Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Faded Memory
I hadn't actually thought this would happen... heck, I hadn't thought about it at all... but... after nearly three months in London and two months of vacation at home before that... I've totally forgotten how to make Maggi Noodles..I've forgotten all about what was the mainstay of my life not so very long ago... wonder what else has been affected like this
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Monday, July 10, 2006
Squire & Co
The board over the shop simply said ‘Squire & Co’ in black and white. Tucked away between several other shops boasting of sports equipment and the like, the landmark used to identify it was a historical, city’s-pride cinema hall.
It was kind of hard to make out the establishment, but the guitars, violins, drums, harmonicas and cymbals in the window on one side, as well as the hand-lettered board announcing the same, on the other side sufficed to give an idea of their business.
Squire & Co. It was a business that had stood there for over four decades now. Passed on from one generation to another, the reason behind the name had faded into oblivion with time. The business had survived though, intact in the same place. It was Solomon and his mother Philomena who handled the business now.
The shop interior was fair-sized with three back to back showcases serving to keep customers confined to the front of the shop. Shelves lined with guitars, violins and other instruments lined its three walls. Even the floor was covered with plastic-encased instruments.
Five ‘o’ clock one evening.
Three youngsters entered the shop – two boys and a girl. Young, eager and vivacious as youngsters are wont to be. The girl smiled at Solomon and requested to see guitars while one boy looked on and the other continued a conversation on his cell-phone. Inquiring about their needs, Solomon proceeded to show them the merchandise – or rather, told Philomena to while he chipped in now and then.
They were there for half an hour. They left without buying anything, looking undecided saying polite thanks yous.
And it was another endurance test for Philomena. As every customers’ visit was. As every day was. As every day had been, the past few months.
Solomon’s irritated soliloquy was incessant. He continued to bark orders, impatient and curt. ‘They didn’t ask for that one,’ and ‘Move the stuff will you?’ as she struggled to find standing space to open the showcase, and ‘Chicken, mutton, beef, pork… eats everything. Where does it go, all that you eat?’ when she couldn’t carry the stuff across easily enough.
The last straw however came when he noticed the open pocket on a guitar case and hollered at her about a missing plectrum and leaving the pocket unzipped. The youngsters too were not too pleased at the scene as was apparent on their faces.
The rest of the evening was rather routine. Three more customers dropped in before closing time at 8:30 p.m - one wanted his Ukelele re-stringed, another looking for piano instruction manuals and yet another enquiring about guitars. Solomon’s behaviour too was routine. He was more mellow however, since the guitar-case incident.
The shop was shut and in the softly lit apartment behind Squire & Co, end of the day activities were in progress. Dinner over and the dishes cleared away, Solomon padded over to his stuffed arm-chair and switched on the TV for news. Philomena slowly took the stairs to her room to read a bit before she slept.
Television however failed to interest Solomon tonight. He drifted further and further away into thoughts while staring unseeingly at the TV.
He’d been feeling guilty - more so since the evening, when he’d yelled at her. The already overwhelming mix of guilt, worry, despair and helplessness seemed to brim over tonight, and something in him flickered and died. Who’s to say though? Solomon himself was a dying man.
The diagnosis had come after weeks of inexplicable physiological symptoms and a battery of tests that the doctor had ordered. That had been several months back. The doctor had pronounced Solomon terminally ill and given him two years more, at best. He’d been dealt a blow he was still reeling from. The guilt, anger, despair and helplessness had been his cancerous companions then on.
His first reaction was oh ‘what of mother?’ Ever since his father’s death several years ago, Solomon had comfortably taken over running the business and caring for his mother. He hadn’t married - he’d known he never would. And so, their world had come to mean the two of them. For her part, Philomena had always been a homebody - pottering around the house, contentedly so. The death sentence hurled Solomon’s peace of mind into shambles. He had always envisioned himself as his mother’s keeper to the end. The end had come - not hers though, his.
‘What will become of her?’ he constantly worried. How would she live? Where? Who would care for her? What about finances? And what about the business?
Many sleepless nights later, he had decided that he would have to inculcate her into the business – teach her the nuances. It was in the best interests of both. She would have friends to look after her but she needed something more to occupy her. It would do her good to have the business to look after - and the business needed her too. And it was a fairly easy thing, for the establishment wasn’t too large.
And so they had begun. Everyday he let her learn something new - abut customers, instruments, accounts – she needed to be thoroughly informed.
At first, he was quite soft with her. But days progressed and it became clearer that he’d have to be firmer if she could be expected to take over. Her total inexperience and age trebled the difficulty of the learning process. Thus he had taken the upper hand, though desiring it, wanting her to learn the ropes. Yet, her pathetically slow progress got to him. What would happen if she was unable to handle things?
The helplessness he felt about his fate, guilt about leaving her, despair at not being able to do much and anger at his helplessness grew and slowly it crept into his behaviour with Philomena. From being instructive he slowly turned to being curt. Philomena rarely showed she was hurt, although he knew she was. The evening’s incident had been uncalled for though - even if he’d only been trying to make her be careful and aware of everything handled.
‘Things have gone too far I guess’ he mused and got up from his arm-chair with new resolve.
He knocked before entering and found her propped on the bed, reading a book, a duvet half covering her. She looked up in surprise. ‘Why Sol, what’s the matter?’
‘I’ve something to say to you’ he said as he sat down on the bed facing her. Her eyes took on a slightly wary and afraid look.
‘ I just wanted to apologise. Not just for today but for all those days. I know I’ve hurt you very much. I’ve just been trying to have things go ok. I want you to be ok. I’m worried sick’ he let forth.
Philomena looked at him and reached across to squeeze his hand, smiling, saying nothing, understanding everything - as mothers always do.
It was kind of hard to make out the establishment, but the guitars, violins, drums, harmonicas and cymbals in the window on one side, as well as the hand-lettered board announcing the same, on the other side sufficed to give an idea of their business.
Squire & Co. It was a business that had stood there for over four decades now. Passed on from one generation to another, the reason behind the name had faded into oblivion with time. The business had survived though, intact in the same place. It was Solomon and his mother Philomena who handled the business now.
The shop interior was fair-sized with three back to back showcases serving to keep customers confined to the front of the shop. Shelves lined with guitars, violins and other instruments lined its three walls. Even the floor was covered with plastic-encased instruments.
Five ‘o’ clock one evening.
Three youngsters entered the shop – two boys and a girl. Young, eager and vivacious as youngsters are wont to be. The girl smiled at Solomon and requested to see guitars while one boy looked on and the other continued a conversation on his cell-phone. Inquiring about their needs, Solomon proceeded to show them the merchandise – or rather, told Philomena to while he chipped in now and then.
They were there for half an hour. They left without buying anything, looking undecided saying polite thanks yous.
And it was another endurance test for Philomena. As every customers’ visit was. As every day was. As every day had been, the past few months.
Solomon’s irritated soliloquy was incessant. He continued to bark orders, impatient and curt. ‘They didn’t ask for that one,’ and ‘Move the stuff will you?’ as she struggled to find standing space to open the showcase, and ‘Chicken, mutton, beef, pork… eats everything. Where does it go, all that you eat?’ when she couldn’t carry the stuff across easily enough.
The last straw however came when he noticed the open pocket on a guitar case and hollered at her about a missing plectrum and leaving the pocket unzipped. The youngsters too were not too pleased at the scene as was apparent on their faces.
The rest of the evening was rather routine. Three more customers dropped in before closing time at 8:30 p.m - one wanted his Ukelele re-stringed, another looking for piano instruction manuals and yet another enquiring about guitars. Solomon’s behaviour too was routine. He was more mellow however, since the guitar-case incident.
The shop was shut and in the softly lit apartment behind Squire & Co, end of the day activities were in progress. Dinner over and the dishes cleared away, Solomon padded over to his stuffed arm-chair and switched on the TV for news. Philomena slowly took the stairs to her room to read a bit before she slept.
Television however failed to interest Solomon tonight. He drifted further and further away into thoughts while staring unseeingly at the TV.
He’d been feeling guilty - more so since the evening, when he’d yelled at her. The already overwhelming mix of guilt, worry, despair and helplessness seemed to brim over tonight, and something in him flickered and died. Who’s to say though? Solomon himself was a dying man.
The diagnosis had come after weeks of inexplicable physiological symptoms and a battery of tests that the doctor had ordered. That had been several months back. The doctor had pronounced Solomon terminally ill and given him two years more, at best. He’d been dealt a blow he was still reeling from. The guilt, anger, despair and helplessness had been his cancerous companions then on.
His first reaction was oh ‘what of mother?’ Ever since his father’s death several years ago, Solomon had comfortably taken over running the business and caring for his mother. He hadn’t married - he’d known he never would. And so, their world had come to mean the two of them. For her part, Philomena had always been a homebody - pottering around the house, contentedly so. The death sentence hurled Solomon’s peace of mind into shambles. He had always envisioned himself as his mother’s keeper to the end. The end had come - not hers though, his.
‘What will become of her?’ he constantly worried. How would she live? Where? Who would care for her? What about finances? And what about the business?
Many sleepless nights later, he had decided that he would have to inculcate her into the business – teach her the nuances. It was in the best interests of both. She would have friends to look after her but she needed something more to occupy her. It would do her good to have the business to look after - and the business needed her too. And it was a fairly easy thing, for the establishment wasn’t too large.
And so they had begun. Everyday he let her learn something new - abut customers, instruments, accounts – she needed to be thoroughly informed.
At first, he was quite soft with her. But days progressed and it became clearer that he’d have to be firmer if she could be expected to take over. Her total inexperience and age trebled the difficulty of the learning process. Thus he had taken the upper hand, though desiring it, wanting her to learn the ropes. Yet, her pathetically slow progress got to him. What would happen if she was unable to handle things?
The helplessness he felt about his fate, guilt about leaving her, despair at not being able to do much and anger at his helplessness grew and slowly it crept into his behaviour with Philomena. From being instructive he slowly turned to being curt. Philomena rarely showed she was hurt, although he knew she was. The evening’s incident had been uncalled for though - even if he’d only been trying to make her be careful and aware of everything handled.
‘Things have gone too far I guess’ he mused and got up from his arm-chair with new resolve.
He knocked before entering and found her propped on the bed, reading a book, a duvet half covering her. She looked up in surprise. ‘Why Sol, what’s the matter?’
‘I’ve something to say to you’ he said as he sat down on the bed facing her. Her eyes took on a slightly wary and afraid look.
‘ I just wanted to apologise. Not just for today but for all those days. I know I’ve hurt you very much. I’ve just been trying to have things go ok. I want you to be ok. I’m worried sick’ he let forth.
Philomena looked at him and reached across to squeeze his hand, smiling, saying nothing, understanding everything - as mothers always do.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Coloured vision?
So well, I am in this awesome job and everything’s going just great... interesting people, great colleagues, small department so no politics there and an extremely wonderful boss with the patience of a saint. The only time it gets stressful is when there’s a glitch here and there… man, I wouldn’t be anywhere else if I was gifted the world! But to continue…
Any given day has its moments... mainly hilarious ones given am working with a quirky person like R, her expressions, her statements, the jokes.. God you’re missing it coz you’re not me! The few tense moments arrive occasionally, to fade away like mist... coz well…it’s just that way.
My job is being the unofficial editorial co-ordinator for the magazine Hornbill. Basically means that I have to have an idea of every comma and full stop in the magazine, ensure everything looks spiffy when the magazine is finally out. So well, part of my job is to make sure the images look good after they’re worked on by the processor. Essentially, colour corrections to ensure picture perfect pictures.
Yesterday, I had been to the processor’s to oversee the colour corrections. Now well, given all range of pictures submitted, in print, TP and digital format, ultimately when they’re scanned, there’s bound to be a certain amount of distortion which has to be set right, adjusting the contrast, the proportion of cyan, magenta, yellow and black to get sharp images. And so there I was shooting what gyan of imagery I had ‘Too much cyan there, adjust the contrast, lessen the yellows…’ (It was part English, part Hindi and partly Marathi ..broken, beginner’s Marathi...but hell, we managed to understand each other, me and the old gentleman working on the images). I finished my work and caught a bus home.
Some point almost near to my place, I got the window seat, and obviously looked out. Now there’s a magnificent view before me... majestic mountains looming tall and a hazily pink sky floating above it...a simple breath-taking scenery all for my viewing pleasure. Before I could even fathom it, a thought popped up into my mind:
“There’s too much magenta in that” ??!!!
Any given day has its moments... mainly hilarious ones given am working with a quirky person like R, her expressions, her statements, the jokes.. God you’re missing it coz you’re not me! The few tense moments arrive occasionally, to fade away like mist... coz well…it’s just that way.
My job is being the unofficial editorial co-ordinator for the magazine Hornbill. Basically means that I have to have an idea of every comma and full stop in the magazine, ensure everything looks spiffy when the magazine is finally out. So well, part of my job is to make sure the images look good after they’re worked on by the processor. Essentially, colour corrections to ensure picture perfect pictures.
Yesterday, I had been to the processor’s to oversee the colour corrections. Now well, given all range of pictures submitted, in print, TP and digital format, ultimately when they’re scanned, there’s bound to be a certain amount of distortion which has to be set right, adjusting the contrast, the proportion of cyan, magenta, yellow and black to get sharp images. And so there I was shooting what gyan of imagery I had ‘Too much cyan there, adjust the contrast, lessen the yellows…’ (It was part English, part Hindi and partly Marathi ..broken, beginner’s Marathi...but hell, we managed to understand each other, me and the old gentleman working on the images). I finished my work and caught a bus home.
Some point almost near to my place, I got the window seat, and obviously looked out. Now there’s a magnificent view before me... majestic mountains looming tall and a hazily pink sky floating above it...a simple breath-taking scenery all for my viewing pleasure. Before I could even fathom it, a thought popped up into my mind:
“There’s too much magenta in that” ??!!!
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Train of thought
Life’s definitely changed since I started on my new job. It’s a great place to work, there’s much to learn, new, quirky, fun people to work with and I’m really happy.. but there’s also another part I have to contend with. Traveling.
I’d never thought I’d be a part of the train crowd. When in college, I was free enough to bunk lectures, attend the late ones or was lucky enough to have them scheduled late. Basically it meant there wasn’t ever one particular bus I took. Or, on the rare days I ended up taking a train, it was always a different one. When I did give a thought to people who took the train everyday, I always ended up thinking “I hope I’m never among the, taking the same train everyday, rushing about worrying about train timings.. having a life ruled by the local trains.” But then. The fella up there likes his joke. And so, I did end up becoming a part of this crowd.
As such, its ok. I happen to travel in the peak hours, so getting a seat or not is an occurrence… you simply get used to it. I especially look forward to the time when the train’s crossing the Vashi bridge… there’s nothing but knots and knots of water for as far you can see…. Sky and sea merge seamlessly into the horizon.. I could gaze at it forever. .. in fact, this part of the journey is refreshing as there’s always a nice breeze whipping across your face… specially in the morning, when the air’s fresh, like someone up there had put out their laundry in the sun.. ok not exactly, but… fresh.
There is an entire cultural system that’s manifested in train travelers. Mumbaites would be aware. But for non-mumbaites, there are a few things that are very much a part of this culture, peculiar to it and are kind of fascinating. One is that of having ‘train friends’.. people who just take the same train as you everyday. They may or may not get down at the same station as you, but they’re as much your friends as the ones elsewhere, just that you tend to talk of train timings and work whinings and chivalrously get up for a bit while they take your seat. I haven’t made any train friends yet, but I am familiar with a lot of faces.
Another peculiarity is that of the bhajan group. I’m not sure of other trains. But two trains that I’ve taken successively, there is this group of ladies in the compartment who have this select list of hymns they start when the train leaves Vashi. The entire ‘playlist’ takes about 20 mins and they sing the same songs, in the same order everyday. They’re marathi hymns. But…. On the 8:48 train, the ‘group’ of ladies starts singing, but in effect, there’s just one lady you can hear. She has a deep, loud voice and I find her singing irksome firstly coz its tuneless as such, and she ruins it by singing it like she doesn’t mean to really. Now that’s dumb… do it with your heart in it lady! But the train after that, 8:52, there’s a group there, they sing the same songs as the group in the earlier train. But such a difference!!! This group has really sweet voiced people who sing it like they mean it and it sounds so beautiful!!!
And of course, all the time, at every station people get in and they invariably ask the people seated where they’re getting down.. they ‘book’ a seat so that they can sit for part of the journey at least. Sure you hear brawls sometimes… but where don’t you???
Then there are the vendors. They’re regulars too. There’s a bhel-waali maushi who is there every evening at VT for the 5:47 Vashi local. Then the earrings and hair-clip vendors who are regulars from Nerul and Sanpada. The odd men who bring mirror sets, ear-buds, key chains and what nots… the handicapped/blind ones who sell railway pass covers or other knick-knacks or sing for alms..
The there are the Beauties. I wonder how many people it has struck that some of the most beautiful women in the country may be found in the local trains. Especially in the morning. These are not your glam-dolls like on TV but the simple, graceful, well-dressed women you see everyday. I don’t speak for others, but there’s something about their simplicity, and the way they carry themselves that makes them seem more beautiful to me than any star I can compare with. Maybe it’s the glow on their faces, the one that says they’ve lived, faced things…
Occasionally, I also see slightly older women who are nevertheless beautiful. I always think “She must’ve been really beautiful in her youth.” Old or young, there is something about them that makes me want to talk to them, ferret out their stories coz I think they’re interesting. They have had experiences worth listening to. I get these ideas of going and saying “Hey, I’m authoring a book on train-life. You look like you have an interesting story to tell, mind if we talk?” But no, I know the value of privacy, and I happen to be shy too, so the actual talking never happens, its only my imagination that can only take me so far. Today, I saw this young girl, extremely beautiful, with her hair cut suggesting something of a rebellious streak… I could almost imagine her not wanting to be thought feminine.. she had lovely features, really beautiful lips and eyes that held something in them. I wish I could’ve talked to her.
Its rare that I get the window seat, I usually end up watching people… but there have been days when I’ve looked put of the window and seen something interesting. Like, as you near Dockyard road station, look up and you’ll see this hilly place like it is in a hill-station, dotted with green bushes and flowers… it makes me want to take a walk there.
Then, as you near Vadala Road station, there are houses and colonies to be found near the tracks. Little tings, hardly any size… but they have yards… most of them. And the yards have jasmine shrubs, little trees.. just like the homes in the small towns. And there are boys playing in the compounds… an utter ambience of bon-homie.. I wistfully wish I could live in such happy places with the shrubs in the garden and pick the flowers every evening.
I don’t know how long I can continue traveling like this, but while it lasts, I shall enjoy the little moments of interesting sights while I’m blessed with them.
I’d never thought I’d be a part of the train crowd. When in college, I was free enough to bunk lectures, attend the late ones or was lucky enough to have them scheduled late. Basically it meant there wasn’t ever one particular bus I took. Or, on the rare days I ended up taking a train, it was always a different one. When I did give a thought to people who took the train everyday, I always ended up thinking “I hope I’m never among the, taking the same train everyday, rushing about worrying about train timings.. having a life ruled by the local trains.” But then. The fella up there likes his joke. And so, I did end up becoming a part of this crowd.
As such, its ok. I happen to travel in the peak hours, so getting a seat or not is an occurrence… you simply get used to it. I especially look forward to the time when the train’s crossing the Vashi bridge… there’s nothing but knots and knots of water for as far you can see…. Sky and sea merge seamlessly into the horizon.. I could gaze at it forever. .. in fact, this part of the journey is refreshing as there’s always a nice breeze whipping across your face… specially in the morning, when the air’s fresh, like someone up there had put out their laundry in the sun.. ok not exactly, but… fresh.
There is an entire cultural system that’s manifested in train travelers. Mumbaites would be aware. But for non-mumbaites, there are a few things that are very much a part of this culture, peculiar to it and are kind of fascinating. One is that of having ‘train friends’.. people who just take the same train as you everyday. They may or may not get down at the same station as you, but they’re as much your friends as the ones elsewhere, just that you tend to talk of train timings and work whinings and chivalrously get up for a bit while they take your seat. I haven’t made any train friends yet, but I am familiar with a lot of faces.
Another peculiarity is that of the bhajan group. I’m not sure of other trains. But two trains that I’ve taken successively, there is this group of ladies in the compartment who have this select list of hymns they start when the train leaves Vashi. The entire ‘playlist’ takes about 20 mins and they sing the same songs, in the same order everyday. They’re marathi hymns. But…. On the 8:48 train, the ‘group’ of ladies starts singing, but in effect, there’s just one lady you can hear. She has a deep, loud voice and I find her singing irksome firstly coz its tuneless as such, and she ruins it by singing it like she doesn’t mean to really. Now that’s dumb… do it with your heart in it lady! But the train after that, 8:52, there’s a group there, they sing the same songs as the group in the earlier train. But such a difference!!! This group has really sweet voiced people who sing it like they mean it and it sounds so beautiful!!!
And of course, all the time, at every station people get in and they invariably ask the people seated where they’re getting down.. they ‘book’ a seat so that they can sit for part of the journey at least. Sure you hear brawls sometimes… but where don’t you???
Then there are the vendors. They’re regulars too. There’s a bhel-waali maushi who is there every evening at VT for the 5:47 Vashi local. Then the earrings and hair-clip vendors who are regulars from Nerul and Sanpada. The odd men who bring mirror sets, ear-buds, key chains and what nots… the handicapped/blind ones who sell railway pass covers or other knick-knacks or sing for alms..
The there are the Beauties. I wonder how many people it has struck that some of the most beautiful women in the country may be found in the local trains. Especially in the morning. These are not your glam-dolls like on TV but the simple, graceful, well-dressed women you see everyday. I don’t speak for others, but there’s something about their simplicity, and the way they carry themselves that makes them seem more beautiful to me than any star I can compare with. Maybe it’s the glow on their faces, the one that says they’ve lived, faced things…
Occasionally, I also see slightly older women who are nevertheless beautiful. I always think “She must’ve been really beautiful in her youth.” Old or young, there is something about them that makes me want to talk to them, ferret out their stories coz I think they’re interesting. They have had experiences worth listening to. I get these ideas of going and saying “Hey, I’m authoring a book on train-life. You look like you have an interesting story to tell, mind if we talk?” But no, I know the value of privacy, and I happen to be shy too, so the actual talking never happens, its only my imagination that can only take me so far. Today, I saw this young girl, extremely beautiful, with her hair cut suggesting something of a rebellious streak… I could almost imagine her not wanting to be thought feminine.. she had lovely features, really beautiful lips and eyes that held something in them. I wish I could’ve talked to her.
Its rare that I get the window seat, I usually end up watching people… but there have been days when I’ve looked put of the window and seen something interesting. Like, as you near Dockyard road station, look up and you’ll see this hilly place like it is in a hill-station, dotted with green bushes and flowers… it makes me want to take a walk there.
Then, as you near Vadala Road station, there are houses and colonies to be found near the tracks. Little tings, hardly any size… but they have yards… most of them. And the yards have jasmine shrubs, little trees.. just like the homes in the small towns. And there are boys playing in the compounds… an utter ambience of bon-homie.. I wistfully wish I could live in such happy places with the shrubs in the garden and pick the flowers every evening.
I don’t know how long I can continue traveling like this, but while it lasts, I shall enjoy the little moments of interesting sights while I’m blessed with them.
Monday, April 03, 2006
To The Lady Who Refined Me, Defined Me
Dear Ms Imelda,
I hope this finds you doing well. I am not sure that you would remember me, but I would like to think that you do. I hope you do.
I’m DDD. Or DD, as you knew me. It was in 1993 that we first became acquainted. You were my class teacher for two years from then, in my 4th and 5th standard. I vaguely remember thinking that you appeared a little strict. It was just one more year after all, and another new teacher to know for a year and then greet whenever I saw her again in school or out of it. But how things can be so different from what you imagine them to be!
I guess I must have been just another student in that entire class for you, at first at least. And it isn’t for me to say what changed and how, but gradually, in your own way, you started to mark me out.
I remember you berated me umpteen times for being lazy and not participating in any of the events. I always used to give some excuse or the other. But one fine day, you succeeded in making me participate in a painting competition. It wasn’t the greatest entry, not that I was much of an artist, but you thought I hadn’t tried enough and said so. But that was a beginning.
I used to think you were rather strict and wouldn’t let me be. But slowly, I also realized that you praised me when I did well, looked out for me and genuinely wanted to see me doing well. I’m afraid I took my time realizing that. I clearly remember how you scolded me for neglecting to answer an entire section in my mid-term math paper.
After that painting competition, school ended in a few months and I thought no more of things except to worry about the result.
When the next year commenced and we had you for a teacher again, I was half inclined to think ‘Oh dear!” but I was also relived at the thought of having to spend the year with someone who knew me well. I think that was the best thing that could have happened to me then.
You started right where you left, encouraging me to give everything my best. I remember how you put my name in the English story telling competition despite my protests. I also remember the pride in your eyes when I won the second place. You encouraged me to participate in everything, singing, dance, debates, elocutions, quiz, general knowledge…the works. And every time I won, you were the proudest. In fact, that was the year I won the most prizes.
You made me the group leader. You let me come to your table and hold conversations with you and the class toppers when I should’ve been working. You thought of me as belonging among them. You even insisted my parents buy me a choice Hero pen to improve my handwriting. I remember how happy you were the day I scored 94 n my math paper. I was still short of getting full marks, but for you, it was as if I had achieved full marks.
I also remember you used to call me ‘foreigner’ and ‘dictionary’ because I was good with spellings. It never failed to make me smile.
We had made class charts one year. With every student’s name on them and each got a star or black mark according to their performance. I remember not completing my notes on time, but you didn’t give me a black mark at all. Perhaps you sensed that doing so would’ve made me lose faith in myself again. You refrained at any rate. In fact, I’m sure you took a lot of trouble to ensure I sailed smoothly. I can never say at what cost, but I hope you’ll find that all the trouble you took for my sake was worth it.
I don’t know how much of this you would remember. I know I have missed mentioning many more things. But what I want to say is this. What I have mentioned is only what I saw you doing for me. I only saw you encouraging me to do well. I was glad of it and grateful to you always.
But it only after years have passed that I realize the true depth of your actions. I lacked confidence in myself. You changed that. Life was just a series of days after another. You showed me there’s more. You showed me that life needs to be lived fully; that you should use what gift you have to make life worth something. You made me realize that just because one isn’t good at something does not mean they’ll always be like that. You made me realize how much I was missing out on just because I did not try hard enough. You pushed me and made me push myself to achieve. You gently pointed out my faults and did your best to help me change them. You let me discover myself and realize that I could make something of myself. You inspired confidence in me and made me feel good about being me. You moulded me into what I was to become. I was a lost, confused and frightened little kid. It was you who changed me. If I improved in academics and other things after that, if I acquired a personality, it was because you were there for me.
My gratitude to you is beyond words. I wish I could express my thanks, but it’s only felt. I hope that at least that feeling is communicated to you.
Teachers come and go with every passing year. They are always respected. Some you like and they like you. Some you don’t. As you grow up, teachers also become objects you ridicule (I hope I’m never found guilty on that count). Some of them leave you with faint memories of good times. Some teachers you’d rather forget. Some leave you with the kind of learning you’ll never forget. You fall in love with a subject because of the way a teacher taught it. Years later, you can still recollect how wonderfully interesting a subject became thanks to the teacher, you even remember parts of what was taught. This is what every person inherits in their schooling culture.
But there are teachers who do more than just teach subjects, give homework, punishment, maybe share a few laughs and conversations and go home and forget about you till the next day. Teachers who realize the wealth of their profession; who are genuinely concerned about making worthy citizens of their wards. Teachers who devote themselves to bringing out the best in a child when they see the goodness buried within. Teachers who know that a bit of love and attention can do wonders for a child and provide it because they know what a difference it makes. Teachers who go that extra mile and give that extra chance because they have faith. Teachers that build the foundation for the person’s achievements in life. Teachers who change lives.
You are the teacher who did that for me. You changed my life completely. I never thought I could be a person worthy of notice. But you made me see myself differently. You told me in I mattered; in a manner that wasn’t overt, but more powerful than had you been more direct. All that you did then affected my decisions later on. Since the years you were there with me, I consciously did better, thought about what I could do to be a winner and strove to achieve that. You touched my life and inspired me like no one else could.
You’re the best teacher I ever had. Thanks to you, I am a confident, mature and ambitious young lady who wants to get the best out of life. How do you thank someone who has done so much for you? I don’t think I can ever do that satisfactorily. Its one of those paradoxes. I deal with words and am capable of shaping wonderful things with them, but to thank you is something I would fail at. But I hope you will know how grateful I feel to you.
I’ve known other teachers who mean a lot to me… but you’ll always be the first. After all, they only worked on what was already there… the foundation for that was laid by you.
I ought to tell you. I am now 21. I graduated last year, with a major in journalism. And I am now working for Bombay Natural History Society in Bombay. I am involved in the production of their magazine Hornbill. I really love my work and there’s nothing else I would rather be doing. All this has been possible because you guided me to reach for the sky all those years back. Thank you.
I am sorry it took me this long to write to you and convey my gratitude. But I waited till I could feel I was somebody. I hope that I shall be able to see you soon and thank you in person.
With warm regards and heartfelt gratitude,
Yours sincerely,
Anu.
I hope this finds you doing well. I am not sure that you would remember me, but I would like to think that you do. I hope you do.
I’m DDD. Or DD, as you knew me. It was in 1993 that we first became acquainted. You were my class teacher for two years from then, in my 4th and 5th standard. I vaguely remember thinking that you appeared a little strict. It was just one more year after all, and another new teacher to know for a year and then greet whenever I saw her again in school or out of it. But how things can be so different from what you imagine them to be!
I guess I must have been just another student in that entire class for you, at first at least. And it isn’t for me to say what changed and how, but gradually, in your own way, you started to mark me out.
I remember you berated me umpteen times for being lazy and not participating in any of the events. I always used to give some excuse or the other. But one fine day, you succeeded in making me participate in a painting competition. It wasn’t the greatest entry, not that I was much of an artist, but you thought I hadn’t tried enough and said so. But that was a beginning.
I used to think you were rather strict and wouldn’t let me be. But slowly, I also realized that you praised me when I did well, looked out for me and genuinely wanted to see me doing well. I’m afraid I took my time realizing that. I clearly remember how you scolded me for neglecting to answer an entire section in my mid-term math paper.
After that painting competition, school ended in a few months and I thought no more of things except to worry about the result.
When the next year commenced and we had you for a teacher again, I was half inclined to think ‘Oh dear!” but I was also relived at the thought of having to spend the year with someone who knew me well. I think that was the best thing that could have happened to me then.
You started right where you left, encouraging me to give everything my best. I remember how you put my name in the English story telling competition despite my protests. I also remember the pride in your eyes when I won the second place. You encouraged me to participate in everything, singing, dance, debates, elocutions, quiz, general knowledge…the works. And every time I won, you were the proudest. In fact, that was the year I won the most prizes.
You made me the group leader. You let me come to your table and hold conversations with you and the class toppers when I should’ve been working. You thought of me as belonging among them. You even insisted my parents buy me a choice Hero pen to improve my handwriting. I remember how happy you were the day I scored 94 n my math paper. I was still short of getting full marks, but for you, it was as if I had achieved full marks.
I also remember you used to call me ‘foreigner’ and ‘dictionary’ because I was good with spellings. It never failed to make me smile.
We had made class charts one year. With every student’s name on them and each got a star or black mark according to their performance. I remember not completing my notes on time, but you didn’t give me a black mark at all. Perhaps you sensed that doing so would’ve made me lose faith in myself again. You refrained at any rate. In fact, I’m sure you took a lot of trouble to ensure I sailed smoothly. I can never say at what cost, but I hope you’ll find that all the trouble you took for my sake was worth it.
I don’t know how much of this you would remember. I know I have missed mentioning many more things. But what I want to say is this. What I have mentioned is only what I saw you doing for me. I only saw you encouraging me to do well. I was glad of it and grateful to you always.
But it only after years have passed that I realize the true depth of your actions. I lacked confidence in myself. You changed that. Life was just a series of days after another. You showed me there’s more. You showed me that life needs to be lived fully; that you should use what gift you have to make life worth something. You made me realize that just because one isn’t good at something does not mean they’ll always be like that. You made me realize how much I was missing out on just because I did not try hard enough. You pushed me and made me push myself to achieve. You gently pointed out my faults and did your best to help me change them. You let me discover myself and realize that I could make something of myself. You inspired confidence in me and made me feel good about being me. You moulded me into what I was to become. I was a lost, confused and frightened little kid. It was you who changed me. If I improved in academics and other things after that, if I acquired a personality, it was because you were there for me.
My gratitude to you is beyond words. I wish I could express my thanks, but it’s only felt. I hope that at least that feeling is communicated to you.
Teachers come and go with every passing year. They are always respected. Some you like and they like you. Some you don’t. As you grow up, teachers also become objects you ridicule (I hope I’m never found guilty on that count). Some of them leave you with faint memories of good times. Some teachers you’d rather forget. Some leave you with the kind of learning you’ll never forget. You fall in love with a subject because of the way a teacher taught it. Years later, you can still recollect how wonderfully interesting a subject became thanks to the teacher, you even remember parts of what was taught. This is what every person inherits in their schooling culture.
But there are teachers who do more than just teach subjects, give homework, punishment, maybe share a few laughs and conversations and go home and forget about you till the next day. Teachers who realize the wealth of their profession; who are genuinely concerned about making worthy citizens of their wards. Teachers who devote themselves to bringing out the best in a child when they see the goodness buried within. Teachers who know that a bit of love and attention can do wonders for a child and provide it because they know what a difference it makes. Teachers who go that extra mile and give that extra chance because they have faith. Teachers that build the foundation for the person’s achievements in life. Teachers who change lives.
You are the teacher who did that for me. You changed my life completely. I never thought I could be a person worthy of notice. But you made me see myself differently. You told me in I mattered; in a manner that wasn’t overt, but more powerful than had you been more direct. All that you did then affected my decisions later on. Since the years you were there with me, I consciously did better, thought about what I could do to be a winner and strove to achieve that. You touched my life and inspired me like no one else could.
You’re the best teacher I ever had. Thanks to you, I am a confident, mature and ambitious young lady who wants to get the best out of life. How do you thank someone who has done so much for you? I don’t think I can ever do that satisfactorily. Its one of those paradoxes. I deal with words and am capable of shaping wonderful things with them, but to thank you is something I would fail at. But I hope you will know how grateful I feel to you.
I’ve known other teachers who mean a lot to me… but you’ll always be the first. After all, they only worked on what was already there… the foundation for that was laid by you.
I ought to tell you. I am now 21. I graduated last year, with a major in journalism. And I am now working for Bombay Natural History Society in Bombay. I am involved in the production of their magazine Hornbill. I really love my work and there’s nothing else I would rather be doing. All this has been possible because you guided me to reach for the sky all those years back. Thank you.
I am sorry it took me this long to write to you and convey my gratitude. But I waited till I could feel I was somebody. I hope that I shall be able to see you soon and thank you in person.
With warm regards and heartfelt gratitude,
Yours sincerely,
Anu.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Fountain, Pen
I found two absolutely fabulous websites for fountain pen lovers today http://www.fountainpenhospital.com/ and www.pentrace.com.
And my line of thought follows so.
In this cyber-age where everybody imaginable has a blog as long as they fancy writing, where does it leave the pen and paper kind of writing?
Call me a hapless romantic and sentimental fool, falling for antique stuff.. but seriously, how can you compare the feel of a pen in your hand and a keyboard beneath your fingertips??
The feel of your fingers entwining lovingly around a slender flute, your hand gliding smoothly across the paper, like an eagle in the sky, words forming easily enough, creating the distinct feature called your handwriting.
Think of that and then think of the relentless tapping of your fingertips on indistinct keys, the series of indiscriminate keyboards you handle, where's the personal touch?? Ok, you may type really fast at whatever speed, but really... is there anything else to it? The unintended typos, the faster-than-you-can-think typing... it's easy for the wholeness of your thoughts to get lost in the translation between mind to type.
Think of a fountain pen again, now. It's not just something you write with. It's the comfort of your grip, the uniqueness of your hand, the slow ease at which you write... to quote someone " A fountain pen lets you write slowly, to pause and choose carefully between your thoughts before you pen them down for posterity, before you run away with them." It was a comparision between fountain pens and ball pens actually, but how beautifully it describes the wonder of writing by hand.
A fountain pen is a measure of your personal equation with it, the amount of beauty you can or cannot coax it to create, it's a measure of your character on paper, it's a measure of you.
A piece of written paper gives a more wholesome picture of things than the screen you can stare at. The paper shows the unevenness of the writing, margins, the uniqueness of punctuation marks, the little blots and flourishes that add character to the writing.
What is a screen which has, at best, a selection of fonts and colours to choose from, tools to beautify the page, and yet, leave it monotonous with it's evenness. Beyond the words, what is there to indicate, to tell a story? What is an email sent across cyberspace compared to a letter written on scented paper with pretty borders, decorated with the hand you so cherish and admire, conveying news, emotions and more with its complexity of elements, a thing of art, a possession to treasure, to take out and read again, at leisure, to recount things as you do, evoking memories almost as though the writer were by you, narrating it themselves.
Those who are contrary minded will cite the convenience of speed and ease of typing, and the cumbersome task of refilling a pen, not to mention the time it takes to write... is it really convenience though??
Can a photograph compare to a memory? Can a picture indicate anything beyond the subjects it groups, their colour, expression and age? Can it provide a complete a fulfilling experience like a memory which encompasses not just the visual, but also the sounds that you heard then, the fragrance that lingered in the air, the talk that went on, the feelings felt, the flow of Life in that single moment??
Give me a fountain pen anyday. Give me the choice to create at least my signature. Give me the power to capture at least a little of the vast expanse of a life time in an eternal way, to be read by many, to be wondered at, to be cherished, to be the celebration of what glorious moments it narrates.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Queen Catou
When I was getting back home from dinner, two nights back, I spied a little cat reclining in a graceful manner on the doormat of my neighbours one floor below. Normally cats attract a passing glance from me. Not so with this one. She intrigued me the first time I saw her.
She was a little thing, hardly anything. But her stately manner, like that of a queen resting among plush cushions, arrested you. I went for a closer look. She didn't flinch or run away. Just sat there and looked at me. I squatted next to her. She gave me another look and a miaow. The quiet greeting of a queen meeting fellowmen. She stole my heart then and there.
She was black all over with a little white here and there. She reminded me of a line i'd read once "We were rendered powerless by Blackie's white bib and slippers." Quite so. Although a little dusty from being homeless, my little cat was beautiful!!!! And not the merest trace of malice or haughtiness like I had seen in other cats. She sat there, very trusting, letting me stroke her. she even got up and rubbed against me like we'd been friends all our lives. She seemed to want my company, following me all the time and miaowing if she felt me moving away. I got her a little milk and watched her lap it up.
I didnt' have the heart to leave her, but i couldn't take on a pet right now. With a heavy heart I had to close the door behind me, with her on the other side of it. She was gone the next morning.
I wished with all my heart she hadn't. I prayed for her to be given to me, promising that if I saw her again, I would keep her.
Odd how these prayers are answered. I found her waiting right outside my door today. She had obviously found her way back and sat there waiting. And soon as she set eyes on me, she gave the queenly greeting I'd admired.
Of course i kept my promise!!! I brought her in, played with her and gave her milk. I didn't know what to name her and have so far alternated between Catou, Kitty and Tabby... she doesn't seem to mind my indecisiveness :)
She loves to cuddle and promptly burrowed in to sleep in my lap... typical cat, but oh! how not!!!
The dogs barking outside wake her up and she's afraid... then she looks at me and is assured she's safe. She takes an inventory of her surroundings and goes to her bowl again for snack. And begins her prowling again...
I love this cat.
Here's to you, tabby:
Grace, Poise and Dignity personified
Independence and royalty incarnate
Emerald eyes and feet so nimble,
Tabby, in your court we assemble.
Not Siamese, Persian nor Cheshire,
Stateliness is all she is
Train of fur trailing behind
Feline poetry in motion.
She was a little thing, hardly anything. But her stately manner, like that of a queen resting among plush cushions, arrested you. I went for a closer look. She didn't flinch or run away. Just sat there and looked at me. I squatted next to her. She gave me another look and a miaow. The quiet greeting of a queen meeting fellowmen. She stole my heart then and there.
She was black all over with a little white here and there. She reminded me of a line i'd read once "We were rendered powerless by Blackie's white bib and slippers." Quite so. Although a little dusty from being homeless, my little cat was beautiful!!!! And not the merest trace of malice or haughtiness like I had seen in other cats. She sat there, very trusting, letting me stroke her. she even got up and rubbed against me like we'd been friends all our lives. She seemed to want my company, following me all the time and miaowing if she felt me moving away. I got her a little milk and watched her lap it up.
I didnt' have the heart to leave her, but i couldn't take on a pet right now. With a heavy heart I had to close the door behind me, with her on the other side of it. She was gone the next morning.
I wished with all my heart she hadn't. I prayed for her to be given to me, promising that if I saw her again, I would keep her.
Odd how these prayers are answered. I found her waiting right outside my door today. She had obviously found her way back and sat there waiting. And soon as she set eyes on me, she gave the queenly greeting I'd admired.
Of course i kept my promise!!! I brought her in, played with her and gave her milk. I didn't know what to name her and have so far alternated between Catou, Kitty and Tabby... she doesn't seem to mind my indecisiveness :)
She loves to cuddle and promptly burrowed in to sleep in my lap... typical cat, but oh! how not!!!
The dogs barking outside wake her up and she's afraid... then she looks at me and is assured she's safe. She takes an inventory of her surroundings and goes to her bowl again for snack. And begins her prowling again...
I love this cat.
Here's to you, tabby:
Grace, Poise and Dignity personified
Independence and royalty incarnate
Emerald eyes and feet so nimble,
Tabby, in your court we assemble.
Not Siamese, Persian nor Cheshire,
Stateliness is all she is
Train of fur trailing behind
Feline poetry in motion.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Crocuses
There was this story of Enid Blyon's I reada long time back..... it was about how crocuses came to be. Blyton, in her singularly creative way, spun a gossamer story of how a gnome would take a pot of gold from a certain tree trunk and then spend every night counting all the gold he had.
One night he refused to let in a poor, hungry and sick fellow gnome for he did not want the other to know of his hoard. And though the sick gnome was saved, our friend the rich gnome felt very guilty of choosing wealth over his fello'ws life and asked the fairy queen to suggest a fitting retribution. And the fairy queen asked him to take all his gold and fling it into the country side. The now gold-less gnome dutifully did just that. And when spring came, he saw that the land was full of new blooms, golden in colour and breathtakingly beaytiful to behold. The blooms that sprung from the gold he threw away.
What a confection of imagination!!!! To this day, the remotest reference to crocuses reminds me of this. It was specially glorious to see the country cousins of the crocus ( or at least, thats what they appeared to me like) growing in vast bushes all the way between pune and kolhapur!!!
Did you know, that saffron is the yield of the crocus???? Gold or not, crocuses, even if not created that magically, have given us the gift of something divine!!!
One night he refused to let in a poor, hungry and sick fellow gnome for he did not want the other to know of his hoard. And though the sick gnome was saved, our friend the rich gnome felt very guilty of choosing wealth over his fello'ws life and asked the fairy queen to suggest a fitting retribution. And the fairy queen asked him to take all his gold and fling it into the country side. The now gold-less gnome dutifully did just that. And when spring came, he saw that the land was full of new blooms, golden in colour and breathtakingly beaytiful to behold. The blooms that sprung from the gold he threw away.
What a confection of imagination!!!! To this day, the remotest reference to crocuses reminds me of this. It was specially glorious to see the country cousins of the crocus ( or at least, thats what they appeared to me like) growing in vast bushes all the way between pune and kolhapur!!!
Did you know, that saffron is the yield of the crocus???? Gold or not, crocuses, even if not created that magically, have given us the gift of something divine!!!
Agony that assuages
Ying and yang. It's balance that serves to make life complete and harmonious. And so, we have love and hate, misery and happiness, penury and wealth, sickness and health..... pain and relief.
And yet, there are times when pain can assuage pain.
Consider this: when you're passionate about something, to the point of craziness, you put yourself mind bosy and soul into it... the agony that you suffer when something goes wrong with that thing is.... mildly described, unbearable. What shall then soothe it??? What will make that pain go away, or at least, help you bear it???? Possibly, it is only appeased by being distracted from it.
Chetan Bhagat talked about 'deep dark inner agony, real pain' in his book One Night @ the Call Centre. The kind of pain that arised from the dark side within each of us. And the protagonist in question chose to cut herself time and again in order to feel pain that wasnt as tortuous as the inner agony she nursed. Pain assuagin pain.
What is it like??? You think, not me!!!! i'm not driven by craziness like that!!! i could nevr never cut myself!!!! And yet, its not a psychotic human who does it. Psychotic. It would be psychotic to try and cut your blood vessels so that you would die... and do that again, and again, and again. No. It isn't even about blood letting. All you're trying to do is feel something other than the heavy emptiness inside. The kind of emptiness that reduces physical pain to something that just pricks.
Yeah, the authorities would haul you to the loony bin in no time, for, of course, in a rational society, people deal with problems, they face them... they dont cut themselves repeatedly. really???? and how exactly do you explain away the millions who drink, smoke, use narcotics, all to do away with that mental agony? And what about all those suicides?? And the domestic abuse?
Rational society. Its rational enough if you can take time to get to the point of dealing with th problem, even if it involves harm, hurting yourself temporarily so that the big hurt does not strike you so hard.
Not to condone making ribbons from one's body.. but really, when you're alone... how long will you wait for help???? you're not killing yourself, ou're helping yourself move on. God helps those who help themselves... any takers???
And yet, there are times when pain can assuage pain.
Consider this: when you're passionate about something, to the point of craziness, you put yourself mind bosy and soul into it... the agony that you suffer when something goes wrong with that thing is.... mildly described, unbearable. What shall then soothe it??? What will make that pain go away, or at least, help you bear it???? Possibly, it is only appeased by being distracted from it.
Chetan Bhagat talked about 'deep dark inner agony, real pain' in his book One Night @ the Call Centre. The kind of pain that arised from the dark side within each of us. And the protagonist in question chose to cut herself time and again in order to feel pain that wasnt as tortuous as the inner agony she nursed. Pain assuagin pain.
What is it like??? You think, not me!!!! i'm not driven by craziness like that!!! i could nevr never cut myself!!!! And yet, its not a psychotic human who does it. Psychotic. It would be psychotic to try and cut your blood vessels so that you would die... and do that again, and again, and again. No. It isn't even about blood letting. All you're trying to do is feel something other than the heavy emptiness inside. The kind of emptiness that reduces physical pain to something that just pricks.
Yeah, the authorities would haul you to the loony bin in no time, for, of course, in a rational society, people deal with problems, they face them... they dont cut themselves repeatedly. really???? and how exactly do you explain away the millions who drink, smoke, use narcotics, all to do away with that mental agony? And what about all those suicides?? And the domestic abuse?
Rational society. Its rational enough if you can take time to get to the point of dealing with th problem, even if it involves harm, hurting yourself temporarily so that the big hurt does not strike you so hard.
Not to condone making ribbons from one's body.. but really, when you're alone... how long will you wait for help???? you're not killing yourself, ou're helping yourself move on. God helps those who help themselves... any takers???
Vultures of soulcurry
'Play something for us'
Simple enough words. Yet, ominous and deep as the ocean. They don't mean much to the talker as such. But for the one to whom they're directed, they take on a world of meaning.
I'm a beginning violinist, learning western classical to be exact. As such, its a hard-to-play instrument. Your posture, hands, fingers.. everything has to be aligned just so otherwise it all goes kaput. Something so minor as moving your little finger can turn the melodious into the cacophonous. An yet, for all the hard work, its a soulful instrument, something as personal and cheerful as the best friend of your childhood. But to continue....
Its odd, I've been learning the basics for hardly a month and people assume that t means i can play something on it already. By 'play' they mean, playing something thats recognizable and melodious. Dream on!!!! On a violin???? The first two weeks are spent just learning to hold it properly, strum it and if you're staisfactory enough, pick up the bow and hold it in position. Play???? sure, i can play... by some twist, i had to rush through the basics and can actually fiddle a little... but thats it. But ho!!! there are these impossible ignoramuses who think i should easily be playing bach, mozart and the other masters by now... yeah rritee!!!!! The rare music enthusiast recognises the effot it takes and so, even twinkle twinkle little star is an achievement... but alas!!!! how many of those do you find???
'Play something for us'. Its not just that you're an amteur. How come no one asks you if you WANT to play??? Why the instant deification to "Oh!!! You'll join the orchestra yet!!!" In the matter of something being so personal, so close to your soul, something you're passionate about, how dare anyone think it an object of exhibiton??? How could anyone be so airheaded to think it a perform by request thing???
A friend of mine was telling of the casual way in which people tell her to 'Go try for the Indian Idol' beccause she sings well. Yeah... what about the fact that she doesnt want to display it?
There are those who will argue that those who request a performance are enthusiastic enouragers.... and just how many fall into that category pray???
'Play something for us.' No thank you, i'll send you a recording of it.
Simple enough words. Yet, ominous and deep as the ocean. They don't mean much to the talker as such. But for the one to whom they're directed, they take on a world of meaning.
I'm a beginning violinist, learning western classical to be exact. As such, its a hard-to-play instrument. Your posture, hands, fingers.. everything has to be aligned just so otherwise it all goes kaput. Something so minor as moving your little finger can turn the melodious into the cacophonous. An yet, for all the hard work, its a soulful instrument, something as personal and cheerful as the best friend of your childhood. But to continue....
Its odd, I've been learning the basics for hardly a month and people assume that t means i can play something on it already. By 'play' they mean, playing something thats recognizable and melodious. Dream on!!!! On a violin???? The first two weeks are spent just learning to hold it properly, strum it and if you're staisfactory enough, pick up the bow and hold it in position. Play???? sure, i can play... by some twist, i had to rush through the basics and can actually fiddle a little... but thats it. But ho!!! there are these impossible ignoramuses who think i should easily be playing bach, mozart and the other masters by now... yeah rritee!!!!! The rare music enthusiast recognises the effot it takes and so, even twinkle twinkle little star is an achievement... but alas!!!! how many of those do you find???
'Play something for us'. Its not just that you're an amteur. How come no one asks you if you WANT to play??? Why the instant deification to "Oh!!! You'll join the orchestra yet!!!" In the matter of something being so personal, so close to your soul, something you're passionate about, how dare anyone think it an object of exhibiton??? How could anyone be so airheaded to think it a perform by request thing???
A friend of mine was telling of the casual way in which people tell her to 'Go try for the Indian Idol' beccause she sings well. Yeah... what about the fact that she doesnt want to display it?
There are those who will argue that those who request a performance are enthusiastic enouragers.... and just how many fall into that category pray???
'Play something for us.' No thank you, i'll send you a recording of it.
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