Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts

Sunday, April 23, 2017

Culture Diaries: Exploring the Growth of my Identities in Changing Cultural Settings

I have been grasping at the idea of identities, discovering and acknowledging them as mine in the past few years, and it is developing in this ever-growing, amorphous and radiant form with every cleared thought, good conversation and life event. It is going to be almost two years since I moved from Madras to Columbus. It's been one hell of a ride and I am learning every single day what I have going for me and what I don't. This piece though, is simply a personal way-finding of my identities in these two very different cultural settings. It's long and I hope you can bear with me in its length.

A recent introspection ever since I moved here, into what 'home' and 'community' means to me has been unraveling in many ways in modes of inquiry, delivery and affect. I have been asking people what it means to them, what they think it could be, I was a part in conducting an exploratory workshop with two artistic peers on one such hunt on 'home', I am looking at it through my art, I brought it into my own design research thesis work (as I want to work with local communities and on socio-cultural issues in the long run) and spent numerous hours just writing in my journals. It's amazing to see how people have adopted these terms into their lives and what it means to them. For some, it was a place and for some, it was a person or a community that they are a part of. These people and communities are identities, placeholders for what a person is. For some it was a vocation, it was what they do- art, poetry, being a community leader etc. and for others, it was relationships- motherhood, being a spouse etc. I sit here with all their answers in my hands and wonder about what I am really sifting through all these perspectives for, right now. Some part of it is clear already, others would probably emerge.

One large predicament I am in is of being in-between cultures. It's not easy to float in this space, not knowing where you belong or with whom. This might also be happening simply because of my age and this time I am in. I have friends who think this life I am leading in a developed country is amazingly easy and awesome. Well, it's awesome, I'll give you that. But I have to tell you that it's not easy. I have to dispel any thoughts you may have of me leading a rosy life based on my Instagram/FB news-feed. Different aspects of self-concept (by definition- 'an idea of the self constructed from the beliefs one holds about oneself and the responses of others') are churning like concrete in my belly of a giant mixer, it feels like it hasn't yet had the time to set. But I think it is finally setting at the edges at the least, for now. I had these key moments already mapped out in my head (it's been brewing in there for months now) and when I began to research the terms to articulate this discovery, this charting-- it fell right into my lap.

'Response of others' in the process of my identity formation has been rather pivotal in figuring out who I am. The aforementioned cultures I am a part of plays a huge role in what I have come to believe, how my interpersonal interactions are formed and the relationships that arise out of it. There are two different cultures I have already been a part of and that which I am having an opportunity to encounter right now.

India, by and large adopts a collectivist culture. A collectivist culture tends to put the needs of the collective ahead of the individual. In these cultures, selfishness is a vice, you work towards gelling in with the society and in helping one another. It relies on interdependence and an expectancy of largesse in your actions: my neighbours took care of me in Madras when my parents were away, I have taken care of the neighbour's kids when their parents were running late, you invite anyone who arrives at your threshold into the house, you share whatever you have. Growing up, there was absolutely no concept of 'mine' in my household. I am not joking about that. Any toy, chocolates, fancy food or gift that came through to my sister or myself were 'ours'. I didn't realise what my parents were inculcating in us as we grew up. Of course, it was also that we were two girls born five years apart with similar body types- we exchanged clothes all the time. My sister just returned from a trip from India, bought me a bunch of stuff I had asked for. I was over at her house the other day and she showed the clothes she had purchased and said 'take it anytime you want'. Perhaps, the sense of ownership has slightly tilted but the idea of interdependence and oneness hasn't.

America on the other hand, which is where I am now adopts an individualistic culture. This culture asserts itself through individual independence, by not wanting to 'bother' or 'burden' someone with health/wealth problems. Emphasis is laid on the individual, on their uniqueness and self-sufficiency. I don't know a thing about my neighbours except for a few of their names. Their doors are always closed. Most people I see eat by themselves, commute by themselves and have a large boundary around them for personal space (I am not here to say I think ill of any of these aspects of this culture, just making observations).

At this juncture in my life when I am still malleable and forming pieces of my self towards a more detailed, organised and acknowledged idea of a personal identity, it is hard to be floating about without any grounding. The concept of personal identity changes from one culture to another. I collect pieces of what people say, do and think out loud in my presence and I am always putting these  pieces together. I wonder why someone would say something to me and why they are comfortable enough or not to tell me something. And then, there is this huge, beautiful part of 'individual' and 'relational' selves that plays a key role in identity formations. In short, individual self (as I understand it) talks about personality traits, attributes and characteristics of a person (Example: cheerful, bold, analytical) whereas the relational self talks to our relations with the significant people in our lives (Example: friend, husband, lover, sister). There is also the concept of 'collective self' (from what I understand) that allows us to reflect on our membership in social groups (Example: Indian, American).

I believe these three aspects are important pieces that we need to ground ourselves in while on the path towards discovery of who we are and  with regard to the formation of our identities. I was recently riding the bus with a peer and we were continuing a conversation that had begun earlier. I told her how I usually befriend bus drivers and chat with them during transit whereas she mentioned how it was going to be nothing beyond a nod or a smile of recognition and familiarity. She's from Australia (which seems to have a similar culture to the States). She mentioned how she wouldn't like people entering her space on the bus, that she was on public transport but would be prone to assuming a setting which pretends that there is no one else there. I find that culture exclusionary, that you drop people who are on the fringes of your everyday life that aren't people close to you. I was sitting there and reflecting on how transit times in India, on the other hand, form deep friendships. My culture (and I use 'my' to refer to what I have been exposed to all these years) is about inclusion. It's about inclusion of your neighbour, your co-passenger, the grocer, the bus-driver, the extended family and their extended families. My mother's best friend (Kasthuri aunty) became her best friend because they have been taking the same bus back home for decades. The collectivist culture seems to have allowed and given space for deeper connections with increased familiarity. Here, I find it stopping at mere recognition. You will find co-passengers in India who take the same means of public transport everyday, at a fixed time talk greatly of their friendships there. Transition is a time for interpersonal connections in the collectivist culture and one of silence in this one. This is not to say that I have not witnessed passengers on the COTA bus not recognise one another. But I have not seen them talk beyond that first line of  'How you doing today?' or 'You don't have your hat on this morning!'. Transit is by and large via individual vehicles in this country and of the people taking public transportation, there appears to be a large sense of exclusion; less acknowledgement of the person sitting in front of you or next to you.

All this was very riddling to me initially. My individual self is that of holding a cheerful demeanour, to be kind/compassionate and to make someone feel included (for I knew from past experiences how it was like to be excluded). I can strike conversations with almost anyone unless they're visibly shutting me down out of a sexist/racist/any other -ist agenda. I know three bus drivers by name, two of whom will know me by name and what I do because we have already discussed that. We have discussed about work shifts, about art in the city, about what we do, about our 'everydays'. One of them, Carl, asked me recently if I am always like this-- always this cheerful with a smile on my face? I told him I have my down-times but I have no reason to frown at someone because I am having a turbulent time on the inside-that's just not right. It warmed me the first time when another one of them, 'Happy' Harold told me that I made his day because I asked his name as I was getting down at my stop. I was elated that day because it dawned on me that people in different cultures still are the same at the basic level- everyone wants to be loved, recognised and most importantly, be seen. It still bothers me that I have no neighbours whose doors I can knock on to give them some food for Tamizh new year or have a cup of tea with. As an individual from a collectivist culture living in an individualistic culture, I am afraid to step on people's toes. What is a sign of inclusion into my personal boundary in my culture is a breach of privacy here. This makes it all the more harder, to navigate through these social situations and relationships.

It's hard because my ways of making someone feel included or make known as important to me is to risk losing them altogether in this culture. Where does one find that line? I feel rather lonely in this country sometimes. I have kind of lost my sense of belonging to any one place because I seem to be losing friendships in India and not really being able to ground some in America because of the vastly different connotations of relationships between these two spaces. My expectations of a relationship/friendship and cultural norms clash. Of the select few that I have come to love and trust, I tell them beforehand that it isn't my intent to breach into their space. I am only trying to connect in ways I know to and if I withdraw, it's only because I am scared of losing them.

When I look at my past and about how I have transitioned in the last decade, I see a pattern and a sense of seeking something on the 'other' side. Growing up in a collectivist culture had me guarded and safe. I was always looked out for- by my parents, siblings, cousins, family, road-sweeper women workers during late nights alone, auto and bus drivers, and most other people on the roads. I was fairly certain in my assumption that I would have someone to help me if there was a predator that I couldn't manage myself, and that gave me a sense of fierce boldness to be authentically myself in public and private spaces. The intimate levels of my personal self has lesser borders as I trust someone but I am never something I am not. It's still a part of me. I believed in not giving up my personal self of identity away for the sake of the society, which paradoxically also curbs you from doing/being/saying something that is tangential to societal norms. I don't believe in conformity. I also ended up reading a lot of Ayn Rand as a teenager and it has taken me a while to see large holes in her theories. I think it would be interesting to discuss this with someone from another cultural setting. It appealed to me at a time when I felt society was suffocating me with its ideal collectivist expectations and norms. Now, with the time to reflect in a different setting- everything changes. I was moving towards establishing a sense of increased individual self of identity when I was in a collectivist culture.

The collectivist culture that I was a part of had assigned most of my individual self itself. I was a tom-boy growing up, rebellious, masculine, an athlete and a gymnast, loud, obnoxious and unafraid. This collectivist culture only managed to pick out what already stood out in the crowd for further reinforcement. I was well-known as a sportswoman. I was associated with toughness and masculinity. My softer sides went largely unknown. I was a trained Carnatic vocalist and I realised only recently that most people didn't know about that side of me. I am a very sensitive person and very few people actually recognised it. My sense of individual self came from the acknowledgement from outside and then, myself. I recently did a Johari personality awareness mapping and most of the people I invited to take part in it were from my relationships in India. 'Bold' was a recurring word. I also realise now that it might not be the chief word any of my American relations would pick out because my own sense of personal identity took a huge turn here. It became all the things people in India missed seeing, it was beyond educational qualifications and professions. In India, one's qualifications became an easy acquisition into one's own identity. I can very easily tell someone that I am an architect and a designer, I don't think twice nor do I doubt it. But for the longest time, I never claimed I was an artist (until a year ago, to be precise).

America allowed me to call myself an artist without fear or doubt. Now, I have to introduce something else before I take that previous statement further and that is about relational self identity. Bear with me for a moment. In India, I was always introduced in relation to someone else. I think that is why I felt like I belonged there. I was introduced as someone's friend, sister, daughter, family, neighbour. No one ever introduced me as a writer or a poet or an artist first. Relationship came first, everything about the individual came next. Come to think of it, I miss that in America. I realise that when I speak of someone here to someone else, of the relations I have acquired here, my first impulse is to speak of our relationship. I always say 'so-and-so', 'they are my friend from _____' and then, 'they are a wonderful poet/artist/designer/musician'. I also realise that most of my American friends don't do that. Their means of introducing me is generally on the front of how they formed this relationship with me (Example: she's my classmate) or what I do (Example: she's an artist/architect/poet) but not that of relationship. If I heard more people introduce me in relation to them as opposed to what I do, I guess the sense of belonging would automatically set in (as that is something I am used to). This is not to say that I don't encounter wonderful people in America-- I do. I love some people very dearly. I have just realised what may still keep me away from them. But if my introductions are about my art and not myself, if someone doesn't explicitly state my relationship with them- it's hard for me to imagine that I am what I think I am to them. This can be viewed as a silly problem space- but it's real. India always allowed me inclusion by emphasising on relational identities.

America on the other hand, has been emphasising on my individual identities. When my friends introduce me here to someone else, they say- 'She's Hemu, she's a visual artist'. Now, I must acknowledge that I have never introduced myself as an artist with the level of confidence that I do right now. I always said 'self-proclaimed artist/poet' (because what if someone came up to me and said 'you call this art?' or 'you call this a good poem?'). By not acknowledging something I could be potentially good at, I found myself searching for who I was all this time. America, this individualistic culture has given me the space to accept who I am- yes, I am an artist. Yes, I am a poet even if I may not be a good one. Yes, I know people have larger problems than I do living in a developed nation but that doesn't mean what I am going through isn't validated. I went on a huge rant one night to a friend  in America because I couldn't comprehend sifting through the scale of what I was feeling. I was losing friends in India because they can't relate to me anymore, that my struggles seem like a speck of dust in relation to their own, and I can see where that is coming from. But to lose the only few important friendships I have built, trusted and loved over the last decade come crashing down was a huge shift for me. I couldn't figure out if I was being an asshole to them all these years by talking about my problems, that what I am feeling now are 'complaints' that need to be seen against a larger picture, whether I am 'creating' these for myself. My friend listened and told me that my thoughts and feelings were validated no matter the scale and I am immensely thankful for that. America has allowed me time for myself: for developing my individual self, to carve out identities for myself that would have been harder in my own collectivist culture of upbringing. I reinvented everything when I came to America, especially my wardrobe. People call me 'feminine' in this country and you have no idea how wonderful it is to be seen the way you want to be seen: I was never considered 'feminine' or 'dressed on-point' in my country. Ever after I started embracing my femininity and established my intellectual assertions as a woman of her own free will, thinking and independence,  my community, friends and family always looked at me as their little girl who doesn't know what she was talking about or just ended up hurting me by not even listening.  

The third part of this essay talks about the realisation of my collective identity. Some days, this country has my knees hugging at my breasts because most connections are single-tiered. It hits me hard because I have taken my sense of community and belonging in Madras for granted, for 20 long years. I always felt at home at Madras, I felt like I belonged there (even though I was excluded in some social groups). I had a very clear sense of collective identity, I was from Annanagar (the locality), from the city of Madras, from the state of Tamilnadu and lastly, from India. Patriotism was a given. My sense of love for where I come from was unadulterated- here's where I have lived all this time, and the place and its people will have my undying love and loyalty. When that was suddenly uprooted, I had stumbled upon a whole new context for comparison, a new level of reflection to see what something really means to me because I, now, have a much larger picture of what it is I am looking at and seeking. Coming to America and seeing real racial problems made me more aware of my own classist society in India. As a person from a middle-class 'upper-caste' household in India, reservations were never for me. I belong to FC (Forward caste) as mentioned in our official papers by virtue of what religious community I was born into. I think I have borderline resented reservation systems. I felt that they had to be based on economic status and not on socio-religious agenda. But now that I have brought myself out of that system and see much bigger problems of the world, I have come to terms with the benefits of that system, acknowledge that my ancestors were oppressors in the past and that I have to live with that aspect of what my community has been in the past and the privileges I still have till date because of the community I was born into. At the same time, India offered me secularism. I don't understand America's large sense of 'other-ing' some communities,  religions and race. I am still learning. My perspective has shifted and I have now, started being a part of a different collective identity. If I had previously called myself an Indian, I also now call myself a 'person of colour'. I am learning every single day about race relations, about privilege and about power. Would I have known about what it means to have lesser socio-cultural privileges had I still been in India? I may have had an intellectual understanding of it but no experiential knowledge and sometimes, the latter teaches one more than the former.

In short, I guess I wanted to evaluate my growth as a person. Yes, I wish I had a different sense of relational identity in America, I wish I meant more to people in terms of being 'someone' to them. But I also learned what it means to embrace who I am without fearing what other people would think of my interpretations of my own identity. I have moved beyond boundaries I had earlier, towards adopting a whole other collective identity. I realise I am un-learning, re-learning, growing and trying to shape my life everyday. Some days it's crazy hard to not even find anyone to talk to. I find myself sitting in my house wondering who I can call and talk to without fear of losing them and eventually end up making more art, writing more or designing more. But there have also been times I have moved beyond that fear and been vulnerable with someone. These identities are changing, they're setting in and I am growing.

In the process of figuring all these out in the past few months, I have had different conversations with many of my friends and acquaintances-- some who are international students like me in America, people working here, immigrants, people from the past with whom I have a whole shared history with and some over here, with whom I establish an immediate sense of collective identity with. My closest relationships are with whom I seem to connect on all these three aspects of one's identity. My friend from college recently sent me the link to a very interesting TED talk by Taiye Selasi. She explores our multiple identities in this world with an intriguing set of three R's: Rituals, Relationships and Restrictions. She speaks to the intent of a question and it made me think of how it all falls together with these aspects of one's identities I have been talking about so far. It's an interesting talk to see if you haven't already!

At last, I have lost some, I have won some. I am changing. It's scary. Not everyone understands that and that's okay. But I am glad I am moving forward and that I have acknowledged pieces of who I am, what I could be and where I stand at this point in my life so far. Life isn't easy at all but it sure as hell is beautiful to understand and learn from this journey.

Thank you for reading all the way till the end.

Much love,
Hemu

P.S: I have interpreted these based on my research of these terms and how it fits with my experiences. If it is jarringly wrong, please do let me know though this is largely a subjective account. I would like to learn.

A picture of me at a place that is closest to Madras- A beach in Florida, shot by my high school friend, Vimal Raj.







Tuesday, June 28, 2016

High

I’ve never lived in homes with ceilings low,
breathing on me
like the open windows don’t belong
within the walls;
they’re too stumped,
buckling,
falling,
pressing.
I live now in an old apartment
and it seems like yesteryears were full of people like me
who didn’t want buckling walls ,
let tall lovers graze their homes with no apprehension,
believing in the power and beauty of them high ceilings:
untouchable bases of everyday living,
a space that lets you move.
It lets you explore.
It lets you jump.
Jump because I jump sometimes
in joy,
I shoot up when someone tickles me
an involuntary happiness that I can’t contain
it just spills and reaches out of my body.
I shoot.
Shoots, yes.
I want a lot of them, green from the top
hanging from my indoor skies,
vines filling for the veins of the walls,
pots and plants scaling my thoughts,
upright striving
and a safe space for their flowers to bloom.
I love high ceilings and I can’t lie,
not in houses alone
nor at work or that breakfast diner on my street
but at the psychiatrist’s office
or that bar that was once a bank
and in funeral homes.
The soul needs space to leave that body,
an outworn piece of clothing
the music needs to bounce,
it needs to echo, to want to dance in the presumed void;
it lets me dance with my beloved I bring home
and should he want to carry me high up
straddle my soul on his hips,
breasts at his lips
I want nothing to touch, no ceiling to hold on to
except the high cheekbones of his face.
I can’t be put in places with low ceilings,
they make me seems bigger than I am,
a giant,
an illusion of being free to accomplish goals
and I am not sure that is me.
The high ceilings are a friend
long lost
walls holding them up for me.
They meet me with open, blank slates
my art has the space to breathe,
the poems are up on my walls
living in sprouting light,
shadows incarnated.
When I’m head flat, water in my ears
in the bathtub
naked and suspended of social intrusions
I like looking at the light playing with the blinds
behind my back;
a fresh canvas
not breathing down on me or pressing me,
coercing me to be big
but a tender look that allows my insignificance to manifest.
The crown moulding looks at me like a lover,
the walls let me touch them
slow, I write in the air.
I once read this story about a man who filled his walls
with art, poetry and words,
ceiling resplendent with the words of others
until he hung himself from the fan
and I can’t help but think
how high his ceiling was
because these words can float,
they need no tethering,
they are little free lives in themselves
and if you put them in a box
and throw a person like me in it
I can never make peace with those words
and art, arrogantly mine.
I need the volume to love and it’s important that I love
because that is when I
and the colours
and the words I string
are most beautiful
and should you come to my funeral when I am gone,
I don’t want these words haunting you:
making you cry, kissing you against your will
but makes you rise and pluck words from my space
creating your poems from mine already dead,
streak it with colours
to later tell people about me
with a smile:
That funeral was hauntingly beautiful
and then,
Remember to look up
because

I am probably still there. 

I do not own this image. Collected from Pinterest.
Hemu 

Monday, March 14, 2016

Where Are Your Curiosities?

I met an interesting lady in the locker room at the gym, on campus.

Amidst women changing into workout gear and fleets of us just in transit with a towel around our bodies, I met this down-to-earth soul who wrapped herself around with a special kind of joy. I haven't really had much of a conversation here with anyone in the locker room because everyone is predominantly in some sort of a hurry. There are some smiles now and then, quick questions about the weather, workout and fitness, and occasional stories between friends there that comes to float over your head; but there is hardly any time to sit down and talk to someone you don't know. I cherish these kind of dialogues and I recollect having them with random strangers ever since I was young and had started traveling alone for my gymnastics meets across the country. It's a refreshing encounter, every single time!

In a locker room majorly occupied by young college students, she stood out to me: not because of her age but because of her demeanour that consisted of a special kind of radiating smile. She smiled at me and I did so too, I've missed that in a while. She is easily 60 years older than I am. She had come in to swim because it was 'liberating'. For a person like me who is mortally afraid of deep waters (even after swimming lessons), she was an immediate conversation starter. 'Do what you're afraid of', was what she told me and immediately added she didn't mean to preach. I feel culturally attuned to being open to other people's life experiences and it was strange for me to hear someone as old as her to say that she did not mean to 'preach'. It's an interesting crossover for me, a person from a different culture. I wouldn't mind it anyway. Some of the best conversations I've had are with people with a lifetime of experiences and even though I have come to disagree with some of their notions in the past, I have learnt to listen to them and respond, sometimes to gently disagree. Learning to convey disagreement of ideas in a placid and respectable manner are some of the curves I've come to correspond with at twenty four,I guess!

I have always had this affection for people with a zest for life and an innocent disposition bordering curiosity in their quest for life, especially if they're much older than I am. Here is this amazing women for whom walking is difficult but swimming is gently easy and embracing. We were joking about how there needs to be water channels instead of pathways on campus. I was extremely curious to know what education she was pursuing and she generated an entire list! She graduated in 1949, if I remember the year correctly. History (WWI, WWII and The Vietnam War), Literature, Music and French are among the studies she pursued and she is now with the music department again. 'I've been coming here for thirty years. I've been doing this for as long as you are alive and I love it.' For a person who sees students pursuing their undergraduate career with a little of a sulk and my own monster of graduate studies and its expectations, she shone with so much optimism for life and learning something new.

Imagine the zealous curiosity and openness a person must possess to go from one education to the next, sprawling across different fields! She's even learning some Chinese and teaches little children to play the piano. 'I don't have a formal degree for it but I finally feel like I know enough to teach little children.' Listening to her made me question my own life choices, the long way I have ahead and the relative understanding that time and age is, to do anything. Mother of six children, some grandchildren and great-grand-children, this woman is jumping one hurdle after another like it is no big deal. She was so excited when I showed her my sketchbook and the kind of art I make, as it came up in our conversation of about 40 minutes; and I remember her remarking how it is absolutely amazing to come across the talents and skills people have. 'Imagine! Every single person has some sort of skill and creative talent in them, isn't that amazing?' she said. Well, isn't it? In this rat race of a life, that was a gentle reminder to acknowledge the strengths and talents of another person and to stop for a little while instead of trying to power through to simply make it to the 'end'.

In this fast pacing world, we assume we don't have the time for a lot of things, for our little sources of happiness, curiosities and circles of people. Perhaps, we don't make time for it? I used to write letters to my best friend between fifth grade and almost up until my first year of college. We have both grown up and though we still pick up from where we left things, we haven't been writing to each other because of each other's busy schedules. It was beautiful to me when I heard this lady recount that she spoke to her pen-pal over the phone a couple of days back because she is very sick. A pen-pal in France who was just 29 miles apart from the army during the war, a pen-pal whom she wrote to after a gap of 45 years after high school when she started French lessons again. Her pen-pal wrote to her in three weeks saying she was the one who opened the letter and here are these beautiful ladies keeping in touch with each other. When was the last time we sent a postcard or a handwritten letter to someone we love? I don't mean to romanticise the whole idea but I do wonder time and again, if our correspondences and its associated experiences are losing its tangibility and significance in this digital era.

She reminded me of my own grandmother back in India. My maternal grandmother is one of the most beautiful, kind and gentle people I know of. Her education consists only up until the eighth grade as far as I know but she's still one of the most malleable and open-minded people. I sometimes wonder if she grew into it or if being that kind and lovely is just in her. What is most beautiful in her is her curiosity. I love her curiosity and eagerness to learn. She doesn't know too much English but she plays the SpellTower game on the iPad and keeps generating new words. Sometimes, she forms words in the process of playing the game and asks one of us for the meaning of the new word she just landed on, learning one step at a time... with no hesitance or feelings of awkwardness.

Why is it that we don't have time and the countenance for our curiosities anymore? Why can't we be like children and much older folks to whom not knowing or learning something new is exciting? When in the process of 'growing up' did we cease to pay attention to our curiosities and why are a whole lot of us afraid to express them? I'm just wondering out loud here.

I found so much more openness to conversation, ideas and sharing the excitement of doing something new or simply having a chat with someone they don't know of, in her; the interesting lady from the locker room. We have exchanged phone numbers and I shall keep in touch with her, attend her concerts and perhaps, send a postcard even! :)

Life is full of curiosities. Strike up a conversation with them all!

Love,
Hemu

Image Source:https://memyselfandela.wordpress.com/2012/12/28/smile-of-an-angel/

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Calling Bluff

I see Him building his muscles instead of his conversations,
treading only along narcissistic monologues with a mirror.
I see Her pounding herself to suit her waist to being slim or curvy
or whatever is in vogue,
hoping that a thigh gap will
ironically seal the distance towards Her search.

In the end, neither eyes meet in an occupied glaze
and if only their gaze meets but for a second,
He dismisses Her for a desultory accumulation of layers
with nothing vulnerable underneath
and She goes in search of an intelligent man in spectacles,
wielding a book and a charming lilt in his words.

Source: Hemu's Art Blog
Image should not be reproduced without permission 



























~Hemu 

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Headscarves

The sun rises when she lifts up her chin
and sets when she breaks free the scarf 
full of misery and pain that she holds in her head. 
Headscarves of the woman bear more than the colours that you see. 

Source: HEADSCARVES

~Hemu 

Saturday, November 1, 2014

The Words You Say


 | If the words you spoke appeared on your skin, would you still be beautiful? 
I found this quote, so far shared as an anonymous one on one of my Pinterest browsing days. I can't even begin to express the kind of impact this single line has on me, never leaving my mind; only permitting me to constantly picture myself with all the words I say everyday, on my skin. Would I still be beautiful?  | 

We live in a world that is extremely fast-pacing, with more faces unregistered as we pass by everyday and words that escape us without any filter that we don't really pause to think about the effect we have on another person's thoughts and image of themselves.

   I can't probably explain this better unless I bring my case into the picture. I was (and still probably am) a very loud child in my days of growing up. I spoke to everyone without inhibition, believed that everyone I meet are my friends and that this world is a lovely little place. This optimistic outlook on life was not met on the same terms with everyone. I loved talking with people about anything and everything. I'd ask doubts during classes at the silliest levels if I didn't understand a concept. I didn't think it was a big deal, really. Why else were we in school? Owing to this, I was thus called the 'Doubt-mistress' of my class, not to forget 'Chatterbox'. During extremely boring sessions, my classmates used to nudge me and say, 'Hey! Ask some doubt and pass some time. This is getting really boring'. To that, there have been times when I have obliged and had my own share of fun. It's all very nostalgic when I think about it now.

   While all those happy memories live on, the problem arises when the invisible boundaries are crossed and kids or anyone for that matter, don't realize the impact of what they say. Sometimes people shrug off insults and name-calling with ease on the outside while it would tear them up on the insides. Being branded talkative wasn't something that got under my skin but the lightness with which everything I said was. It was/is hurtful to have people ignore, override and consider what you say to be unimportant without even listening to it. It still hurts me. I have been through it and so do so many other children and adults who in everyday of their life, undergo their own such battles.

   We fail to comprehend the impact our words have on another person's life. Bullying,stereotyping, limitless teasing and condescending attitudes are all a part of this spectrum of failing to grasp this simple working of the world and people. When I look back at my school life, I wonder if my own friends have been passive bullies in a way, forever scarring parts of my memory. I have learnt to live with it and accept the factors of age and maturity with it but it would not be true to say that it doesn't have any impact on me. After all these years, it still does. I believe that I have matured into a different person because of and despite all these occurrences, but who is to say that everyone will get out of the pit of name-calling and being slighted?

  We have no filtering system in our heads, most often. I have had my friends tell me how hurtful it is to be stereotyped on looks, mannerisms and characteristics. A very close friend of mine told me how it gets to her that everyone she meets comments on her physique and not on her lovely character that I personally know of. Gay. (I still don't understand why it grew into an offensive word) Fat. Ugly. Pimpled. Talkative. Duffer. How quick we are to categorize people into slots and call them so in a jiffy! Do we realize that it could potentially create low self-esteem and confidence, depression and other psychological effects for the rest of the other person's life?

  A lot of you may think that you know when you cross the bounds of your 'good-natured' humour. Honestly, most of you might not be aware of the subtle but strong impact your comments and sarcasm creates in your own good friends from work or college. Maybe you could ask them once in a while. Even the strongest of people you think aren't affected by the world's perception of them are at some level,are indeed affected by it. So, before you unleash some laughter for yourself at another person's expense, you could think about it again and see in retrospection, if it might hurt your friend in some manner or the other.

 I tell you all this because I have been subject to much of this and know how it hurts. I have known other strong people in my life very close to me describe how it goes with them. I'm sure you know what I mean. You may be bullying someone else without your own knowledge, creating such a deep impact that hurtful words from decades back still ring loud in their ears, after all this time. But so do the really good words. They stick around from the most random times in your life. Small words create a great impact.

I ask you now to think of all that you say to people on a daily basis. Think. If all of that appeared on your skin, would you still be beautiful?

Beauty is not skin deep.

Next time, if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.

P.S: Don't confuse all of this with a dogmatic attitude or a person who cannot accept constructive criticism or good-natured humour between friends. There is a huge difference between what I'm talking about and all of this.


Original Artwork by Hemalatha Venkatraman. Copyrighted. Do not reproduce without permission.
 Find it on : www.hemusartblog.tumblr.com


Monday, October 20, 2014

Home

  How could I forget that night? It was exactly ten days since my grandfather had passed away. I was close to 1400KM away from home at Bombay, unable to sleep; merely staring at the wall a little before midnight. There was a sense of melancholy and wishful dreaming over my head. My teammates were fast asleep, heads buried in makeshift pillows. It was January; the floor was as cold as ice but yet, vaguely comforting.

  Silence screeched as the wall suddenly lit up to life, reflecting the warm hues of an oriflamme presence somewhere. The sound of the crackling rose up to the second floor apartment where we lay as the fog lifted, disintegrating into nothingness in the face of the bonfire built out of all which held people back.

   Bhoghi, the harvest festival, had dawned. It was midnight as heavy drumming began to sound, awakening the sleeping souls to stare out into the dark; where below, there lay a mound of light and lilt. Smiles cast invitations even when we couldn't see. We ran, our flip-flops slapping the bare mosaic flooring. The sound of the dholaks and laughter intensified with every step of ours, the excitement building. I rolled out only stopping to a reckless halt before the fire. The flames, a feet away leaped about, taller than I was, a fourteen year old girl in disarray. A Sardar, otherwise camouflaged by his beard and black turban smiled through it, holding out sweetmeats to me.The flames blazed higher, smoke spiraling into the vast sky charring the past and ready for the future.

    Slowly, the other state gymnasts descended the stairs and gathered around smiling, laughing and chattering away. Girls who would otherwise be dressed like dolls before the floor exercise performances began to dance in baggy pajamas and disheveled hair holding hands. My hands slowly slipped into theirs, strangers I didn't know in a place I wasn't really acquainted with. All I knew then was that the sound synced with my heartbeat and that the dance came from within.

It didn't matter that midnight in a strange place that I was holding hands and dancing with strangers. It didn't matter how close I was to the fire that night because I didn't feel any heat, only the warmth. It didn't matter that night that my grandfather was dead. I learned to laugh out loud again after a ten-day hiatus. It didn't matter that I was celebrating the festival away from home because, that moment in the dark when all our eyes met lingering with joy, shining in untamed light, I felt at home.  


Source: GOOGLE IMAGES. I do not own this image.  

~Hemu

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Broken

We are all but broken women 
pieced together by the joyful memories 
lining every heartbreak,
every belied relationship 
and all of the hidden sorrows
behind fallacious, colourful smiles. 

We are but broken girls 
sprouting out of our own wombs,
further broken with every push;
standing out of monotony 
as a lovely mosaic of our own mess. 

We are broken.
But oh, the shards are just too beautiful 
to comprehend,
to surpass 
or to be neglected. 

Just remember to piece yourself together.
You'll be spectacular. 



Original Artwork by Hemalatha Venkatman | Copyrighted  | Do not reproduce without permission 
|In connection with my art blog Hemu's Art Blog's ongoing Inktober Challenge and the Facebook page of this blog where I have been putting up a poem a day. | 

~Penned and sketched by Hemu 

Sunday, October 12, 2014

The Girl Who Catches Stars in Her Hair

I know a girl whose hands are always full
with misery and poetry, love in vain and abyss infinite.
Yet, she settles down to catch the evading stars every night
and because her hands are full,
the stars perch themselves on her hair
so that she may smile.

Original Artwork by Hemalatha Venkatraman | Copyrighted | Do not use without permission 
| I have been going about with pet projects on my art and writing blogs where I put up one inked sketch as a part of the Inktober Challenge throughout October. On this blog's Facebook page, (Street of Smiles) I've putting up one poem a day for as long as I can. I collaborated both the projects for the day, combining my art and poetry. Please do let know what you think of it. :) My art blog can be found at Hemu's Art Blog! ) Thanks and cheers! |


Penned and sketched by
Hemu 

Monday, October 6, 2014

Dangling Feet

   I’m borderline aqua-phobic. The line lies between that simple stance that my feet can touch the floor of the water bed and the assurance that drowning is not a possibility. It lies submerged in the sea-green blues of the waters, the fear of not death but suffocation unto death and the helplessness of it.

   Sixteen years of age was when I set out to Calcutta for the first time in my life en-route to Manipur. The train chugged away, pulling with ease the coaches that followed, sculpted with steel carrying people full of dreams. The locomotive sped at an immense speed as I edged my way to the doors of my bogie, swaying with the whims of the vehicle itself.

  It was noon and everyone had slept into obliviousness. The door was wide open, as I held the handles just on the outside and lunged my body forward for the erstwhile breezing wind to scream in my ears. Drawn to the avenues open to my senses; I merely collapsed and sat down on the steps, still holding on to the rails, feet dangling to the moving Jelly stones. The rhythmic lull of the wagons over the railway tracks seemed like the ritual of love-making between two as I closed my eyes; unaware of the people around me, singled out within.

   I don’t know how many minutes passed before my eyes opened to a change in sound, the return of the breeze alongside the summer sun. The rhythm was the same, but the echoes and sounds that emanated, completely different.  I gazed ahead to look at the calm blues staring back at me, its ripples moving from one to another, in constant motion.

   My fingers tightened around the handles as I peered down. Hundred feet below were deep waters that could devour me alive. It was the first time I saw seemingly bottomless waters below my own dangling feet. The initial flutters of anxiety and fear had drowned in the overwhelming feeling that was caught at my throat. I had never felt this comfortable, alive and fearless of waters. Transience and permanence loomed to and fro, as the moving waters coupled with the climax of the lulling pleasures put me in the moment, in complete awareness of my senses.

   I was neither in the past, nor an eon later. I lived that moment, completely, without the fear of suffocation and drowning lest I fall. In that unknown place, over an unknown water body somewhere in North-east India, I could then do nothing but smile as the cool wind kissed my face.
I have never felt that liberated, thoughtless and free in all my life, ever since.

~Hemu

I do NOT own this image. Source: Google images 



Thursday, September 25, 2014

Mirrored

Image Credit: Laura Williams



If you mirror me and I see your soul,
will I be looking at you or me?
Or,
do you think, maybe it'll be a pensive
of your confident being mixed with mine;
filling it up with stars
where my insecure spirit leaves a hole?






~Hemu 

Saturday, September 13, 2014

Karna

|This happened to be a piece I'd penned last year right after I read this book called 'Mrityunjaya-The Death Conqueror'. The life of Karna is one of the most fascinating and tragic stories I've ever come across. He happens to be my most favorite character in The Mahabharata alongside Draupadi and Krsna. I keep attempting to sketch him again and again and never have I been satisfied with what I complete as it never seems to represent him in entirety. The artwork can be found on my blog, here. Cheers! Revel in His life, for it's complicated and beautiful. |



What is more trying by destiny, oh warrior
 than to be painfully oblivious to the origin of your birth?

You who slayed vice with smoldering golden rays
later blanketed in the smog of your munificence
sparked from vanity leased out in thy head;
exorcising material despair,
subduing with grains of praise the
licking ravage flames in your chest,

under the gilded skin armour, shut.

What could have been more ruthless
than the rejection of the dark-skinned maiden-
flinging insults like dung to a damp wall
while your strength lay untested and unapproved?
The woman you loved and hated within eons;
that your brothers  five later betrothed ,undivided

only to garrote you to shameful death.

What decremented your virtuous soul further?
the culminated fury abreast constant light
of doubt-ridden guilt about your legacy
Or losing your honour to jealousy
Beginning a vow out of an unnecessary jabbering

of the tongue unsaddled by righteous thought?

And when you saw your confounded flaws
mirrored on the deceitful glass of an angered moment,

You saw the image that your blue-skinned kin saw,
an enemy you endured with till your
chariot broke
while fighting with the universal wheel of time-

the only aid to defend the dead in you.

There were those grains of sand that fell through
the goodness, your blood dripping onto the muddy moulds
fusing towards an unjustified departure
defended in the karmic book of a godly conman.
The hourglass now contains merely light
in honour of a hero, tragic 

thus denied a deemed title

because his own blood feared the words

out of an unworthy stranger, spitting in the air.

~Hemu 

Source: Vimanika Comics 

Thursday, June 19, 2014

Still Little Moments

| Isn't it true that the smallest things, the most minuscule moments in life are what one reminiscences the most? There are some dishes that your grandmother makes/made that you can taste when you think about it, the carnivals you attended as a child whose colours are still fresh in your memory.

I generally don't post anything from my personal journals.This is the first time I am sharing anything from my personal diary. These are two little moments in my life from my past that I now look back with immense love and longing for, that I have recently written in my 2014 journal, Shon. 

Two little stories that I'd like to share with you from my past that I would trade my present with. The sportsperson in me that I long to meet again.

 I'd love to know what your memorable moments are. Please feel free to share it with everyone here.  |


#1
Synthetic tracks. My spikes dig momentarily into the rubber and shoots out just as quickly. My body leans in to the left, just a slight tilt; like the angle in the mirrored version of number 7. I'm out of breath and feel the pang of heavy wind and breathlessness burn my nose and throat. But the pain is beautiful. It pulls me and pushes me. My feet is never stagnant and there is no thought on my mind but the lines I'm bound within and the place I have to reach. That slight tilt in my body with my legs striding and the pulling within that's trying really hard to finish the race I started... that after that point my legs will be fine and the pain will subside. I can breathe without noticing my own breath and the necessity of air to my lungs. It is the time that I give nothing but my very best. That moment of tilt as I cover the curve of the race, that's when I'm the most steady.

#2
It's almost 5:00- 5:30 pm in the evening but my coach is relentless. I can't go home until I land on my feet from the Round Off Backflip Back Somersault. It doesn't matter how many times I fall down. I can't stop, I'm not allowed to stop. If I left for home now, I may never set foot in my gymnastics training every again. The hall on the left wing corridor on the first floor of my school was empty except for black mats, my coach, a picture of Gurudev with a walking stick and a smile and myself. Anger welled up as tears in my eyes. It's unfair that the other kids are allowed to go home and I am not. My coach didn't care. I just want to leave. I muster my strength and run with quick, agile steps and completed the element, landing on my feet.

I landed right!

I did the Round off Backflip Back Somersault for the first time in my fourth grade.

My anger reaped happiness. My coach merely smiled. I did it a couple of times more and landed right every single time until my coach asked me to stop practicing and go home. Oh, at that moment I never wanted to stop performing the element nor go home.


P.S : I still remember the first time I performed the floor exercises on proper floor. The height, the stillness in the moment when I was in the mid-way of my element, in mid-air and swiftness that existed at the same moment. The perfect landing. It still takes my breath away.

Image source: www.thetelegraphandargus.co.uk

~Hemu


Tuesday, October 8, 2013

A Junction

There is this particular junction I cross everyday on the way back from college. One of the main roads in the city which is now a huge mix of one-ways,complicated yet simple routes that has been changed from its main course ever since the construction and all the digging began for the Metro Rail project.Envisaged by the traffic policemen in white and fluorescent overall-ed workers regulating the traffic with red flags, I am like the flock of sheep they push towards a certain direction every single day,to and fro the same route.

By now, after years of riding, I am more or less mechanical, with the music playing through my player and regular checks on the rear-view mirror, I am good to go at any point in time. But something struck me of late. I have been using this route for a long time before the construction process (with huge cranes) ever began and never noticed anything extraordinary. Just the same old schools and colleges in the locality, the buses and the ever impeding vehicular traffic. I guess that's the thing about two-ways. When you have the option to look and you don't? Or is it just that a whole lot of obstacles have been removed from the view for us to appreciate the possible beauty?

 

 I get a couple of seconds to admire the sky and the overall setting everyday while waiting for the traffic to move. Sometimes I wish it was more because everything looks so beautiful. The way the cranes' load stands in mid-air and the steel containers lie still- it's almost poetic, that I could keep staring at it for hours.  Sometimes, the sun is out in the open blinding me and at the other times, dark, rolling cottony-clouds set the perfect background for all the cranes and the tiny people in small helmets. A natural hierarchy exists there. Colourful hemets, little people, the containers, the cranes and the sky. What's more astonishing is the ability for the setting to change everyday yet appear similarly enthralling and beautiful. Some days, the crane is moving and some days its still, but for the sly wind to brush against it, different sky settings... but it's lovely, every single day. In the entire half hour ride back home, that's a scene I neither look forward to nor avoid, but enjoy just as it comes. In that singular couple of moments.

 I wonder if the junction is in new light or if I am perceiving it to be.Am I supplied with a new choice or have I trained myself to look around? Whatever it is, it is beautiful. Maybe, I could apply it to my life and move on as and when the signal turns green.



Do you have a similar story? Finding something utterly peaceful in the midst of chaos and loudness?
Please do share it with me here. I would love to know what I am missing out on. Cheers and much love! :)

~Hemu 

Monday, December 31, 2012

The Heart Rout(e)

There are always those paths in front of you,
sometimes forked, sometimes parallel;
some of them tiny at the beginning opening out into a thicket of sunshine
and some that narrow down into walled fortresses. 
Every single of those places have a sliver of light, a flower that blooms 
to merry, 
fighting warriors abreast with swords awaiting to lash and
many a shores of the beaches where you can soak your mind. 
You get to choose but one of those
beginnings so deceptive; 
you get these eons to stand and stare 
at the stars above you and the ground below, 
the trees that hug each other and the colours that hang around. 
Some smell of the petrichor, some like baked cookies. 
A lot of them have sweet smelling flowers and 
a handful that smell like tea. 
You get to stand there and make up your mind
that wanders down all these roads once
and you weigh it in your head from what you see. 
Sometimes you move out of instinct, some after you set
out after logic
whose crown falls tumbling down another avenue 
that hold your emotions by its reins
or even the little lure of your favorite sound. 
You tell yourself, I'm not going to regret this
and go down that adorned pathway 
hoping you'll find a charming prince or the fruits of heaven
whilst your parallel mind notes the joys that lie 
in the path that separates you by choice and helplessness. 
You'll most often live there, 
in that parallel path where another traveler dreams
of standing in your bright little blue shoes. 

                                           Photo credit :
                                          Image from the internet : SteveRossman's blog. 
                                          http://steverossman.com/2011/11/11/two-roads-diverged/
                                         I do not take any credit for the picture put up here. 

~Hemu 

Saturday, September 1, 2012

What next?

What next, they ask me? What next, I ask myself a lot of times. I know just one answer to it, which does no justice to the question itself. 'I don't know.'
What are you going to be in 5 years? In ten years? Fifteen. Fifty. I still tell them 'I don't know'.
The vague outline of vision that education offers is so faint that sometimes I have to trace it and chase it around to find out where I'm off to. To meet whom? To earn? Or to learn? These are just only a very few of the questions that keep popping up in my head.

   Life goes on. I was enrolled into a school when I barely learnt how to walk properly before teachers asked  me to 'sit down' in a place. Just when I was learning how language and sounds roll under my tongue, I was asked to keep quiet. (I'm still told the same, mind you.)Maybe it was for the good, I was trained in the basic 'skills of civilization'.. like every other kid. Ran through primary school, secondary, senior secondary and now college. But if I look at the net result as to what I have learnt and what I want to be... I think I'll have to un-'study' most of what I was taught.

 ('Don't talk back to your elders.' - So, what if they are teaching me something wrong? What if I'm being stuffed with something I don't want to know if I did know how it would lead.)

So, what do we learn? Or do we learn anything at all? Do we just study, score marks, get a well-paid job which most of us hate to be in, get married, 'settle down', reproduce, get old, die. Why do we have this pattern? Why do we have these definitive words like career, salary and life-partner? Why not unconventional ones like dancing, music, farming, one-night stands and hiking? When people ask me what I'm going to be doing next, I say.. 'Oh, Finish studies, work for a year or two, study for another two years, start my own architectural firm'.. when what I actually want to do is to let all of this go. Keeping ambitions aside and working towards a goal or what not.. I've probably forgotten how to live.

   I want to attend or go to an educational 'system' which lets me enjoy the freedom I already possess, I want a 'job' where I don't want to sit staring at a laptop screen for 8 hours straight when all my heart lies in the last few lines of the book I read that morning on the train, I want to fall in love with someone who is willing to spend time on crossword puzzles, tea and sufi music- not through a profile that talks about his height, weight et cetera. Is that who one is? What happened to the soul one had? Knock Knock. I'll be surprised if someone does open a door to that one.

      The saddest part of it all is to know you're on a path that you don't want to be in. The problem lies in staying on this path that you like and are comfortable with and not on the one you would love and feel completely passionate about. Where 'identities' such as doctor, engineer, architect, farmer holds no meaning. Where craziness, joy, love, kind, stupid are the probable tags... and I want to live there in that world where salaries don't contain any meaning, where educational qualifications mean nothing... where only what one holds, loves and stands up for makes sense.

  I'm not there yet, but I know I'm changing tracks. It's going to be difficult but to learn to live in the moment is a long term dream I hold, as paradoxical as it may seem. Next time someone asks me what I am : I hope to answer the question to myself first.

 What am I going to do?
Roam through roads I haven't set foot on yet. Travel. Read. Write. Design. Sing in public washrooms. Eat farm cheese. Play Frisbee with my dog. Break a couple of roads. Get into a bar fight. Fall in love. Dream. Sleep on bare ground staring at the stars.

What am I going to do?
I'm going to live.


~ Hemu


Image from the internet : 






Saturday, January 28, 2012

Jaunts waiting to be relished

To wander through streets lonely and full,
staring at passerby's with flaming red and soothing black hair
as the spaces next to my feet gets quickly filled with feet
holding and supporting heads held high and tears dropping low.
To be there for the unknown baby that unclasps her hands from
her mother to run on the grass;
to help her up as she falls while her gray eyes still gleam with joy,
to have that face registered in my memory, to forever remember that smile.
To have some tea in coffee houses as the snow falls slowly
scared if it'll hurt the earth;
to stare out of those huge glazed windows as the next page of my book awaits
in silent understanding of my thoughts that fall along with every snow flake
finding its journey to the next level.
To love the winding roads as they take me with it
like the curves of a woman on and off a diet,
to enjoy the sunshine that plays between my hair set free
To enjoy a bonfire with people I don't know of
and get drunk with all shots mixed
so that the dance in me mixes with the rising and falling fire
in its blues, yellows and orange.
while in the end I gaze at the stars and get myself lost in constellations
trusting the moon I love to take care of my guitar who lies alone
in the darkness that lives.
To eat food I haven't eaten before and laugh like I have never,
to dance and sing in speeding trains
as strangers smile in amusement looking at who might be a retarded girl
losing her mind over good ice-cream and waffle rolls.
And probably
while I walk back colourful alleyways and paved paths
to a house I don't know of,
I find someone who plays with baby monkeys and takes solitary walks
at the cemetery I land up at with a notebook in his hand.


                                          Image from the internet

~Hemu 

Sunday, October 24, 2010

My little boy

 I looked at him lay beside me.All his face muscles relaxed and a chest so smooth. His ruffled hair and closed eyes made me run my hand through the silkiness of his face and hair. I could see him smile. It seems like he is in the middle of an intense dream where there was a chance just to smile and nothing else. It seemed like god was playing Lego blocks with him and he beat god with a more massive and intricate structure. It was a smile of triumph and acknowledgement of being let, to win. Like the smile of a three-year old boy who thinks he is the strongest in the world as he beats his father in a game. He didn't know the truth behind his victory: the  selfish satisfaction of the father wanting to see his son win. The smile of a kid. That's all that was wanted.Yet,beyond all this, you know the boy'll melt in his mother's arms and embrace her surrendering himself fully to her. Like he did, in my warmth. That's all I saw.. A little boy. 


      Perhaps that's exactly what made me love him. The little boy that I saw in a wannabe man.Mirth danced in his eyes, evidently.. he had a risqué manner of speech..Still like an event that never happened,  the first time we both met. I didn't know who he was.. We spoke in the full freedom of being strangers sharing a conversation. He was of a different class.. of a different world and different ideas. Outsiders saw two radically different people connected by one word: frivolity. Odd that I started liking him I've never had a crush on any guy who resorts to annoying habits I so detest. I never did. But he caught me somewhere. It was an incursion which stayed in fragments in the heart of mine so lonely. Like the little boy who kissed the stranger's cheek, I as the passing woman sat down on my knees to cuddle the bubbly kid. 


    I was still in the warmth of my bed, Unable to get up as he would be awoken from his encounter with the Angel of Smiles, I lay still, looking at his baby face. The smile wandered back and forth from his mouth and into the thin curves of his cheeks. He lay right there holding my hand tight, still sleeping... smiling...
       .... like a little tot that clings to its mother's clothes, my man, held me in his arms.
I went back a little on time and thought of all the eons that he made me smile. Starry-eyed he was, of hot chicks, a prankster,an imp.. The jolt in me that struck me every single time he spoke to her., the days of jealousy and envy. 
It was a feeling that I stuffed inside me. All that I needed to brighten my day was to see his sparkling face just once.. fooling around and teasing everyone. Kid-like antics, I tell you!


           The feral guy, so cherubic... with horns and a tail as well. Boyish charms. That's where he caught me. Yet over the few of our years together, I've seen a man growing. I see it when we go out alone, a protective force all around me.. I see it when another man looks at me. Yet, when it's just me and him, I fail to place the man anywhere, I can see just the little lad. Just the same little boy of enormous guts who walked up to me in the middle of a large gathering and asked me if I liked him in front of so many of my peers! I still remember the cheers that faded out as I walked out of there. What a day it was! 


I lay and thought of it all. Saw my life go in front of my eyes. I saw those tears, ego and love blinding me. I saw the past,present and future. As they were, as they are and as I wished it to be, with him. He amazed me. With the way he talked, the way his face carried a look of obliteration about me liking him or not, the wide shine of his ardency that left me with the blank feeling of emptiness that I didn't know what to do with... everything about him. It just left me stunned. He seemed like a magical being to me. Yet, like every other human, he did grow sad and angry. As a matter of fact, he possessed the emotional level of a kid. On extreme scales of happiness, sorrow, temper and tantrums... He jumped like a monkey from one to another. But, it is adorable to look at him through it all.. For whatever may a toddler do, he is always looked at  with a feeling of extreme love and adoration.  


     Thinking about it all, questions of what, why, when,who and how never were answered when put as a question to ask me about him... He just walked in and pushed everyone else out!
And when I agreed in the pool of tears I had shed that I loved him too, after months of denial and pretension, for I could take it no longer, He just smiled. The same mischievous, impish smile that made me look at him, twice in a huge crowd of people. The same smile of the little boy who steals another's chocolates.. His clean sweep, pride and elation, all behind that one smile as he embraced me to be his...


         I turned around to look at him staring at me, wide-eyed, into my eyes. Still in the covers of my thoughts, I smiled, looking at that boy... who still looked the same.. as I whispered," Good morning.. You seemed to be very amused in that dream of yours! what did you see?"
He mocked my look and asked if I really wanted to know.. As I gave a nod, he said...
   " I saw a little lass, my dear.. A tiny little one that grew possessive of me..A girl drowning in jealousy as I spoke to another.. I saw the girl I so love.. The small kid whose heart I nearly shattered before I could make her love me too, the little girl that i wooed,. and the girl who said a "yes" to me...She is a little girl, my dear who makes me smile.. 
                                                         
The beautiful little girl who I know is a woman, 
yet to me, who will always remain to be a child!"


I closed my eyes and slept on him as he stroked my hair, with a peaceful smile of knowing... 








~ Hemu