The Idea-smithy

Sensitivity is the permission you give yourself to feel.

No more, no less.

Not how much you feel about other people.
Not how much you feel about yourself.
Not how many tears you shed.
Not even how much you feel.

Simply how much you allow yourself to.

To illustrate, a poem from long ago when I was still into rhyming and used to scribble in pages torn from notebooks. Who do you suppose is being referred to here?

Sensitivity

In the midst of the masses, I see a face
Devoid of all charm and social grace
Nothing different about her, except for her eyes
Eyes that are serene, thoughtful and wise
Eyes that speak a thousand things without saying a word
Ideas and thoughts that are never hear
that tell of turmoil beneath the surface calm, that is the face we see
Feelings running deep, wild dreams that were never meant to be
Her eyes see everything,
yet love without judging
Respect every human being’s right to be
Understanding that each of us longs to be free
Eyes that cry without shedding a tear
that feel immense pain, but no fear
A heart bleeds for a world gone all wrong
where every lullaby hummed, is a grave-digger’s song
Eyes that shine with a strange, magical light
like the serene moon on a dark night
misted over in the memory of some unknown music that only she can hear
Lost in a faraway land, and yet she’s near
She blinks; the moment is gone
Nothing changes, life goes on
My words are lost in a babble of voice - harsh and loud
She’s gone - just another face in the crowd

No one is an island.

Tell me what it’s like.

she says.

Does it get better with time?

I pause and wonder what to say.

Can I give her an honest answer?

That it won’t..in some ways.

That heartbreak hurts as much at 30 as it does at 20.

That you never quite get used to the pain of letting go, no matter how often you’ve done it….though you might learn the lesson of numbness.

That love and cheating and tenderness and passion will continue to turn up unanticipated…and unwelcome, no matter how clear your vision stays.

That eventually dreams will become the last survival tactic for those who don’t have God or Family or FairyTales anymore.

No, I decide, I can’t tell her all of that. I can’t paint the next decade in a pall of gloom before it’s even arrived.

So I take a deep breath and say instead…

What does change is all the things in your head.

With the pain, there will be the aspirin of reality,
a little snapshot of the last time that grows clearer with time,
the knowledge that you survived that and so this you will too.

With time, other people’s opinions
will start to matter less than your own
or at least you’ll be able to pick and choose what you want to believe.

And if you’re smart…and I know you are,
you’ll have a Plan B or at the very least…an exit route.

So I end without lies, telling her the truth…but perhaps not all of it.

And I wish there were some lessons one didn’t need to learn.

—————————————–

*Dedicated to a very young and wonderful friend who asked the question. I hope she’s reading…or perhaps I hope she isn’t.

Lunch at the cafe, alone. At long last. My thoughts and I dine together.

The host wants me to sit in any one of the dingy corners and ignore the brighter, roomier booths in the center. I make a wry face so he concedes and lets me take the bright corner. The cafe isn’t even crowded after all.

They enter some five minutes after I’ve settled down, by which time I’ve placed my order and am sipping my wine. I notice him first. All I see is the back of their heads and a profile view in a flash.

He looks familiar…for a vague instant. In that not so nice way that makes you glad you spotted the person first and hope they don’t notice you back. He probably looks a little like the friend of someone I want to forget. That’s still too close for comfort but not so close that I want to scat. She’s totally unfamiliar in a familiar way. That is to say, she’s the typical nice-looking, a tad too ‘healthy’ to be one of the stick-insect-model-types. An Indian woman. A pretty Indian woman.

What strikes me is their clothes. Ah, his clothes. He’s wearing a mildly striped full-sleeved shirt with cotton trousers. It’s not quite formal enough to be workwear but it seems a little too dressy for Saturday. Unless, ah of course. One of those dates that he feels he must dress up a bit for. Still dude, it’s just nearing 2pm, that shirt is Saturday evening territory we’re meandering into.

For awhile I wonder what it would like if I were his ex- and he were to spot me. The carefully coiffed look would probably shatter in an instant. He’s really trying very hard to be on his best behaviour and impress the girl with him. And what if he were to bump into someone he didn’t treat that good, who knew him well…only too well…underneath that polish.

But he’s nervous. His hands aren’t quite shaking but there’s that high-strung air of tension surrounding his being and I can feel it sitting 30 feet away. Like when she takes a call on her cell, he turns his face away in an attempt to appear polite and respect her privacy. But he’s fidgety and the minute she hangs up, I can almost see him counting his breaths before he can turn around and resume conversation.

His smiles and laughter seem a little too eager. Not quite offensive but just like he’s relieved to be able to laugh off some of the tension. She, on the other hand, is natural. Smiling just enough, movements easy. Almost. Her gaze wanders ever so slightly in each direction. Sizing up. The surroundings, the people around, the arena. She’s playing and she’s just taking stock of the field.

That taken care of, my attention returns to him. It’s not that she’s uninteresting, she’s just ‘figured out’. Besides his nervousness draws me again. And I wonder what makes him so nervous. He obviously wants her to like him. Why?

Is it because he likes her as much? What does he want from her? Reciprocation of affection? A night or a weekend in bed? Respect? A month or so as trophy girlfriend? Awe and devotion?

My chicken satay is here and my glass needs a refill. I set to devouring my solitary, perfect lunch and put aside the messy questions of people for awhile. When I look up again, their orders have arrived and they’re waiting for the waiter to finish serving. Then they wish each other Bon Appetit and start eating. I walk out, content with a good meal and some foodside realtime entertainment.

Do blogs take on personalities of their own? To their owners, I think they do. Owners I say, but perhaps that’s wrong since it implies a pre-supposed relationship already. So let’s just ask - What is the relationship between a blogger and his/her blog?

A blog is more than a bulletin board or a chat forum. It’s a place where you watch your words, your ideas, your opinions take shape and be shaped in turn by the others who visit. You develop the theme, the header, the widgets to depict a certain image. You give it a name, and yourself a handle sometimes to add to that. You fill it up with words, pictures, audio and video. You reply to comments and comment on other’s blogs thereby developing a presence. You link to the popular networks of the moment,

Is it platform to voice your opinion? Your own personal soapbox?

Or is it an ongoing personal advertisement? The starting point of your own social network?

I’ve written multiple blogs, authoring around 10 blogs across 4 different identities at one point of time. It was mind-boggling but it was an entertaining exercise in exploring my relationship with each blog. And really, I had a different relationship with each blog.

XXFactor remains my longest surviving (and most surprising) experiment and in my mind is slotted with chick-lit books, chocolates, Sensorcaine and Lucky. Why? Because these are things and people I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about but I know will be there whenever I need them (which is fairly often) and just the way I want them to be. XXFactor is my galpal.

The Idea-smithy on the other hand, with domain switches and even name changes is the closest to the real me since it has essentially mirrored every change in my life from the minor weekly/monthly mood changes to the big sweeping changes that come with age and experience. IS is my mirror.

Only one of my other blogs, Office Capers was an experiment and one that didn’t work out as well. In exact replication of my relationship with my profession, my colleages and place(s) of work, it slid smoothly in and out of existance and didn’t really move me profoundly. I guess I was never as deeply involved in that relationship either. OC was the friendly colleague I’d shared a few lunches with and occasionally wonder how he turned out.

All the remaining blogs were diaries of various sorts. They were intensely personal, I loved them, they were good to me and now they’ve been tucked away for safety in a place no one will find them (I hope!).

So do you bring a part of yourself to your blog each day? Or do you create something new each time you touch it? Is it an extension of your personality, an expression of something that doesn’t usually surface or an experiment to see what it would be like to be someone else?

What’s your blog to you?

Ah, the flush of new love!

And I was lost for words
In your arms
Attempting to make sense
Of my aching heart
If I could just be
Everything and everyone to you
This life would just be so easy

Not enough time for all
That I want for you

- INXS ‘Not enough time’

I remember it from a long time ago, a lifetime ago. I recognize it in the faces of strangers, in the anonymous words I read on my computer screen. In the poised-and-posed expressions on painted actors on screen, I read the yearning that was fed into a writer’s mind to create this.

After the pain has subsided, long after when you reach that place of not hurting anymore and past the cynicism, the despair and the feeling that you’ll never love again….what is there at the end of it? It is this…

The thought that love may never again be the raging forest fire that it once (or twice or more) was. But the burning defined you in a way that you’ll never again be the same. And the only thing that can come next is peace. Absolute peace. And there’s all the time in the world.

Love truly is a hue that taints us forever. And in the middle of a hot November afternoon, there’s a cool breeze blowing across my forehead.

And so we welcome her back with open arms, to Mumbai and to the blogosphere again!! Presenting the rockstar Bolly-blogger, Sakshi Juneja! *Drumrollllllll*

At my first Start-up Saturday , feeling fairly unintelligent, I wandered through the important-sounding conversations happening around me. And then I spotted her. She never fails to get ya, does she? Either it’s her spunky, spiky slippers or her Rakhi Sawant obsession or…her bag. Presenting for the second time round, this blog’s god-momma makes another appearance on I Style!

Here’s what she was spotted toting on that weekend.

Take a closer look….

And here’s something she brought to the Kala Ghoda Art Festival (where I also spotted another I Style!er)

To be quite sure, I’ve seen this second one on someone else but that was later. The original remains Sakshi, bolly-blogger and bloggy-rockstar!

If you’ve been in Mumbai and not taken a ferry ride from the Gateway of India, you should…go jump into the (dirty) water!!!!! And there you might catch a glimpse of the humanness underneath the gritty mask this city wears.

I saw these boys splashing about between the ferries parked (anchored?) near the steps leading down from the Gateway to the water. All the ferrywallas yelling did nothing to dampen their enthusiasm.

 Afloat on a makeshift raft of a discarded plastic bag stuffed with heavenaloneknows what (cork? discarded plastic refuse? thermacole?), they splashed about, three on one while the fourth lay afloat, peaceful in his solitary swim.

The day after diwali. *Sniff*

No, I’m not mourning the end of a holiday. I’m just exhibiting the signs of being a casualty of polluted air-breathing (in an already polluted city, how E!Extreme is that?) That should probably be *SNIFFLE* instead. There, then.

Yesterday I told her,

This is lovely weather. Isn’t it lovely weather?

No, it isn’t. It should be December.

Nah, I don’t like the cold. I hate layering up. I love my singlets and sleeveless tees too much!

Par tum to nanga bachcha banta hai na, that’s why!

*SNIFFLE*

40 degrees in the sun but I’m feeling all trembly inside. There’s a teensy-weensy fireball (I wish I was a spaceman..) lodged in my throat and my eyelids feel all hot when I shut my eyes. So I shake out my freezing-AC emergency pullover.

Today is an emergency of another sort. I need a hug but in the absence of it, a sweater will do. I’ll see you on the other side of this crazy week.

Because companionship is such a complex thing.

(Thank you for a lovely week!)