the leap! Believe!

Edward, I wait.

Forbidden

Forbidden fruit. Shy love. Stolen glances. Murmured intentions. The exasperating desires for an unattainable something. Slowly, he grew and grew until he became a mammoth preying on my thoughts all the time. It was inescapable, inevitable, weighing me down.

*********

It was a hot day. I bought a thin white dress. It had long, printed pockets and a small tie up below the bust. It was pretty.

The dress made me happy. I swirled on the spot showing it off. I was at the beach, laughing in the sun. And then, I was not. The front porch of a bungalow was before me. It was late evening and the fading sunlight, filtered through the branches of the surrounding trees, was soft and jaded. I stopped swirling. He was there, looking my way. Water flew in the brick fountain behind me as he walked toward me. I seized up as time seemed to slow down. He made slow but deliberate progress as every step closed the metres, feet, inches between us.

And then he was so close I could smell him, almost, taste him. My sight blurred. He raised his right hand, all the while holding my gaze and I knew he would place it on my waist.

But then, the dream broke and I awoke sweating.

**A/N: I've picked this up from a short story I've been working on, called Forbidden, which is based on a young girl's unrelenting obsession with an older man. As it progresses, I might post more stand alone bits here. This is the first. :)

Choosing

All through school, I've been a model student. I had perfect grades right from the start. My whole life used to be centered around trumping all my peers in our exams. This wasn't by choice. My mother had a huge role to play, personally teaching me in my early years and strictly monitoring me as I grew up. She was the one who lighted the competitive fires in me and then carefully nurtured them. She hated to lose. Beyond that, it was her conviction that all knowledge was to be attained in books. I suspect she even believed it was righteous to pursue that knowledge and that not doing so would be nothing short of blasphemy. She ensured I never wavered from her chosen path for me. She wasn't disappointed. That is, until the year 2002.

2002 was the year that I was to appear in my tenth Board exams. All my life's work had been leading up to this point. I started classes for the tenth Boards while I was still in ninth standard. I was expected to be amongst the top achievers. Academics gained a new significance that year, more than I had thought possible in my already textbook-crowded world. And it wasn't just us model students who were taking it seriously. Even the academic nobodies of the school were suddenly answering questions in class, scoring top marks in surprise class tests - the works. I was insecure. It would be fate giving us a big fat slap across our faces if, at the end of the day, a non-topper took the cake in the exam that mattered most. The competition had never been fiercer.

I knew this. I knew I really had no choice in the matter but to work my hardest ever. Unfortunately for me, that was the year I decided to "discover myself". Worst. Timing. Ever. I couldn't afford being a teenager at the time. But the deed was done. The ball had been set rolling and there was no going back or putting it on hold for a year until the exams were over.

Let me explain the dilemmas I was facing. I had been an obedient daughter all my life: always studying, never wasting time, always doing the right thing - a good girl. But goodness had been imposed on me, giving me no choice in the matter. Professor Dumbledore said once, "It is not our abilities that decide who we are, but our choices." Surely, being good because you did not know another way of life was different from choosing to be good over being bad. I didn't want to be bad. I wanted to be able to choose to be good. I wanted to be able to choose to study for my Boards. But I was never given the choice.

Naturally, my heart never in it, I didn't exactly ace the exam. I scored well but it wasn't the top ten ranks. It was a huge let down for my parents. On the day of my results, which were to be announced in the school, we came home and cried together, as a family.

I know me today a little better because of that one year. I would have hated me if I had just gone ahead and studied simply because I was told to. I would've hated me if I had topped that exam.

I honestly believe today that it really doesn't matter if we do something without ever choosing to. It is as good as if, we didn't do anything at all. It doesn't matter if you go to work everyday at nine in the morning or get married at twenty eight or visit the temple with your mother on Janmashtmi - unless you choose to. The worst possible reason for doing anything is that you must.

I do not blame my mother in any way for imposing her will on me. I love my mother very dearly. It was her way of teaching me. But I do know this: Your choices will make who you are. And you will never know what choices you would make unless you know who you are. So choose! Choose to work hard at your job. Choose to quit and paint. Choose to get married because it would make your parents happy. Choose to wait for your soul-mate. Choose to believe in God. Choose to not believe in God. Choose.

Old or New?

I like to keep records of everything that happens in my life. At home, I have an entire drawer dedicated to carefully cataloged personal items. All my childhood friendship bands, gifts, birthday cards, photographs, books, journals, posters from my teenage years, music CDs - everything is preserved in fussy little shoe boxes. Organisation makes me feel like I'm a. in control, and b. complete. If they weren't all in one place, if I didn't know where these little pieces of my past life were, my life would feel scattered. I feel safe knowing the essence of my being rests in that drawer in a concentrated dose. It makes me feel certain of who I am, it lends me an individuality. 

My Dad can never relate to this. He finds these items to be a nuisance - worthless now, since they're old - occupying unnecessary space. Quite often, I feel annoyed with the way he regards old things. To me, one's individuality is strongest in one's early years. As we grow old, baring only the most tenacious of us all, the rest of us tend to get lost along the way. We forget who we are, our dreams and hopes, and what we loved. We get distracted. Our family, friends, society expects us to act in a certain way, and we do. That is why, these early memories are so important to me. They serve as a reminder of who I am. They help me to not forget so easily. Dad, on the hand, would sooner get rid of it all than worry about individuality. He is a military man, my Dad, and as such, he has a very practical mode of operation. He has traveled a lot, each new posting taking him to a new port. To him, all these items are just excess baggage, to be packed and transported - and for all the use they do one, not worth the bother. I don't believe he likes to place his roots firmly in any material belongings. He likes to remain a free man.

Once, he  asked me, "You keep buying all these books, there are so many of them already. What are you going to do with them? Maybe you should try selling them to the library outside the main gate." I was slightly irritated with his outlook on my books. I did not want to sell my books, I loved my books. Actually, I was secretly proud of my small little collection. I told him so. I said, "When I'm old, I want to have enough to cover an entire wall." He said disdainfully, "Do you want to be like one of those old nerdy ladies who has no life?" I told him my books would BE my life. But he just shrugged in a very superior way that was extremely annoying. "What have you got against my books?" I asked. And my Dad said the strangest thing: "I don't have anything against your books. I just think everything must be recycled and renewed. The new must always replace the old."

Even then, as annoyed as I was feeling with him, a certain truth rang out in his words. I knew he was right. It is the way of the world. We see it all the time. Aging species die out and new ones spring up every day in their place. Thousands of graying men die every second while thousands more are born in their place. The yellow of trees in Autumn gives way to green in Spring. A bright new morning replaces the dark everyday. It is a never ending process. Dad was right. We had to keep moving on, keep renewing. 

But right as my Dad was, I knew there was a certain significance attached to the old as well. We wouldn't have had the cell phone, for instance, had we not the telephone first. We wouldn't have had Modern Art without the Renaissance first. We would not have had Star Wars 1, 2 and 3 without 4, 5 and 6! The old is important. Besides, there is a certain charm to the old. There is a quiet wisdom there, a hidden repository of knowledge, of mistakes, of learning. History - our greatest teacher. There is a reason we gravitate toward the classics - the Charles Dickens, and the Alexander Dumas'. A reason the Victorian age buildings of South Bombay appeal more than the contemporary high rises of Juhu and Bandra. We find comfort and solace in the old. We find familiarity, warmth and recognition.

To me, each has its significance. Dad and I will just have to come to a compromise about how I'm littering his house with my old things. For as eager as I am to find new experiences, new friends, and new books; I'm way too attached to my old memories, old friends and old books to let go yet.

Tough Luck

I last had my height checked as part of a health check-up exercise that was mandatory to undertake in college. If I remember correctly, I stood at 175 centimeters, give or take a few. Now for an Asian female, that is quite tall and extremely rare. This was around 6 years ago and since then I've assumed my height to remain constant at that level. While I was growing up my father used to mark my height every couple of years on a wall in our house with a pencil. Those pencil markings are still there, and when I came back home from Mumbai one weekend recently, I decided to stand against the wall just for fun and see how I measured up. Turned out, I had gained a few centimeters. I'm now closer to 5 feet, 10 inches tall. I was initially a little worried about my unexpected gain in height. I didn't think it was quite normal to still be growing at 24 years of age. 

I had, long ago, when I was still very short, seen a documentary of the Guinness World Record Holder for tallest man. He was an American. Robert Wadlow. This gentleman grew close to 9 feet tall before his body just couldn't take its own burgeoning weight and he died of a rare case of excess height, still in his early twenties. I had watched the documentary with a growing mix of sympathy and repulsion for the huge fellow. His size was astonishing. He had all his clothes specially tailored for him, a special roof to live under, a special chair to sit on, a special everything. I say 'special', but to him, it might have seemed abnormal. He had been singled out, and not for being good in class or answering a particularly difficult question of maths. He had been singled out for no deed of his own and with disregard to his willingness to be so. He was filmed, and photographed and recorded as he sped to his own death.

I cannot imagine the emotional turmoil associated with such a life. He likely never had any romantic interactions with anyone. His condition may have called into question for him, his purpose on Earth, his past deeds or karma; he may have probably been God's greatest hater. My sudden bout of growth now had me thinking about the man. I could imagine what it might feel like to be born with one life, one shot, and in that one chance, of all the billions that crawl our Earth, be the one to have this rare disorder. The odds were astronomical but the unfairness of the situation would be maddening. It would be inescapable, you'd be born with that body and you would have had to live with it. A tough life. 

As tall as I am, in a country of shorts, I feel perhaps a tiny, tiny fraction of what might have plagued my tall American friend. You see, we take for granted so many things. It could so easily have been any one of us, instead of Robert Wadlow. Our constant, unknowing refrain is "It can't be me". We take our normalcy for granted. We assume, that when a bad bout of plague hits, it will always be others who succumb, never us. When we hear of bomb blasts and terror attacks, there will always be others to die, never us. Our unassuming safety lies in our numbers. 

But Luck, that wrecker of all  havoc, that un-feeling bastard, could always one-up us and we must never, ever forget that. We must learn to be content with what we do have, we must revel in our gifts. For however abnormal you might think yourself, luck's always being more cruel to someone else.

The "Thing"

I've noticed every so often that some 'things' - seemingly insignificant, minor happenings - can have an unusual bearing on my mood. They never sneak up on me, these 'things'. They come gradually. They forewarn, they announce subtly their imminent arrival. But because I don't want to acknowledge their arrival (in sub conscious hope that feigning ignorance would make them go away altogether) or because I'm just careless enough not to notice, the warning is mostly futile, so that when it happens, I feel sprung upon. The apparent suddenness of the 'thing', then, alters my mood, leaving a bitter sense of un-calm. I like to think of these 'things' as the first stirrings of an imbalance. A feeling of lost inertia. They irk me. I seem to be aware of the triviality of the 'thing' but like a fly that buzzes around, drawing attention to itself, it lingers and I am unable to shake off the unease it causes.

I am aware that far too often, when I think, and also when I write (them being complimentary processes), I tend to get "carried away", so to say, winding deeper and deeper into the thought till it becomes incoherent. And for fear I may have alienated my first audiences with the above abstract, I'm going to clarify, with an example, what I mean. As a child, I once sat in Art class trying futilely to force my mind to perceive shapes and lines on a two dimensional paper in a manner that might be consistent with the three dimensional world around us (which is what I imagine most artists do intuitively). My Art teacher sat at he head of the class, working on her annual masterpiece - I remember it was a portrait of Shivaji Maharaj. This was how Art class was conducted. We were given a topic at the beginning of the class and then we were left to flounder around for the remaining hour and figure out all by ourselves how we might draw it. Draw and let draw, I suppose. Anyway, as I sat there feeling highly insufficient, the teacher called attention to us. She needed an errand doing. She asked, "Who here knows where the eighth standard classes are?" Mine is a big and complex school for a child. And I did not know where the eighth standard classes were. But inexplicably, I raised my hand and felt an eagerness rush through me. Several other hands went up around my own, but I wanted to be picked for the task. And surprisingly, I was. She handed me a note and asked me to deliver it to an eighth standard student. Feeling special, I clutched the note in my fist and ran out of the art class, in search of the unknown eighth standard classes. I roamed the school, searching all the floors, looking for a large Roman numeral VIII outside the class doors, but I never found it. I started growing weary and uneasy. I couldn't tell how much time had passed, would the Art teacher have been expecting me back by now? I gradually felt myself sink into a nervous, trapped sensation I have since come to associate with exams - when you know the answers and you have so much to write, but just cannot seem to write fast enough before the time runs out. I did finally find the eighth standard classes, that I had walked past earlier several times, thinking I saw a VII instead of VIII. But it took a lot of mental torture and definitely way too much time than if I had known beforehand the classes' location. I returned to my Art class, shame-faced, knowing I had been found out. The teacher, and the entire class would have guessed that I had never known where the classes were. My teacher did not comment upon my arrival and I returned to my desk, to stare dejectedly at the blank piece of paper before me. In hindsight, of course, I know my shame was unnecessary. It was silly. But at the time, I was lost in the misery of my situation. How trivial, how significant. And when I think about it, I had known, in some measure, from the instant I'd raised my hand that it was coming.

One might think this is nothing new. The shame I experienced may be classified as no different from the shame any liar might experience upon being found out publicly. But I think this incident was different. I raised my hand in lies, not to escape the tyranny of the Art class but to impress upon the teacher that I was a smart, diligent student who knew things. And in failing to do so I had, by my own hand, damaged that very impression. I was left with a slow, burning regret.

You see, I think we all picture a model of ourselves. The perfect "me". We'd all like to be that someone - that hero who glorifies our own self image in our inner minds. We want everyone else to perceive us as this being. We act, to the best of our abilities, in a manner that might exemplify that being. But like everything else in the universe, there are glitches. The portrayal is never perfect. We might mess up. And messing up disturbs the balance of that image. This imbalance disturbs me greatly. I feel unable to deal with it, almost instantaneously I seek redress. I cannot undo what is done and I seek distractions to avoid the coming unease.

That day of the Art class, though I didn't know it, what I was experiencing was the afore-mentioned "thing", the stirring of my life's first imbalance. There was an upset in my portrayal of my self image. I wanted to be smart and I really truly believed I was. I had good grades, my Principal knew me by name, I knew more science and maths than most of my peers. But maddeningly, I couldn't impress any of my smartness upon Mrs. Karle. My ticker started then - that was, I suppose count one or very nearly count one of the "thing" happening. And since then, there have been several ugly re-appearances.