Denial and Elation

Each of my days is a process of gentle prolonging
Of saving love in a large honey jar
And waiting for the brim

What words do to me everyweek?

A funny thing that once happened

I remember watching a cricket match between Pakistan and Sri Lanka somewhere around 1997 at a friend's place. We lived in Baripada, a town in Odisha, India.

All these while I have strictly maintained that I don't follow cricket and that I have nothing to do with the sport, though out of lack of things to talk about, I have tried and failed miserably at sparring a contest between the silent factions. But this incident just brings back a horde of memories, and so much more that the actual incident which I want to write about might get sidelined. We will see.

I remember in 1996 Sri Lanka winning the cricket world cup. Those were the times when every New Year was a tremendous affair. It meant something, like a whole new year. When we were kids, seeing Happy New Year written on the walls with smudgy pencil marks meant something.

Back then I used to play cricket. I was not great. But I remember I could occasionally spin a ball that would go between the bat and the legs to take out the stumps. But later when we moved to Dhenkanal, I wanted to bowl fast. I was about 12-13 then. I was never into batting. I remember the one time in recess when a group of girls from my class were walking past, and I wanted to hit the ball hard. But I missed and I remember watching a florescent fluffy round thing going past my blade's edge in a moment of deafening embarrassment and hitting one of the three frail sticks reclined on a tree trunk. Well about half a year later, I broke the ulna on my right hand in a comic episode of trying to dive and save a boundary. That was it, the end of cricket for me.

So back to the game we were watching between Pakisthan and Sri Lanka though I am still in a mood to digress. Because memories are like this interconnected web of things, where if one rare thing lights up, it keeps lighting up many such quaint things. I remember this now, how in those innocent days, a chubby boy could be tormented by pointing at a fat girl and calling her his sister. But if you called him as her brother, it didn't work. On contrary the chubby boy would feel a sense of pride or fond belongingness. It was weird. By the way, I was neither the tormentor nor the tormented.

So we are on a sofa eating something and the match is on. And we are five or six 7-10 year old boys. India back then was a disappointing team. It was the Australians who were amazing. And there were new teams like Sri Lanka or South Africa which had come out of no where. Somehow a fight broke out over whom to support in the current match: Pakistan or Sri Lanka?

After a fierce shower of trivia on the floor about the bowlers and batsmen, which one faithfully memorized from the trump cards one got with the chewing gum the Big Fun, the matter finally came down to this: 'So you want to support the the bad country that is full of people who hate us?'.

Back in those days, I suspect we didn't use terms like 'terrorism' and I certainly didn't have the slightest clue about the irreconcilable rift between India and Pakistan. I somehow used to imagine that Pakistan is like a family member who quarrelled and left the household and that they will eventually come back like everyone else.

The Pakistan supporters were left speechless with this sudden provocation of patriotic sentiments. They had no answer. And then one of them spoke, carefully uttering one word at a time, as if he wasn't sure if he really had anything at all to say: 'So you want to support the country that abducted Sita Maa?'

It still cracks me up when I remember that episode. Even when we were children we knew how to hate people we didn't know enough about. In our seven year old logic, it was impossible to decide if abducting Sita Maa was worse or if killing people in Kashmir was worse. I am not trying to make a point. It is just one funny incident I happened to remember.

What words do to me everyweek?

Men duly understand the river of life,
misconstruing it, as it widens and its cities grow
dark and denser, always farther away.

And of course that remote denseness suits
us, as lambs and clover might have
if things had been built to order differently.

But since I don't understand myself, only segments
of myself that misunderstand each other, there's no
reason for you to want to, no way you could

even if we both wanted it. Do those towers even exist?
We must look at it that way, along those lines
so the thought can erect itself, like plywood battlements.

-A poem of Unrest, John Ashberry

What words do to me everyweek?

Water hollows stone,

wind scatters water,

stone stops the wind.

Water, wind, stone.

Wind carves stone,

stone's a cup of water,

water escapes and is wind.

Stone, wind, water.

Wind sings in its whirling,

water murmurs going by,

unmoving stone keeps still.

Wind, water, stone.

Each is another and no other:

crossing and vanishing

through their empty names:

water, stone, wind.

- Wind, Water, Stone, Octavio Paz

What words do to me every week?

I want to share my chair...with you,
I want to watch the sun rise...and bid it farewell,
I want to walk and run... by your side,
I want to look for and find myself alone with you 
I want to sleep and dream, caresses with you
I want to laugh and cry, with your eyes,
I want to share my secrets and my sighs,
I want to learn to understand the world with you

But there's one thing I have to tell you,
It's not easy at all, being so far away from you

-Compartir, Carla Morrison

"Your eyes close with my dreams"

Sometimes I become you without even knowing, 
When you were desperately turning pages in the middle of the night,
while still thinking about committing suicide
because without me, you felt your life had ended.

Sometimes I become you without even knowing,
When you sit opposite me and write and write and write,
Without ever raising your eyes to look at me.
And I feel glad that you didn't kill yourself that night!

What words do to me everyweek?

Session - 1: Jose Saramago - Seeing

A very generous friend has lent me the book "Seeing" by Jose Saramago, who was the 1998 Nobel Laureate for literature. It lay on my desk for quite sometime, until right after lunch today, I whimsically decided to read the book. (I am actually reading an English translation by Margaret Jull Costa (I know nothing about her yet) of the original work in Portuguese.)

So I read the blurb several weeks back. But I am going to pretend I haven't read it, as I have forgotten most of it anyways. I am going to record my reactions to the book as I read.

First Paragraph:
1. On the usage of conjunctions: In my upbringing writing a long sentence with several conjunctions was frowned upon. The author uses some fine long sentences to describe details that cannot wait for another sentence and I feel it is an effective tool to paint a scene. It is only after the scene is set with three very long sentences, the author breaks into using shorter ones. Very nice
2. Vague remarks on the conviction in the narrative: One often is asked to start with a gripping opening. I have often achieved that (or so I feel). However I have felt that I ebb after a while. I once read about how some author was said to write with a conviction of a man who knew he has a great story to tell. I sensed a part of that here. Very poised start.
3. Lost word, found: I haven't been seeing the word 'Decorum' much these days. It is very nice word, if you think about it - very useful, if you like conveying with parsimony. Very succinct. Decorum: Propriety in manners and conduct.

Second Paragraph:
1. Nice image: 'A sense of unease [..] which you could have cut with a knife'.
2. Smell satire brewing - I was anticipating a gloomy or matter-of-fact narrative. The author seems to be in mood of talking. So perhaps this a witty political satire. Personally I am not a big fan of satires.
3. I don't know if it is this particular copy, but the quotes are missing around direct speech, which I find to be very irritating. Is it how grammar works in Portugal?
4. Interestingly enough, the characters are referred by their positions - presiding officer, secretary, party representative and so forth. They don't seem to need a name. They stand for an idea, associated with that position. Very nice!
5. Note to self: What is a good point to introduce the conflict in a plot?
6. Not unusual, but the book has page long paragraphs.

Third Paragraph:
1. Why am I doing this to myself? I hate anything and everything about politics. I am finding this book to be unbearable. It seems to be about all the things I don't care about.
2. Alright I am going to have to pause this running commentary. Instead I will read a large chunk ahead first before writing anything more about the book. I have a decision to make: Do I want to read any more?

Several Pages later:
Nope. Not my type of book. May be another time. I don't have an appetite for such books at this very moment. I don't find anything funny about politics. Politics just make me feel concerned and worried. Another book I couldn't read was 'Animal Farm'.

26th August 2015

1. Free Probability and Dan Voiculescu