Dances with wolves.

A Profound conversation between me and a friend

And of course in the interest of anonymity we’ll just call these two Jack and John .

On the balcony, Jack and John are having drinks and a cigar.
Jack: Have you ever shot it?
John: Just target practice.
Jack: I can’t fathom a Liberal like you owning a gun.
John: That’s one of the problems in this country. We have

two camps, those who like guns and those who
don’t. Why can’t there be a middle? Why can’t we say okay to guns and okay to gun legislation? Why does it make someone a Pinko-Liberal-Girl if he supports background checks and bans on assault weapons?
Jack:That’s a sexist remark, you realize that?
John: What?
Jack: That Pinko-Liberal-Girl. Girls can like guns!
John:

He gives a look.
Never mind. Just let me drink.
Jack:Fine.
A beat.

John:

I am sexist. When I see a woman my first
thoughts are sexual. It’s not that I don’t respect
her
intelligence.It’s not that I wouldn’t want a woman
to be
president, I’ll even admit to the possibility that
women
are emotionally and intellectually superior to men.
But
I cannot deny there’s a part of me that sees a woman
as this big human mitten perfectly designed to keep
my cockles warm on a cold winter’s night.
Jack bursts out laughing.
Jack:

Oh John. It’s cultural. It’s biological.
And… it’s fun. There are many ways men go dead as
they age. One way they start incorporating all the
learned, the politically correct behavior and thoughts
into who they are, and in the process, deny what they
are.
John:What are we?
Jack: Animals! Today’s evolved men talk to

each other about politics, and kids and education.
They talk about anything and everything and yet are
profoundly lonely. Why? Because they’re ashamed to
share their most base instinct. You and I are not like
that. When we’re ninety we’ll be sitting on a park
bench, a pretty girl will go by, we’ll say, “Look at the rack on that one!”
You and I will never, ever be lonely.
John: And if the girl has a boyfriend who comes

to confiscate our walkers?
Jack: I’ve got my gun!
John: Oh, I feel better already.
Jack: You should. John, embrace your inner wolf. You listen to Jack now.

My Heart in a Box.

They didn’t say anything about wrapping love and keeping it aside. Or if they did, he must have missed the memo.

It was Coimbatore city on a Friday night and they had their back’s against the wall and the world. Saying things they thought but seldom heard.This was the time they’d stay up all night, talking till daylight hit their faces.We’d never be apart, I’ve got your name tattooed across my heart, and she was inclined to believe him.
Long distance is a bitch, he thought to himself.
And though he wanted to send her the scent of the summer and the pictures of falling almonds, he knew not how. He wanted to send her his words, which he would have shared when she would sit with him on the swing and watch the breeze carry away forgotten dust and abandoned leaves. When he asked the officials, they said the could not ship summer scents, half-nibbled almonds, and leaves and dust. Something more tangible, like a letter or a picture or even a small box would do. However, it just didn’t satisfy him to wrap up his dreams in a poem, a polaroid, or in things that she may leave on the shelf.

However, He went home and tried his hand at bad poetry about the colours he had seen in the market, and how he would have liked to hold her hand while they window-shopped. He tried to promise he wouldn’t ask for anything except holding hands. That would do, He said; but the poem wouldn’t rhyme.Then He put together a box with bus tickets of rides that she wanted them to take, and coal that they could have seen turn to grey as they lay in each others’ arms. As He did so, she left a space in the box for silence that she wanted them to share. But as He tried to wrap it, He knew she was locking up love in a box, and He hadn’t intended for that anyway.

Dead Poets Society

Lips move, words echo.

Words resound,They’re all I’ve got.Condescension and derision are a part of the daily routine.I fight the fight that everyone fights. A dark soul adrift, a penchant desire for wit fueled by whim.Putting words to ink and bringing ink to life, that is how I hope to spend what little time I keep to myself. Troves of treasures within dungeons and taverns old, tis from this bocardo I wish to hoard. Only in dreams of words and wisdom have men always been free, ‘Twas always thus, and always thus will be.Truly,love is to pen what bequeaths a soul onto parchment wet with grime , tis fairly simple really, I want What anyone would want. It is for the world to know,
” I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,

I sound my barbaric yawp from the rooftops of the world.”

Picture A Thousand Words

wowA picture, to me is something words will always fail to describe, more so with this Particular Rob Gonsalves painting (Weird coincidence that I’d come across it weeks before, and when I scrolled through and found this, I Knew what I was gonna write about) But I’ll still try my best.
Words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean.  Little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible feelings and purposes.I liked the word ineffable because it meant a feeling so big or vast that it could not be expressed in words.

And yet, because it could not be expressed in words, people had invented a word to express it, and that made me feel hopeful, somehow.

There afloat among an ocean of stars, and also an ocean (The beauty of the painting lies in this fusion that is also a contradiction.I adore the ocean and its vastness, as if it is trying to teach me something, as if it is trying to teach me to remain calm whatever the situation maybe. It holds such a huge amount of water but always remains content and at peace, while we people lose our calm even at smallest of tensions that we get in life. It teaches us to keep our secrets safe within. It has an entire habitat residing in its heart, but we haven’t been able to explore it fully, same way, we must keep our secrets tightly bound within us. If we will share them, the world will lose the curiosity, just like we will lose curiosity if we will come to know fully about the aquatic life. It teaches us to provide without seeking. It houses innumerable species inside and never asks them for anything, we must also help the needy and provide if we have in abundance. The ocean teaches us lessons that books or schools or colleges can never  teach us.

I often see myself afloat, letting my mind go blank and as my eyes go out of focus, I watched the slow, jerky movements of the motes that floated across my pupils. They amazed me as a child. Now I saw them as a reflection of how I moved, floating listlessly through the world, occasionally bumping into another body without acknowledgment, and then floating on, free and alone.

I look up at the sky and see all the vastness and can’t help but wonder at what lies beyond, could I ever soar up high? Would I be able to sink my head in the clouds, fly above the rain and relish the rays of the sun long before anyone else? As I pondered all this, I got this feeling.
I was just thoughts, just air. There was nothingness all around me. Was this what it was like to be dead? When you died, did you still sense everything going on around you, only it was happening so far away that you didn’t care about it? You were floating through space and time, and nothing that happened to you mattered because nothing really could happen to you because you didn’t exist?

“if something is there, you can only see it with your eyes open, but if it isn’t there, you can see it just as well with your eyes closed. That’s why imaginary things are often easier to see than real ones.”

“The universe is made of stories, not atoms,” poet Muriel Rukeyser famously proclaimed. And with this picture in particular, it leave so much to the imagination, The stories we tell ourselves and each other are how we make sense of the world and our place in it. Some stories become so sticky, so pervasive that we internalize them to a point where we no longer see their storiness — they become not one of many lenses on reality, but reality itself. And breaking through them becomes exponentially difficult because part of our shared human downfall is our ego’s blind conviction that we’re autonomous agents acting solely on our own volition, rolling our eyes at any insinuation we might be influenced by something external to our selves. Yet we are — we’re infinitely influenced by these stories we’ve come to internalize, stories we’ve heard and repeated so many times they’ve become the invisible underpinning of our entire lived experience.

This is why for me this picture is both liberation and imprisonment, a contradiction in terms ( as much as  a picture can be).
Then I begin to realize before I let myself do all the things I want, I must do one thing before that, I need to stay afloat, not in the ocean or up in the air, I mean afloat in life.

Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.

 

The man who sold happiness

Every midday down the main alley way unto our street a scanty man with a crooked nose, messy hair and a filthy beard would approach our house. He was seen walking down all through the neighborhood ,everyday, wearing a blue pinstriped shirt and matching trousers, trousers that seemed to be almost as old as he was, trousers that swept the street as he dragged his tiny feet along in  a strut. He had a venerable look about his face, brows lined with age, cheeks addled with decrepit skin.

But he had a skip in his step, a jingle to his movement, and an insurmountable smile on his face. A smile which was inexplicable, because in some way it seemed strangely disconnected from the rest of his body, a contradiction. He always carried with him a bell and a long stick which had his merchandise mounted at the end and a that inexplicable grin, I was so used to seeing.

I had always wondered why, as I looked out my window, as I usually do.And then I Ran out with a two rupee note scuffed against my fingers, towards him I raced, to get that wisp of colored,threaded,light,puffy sugar.

One day contrary to routine, I sat there nearby the windowsill waiting, scuffling about my bag, hoping to find the money I needed. I heard the jingle approach, I closed my eyes, waiting for the jingle to drone away, to turn into a whisper and then fade.

I waited, but it only got louder, as I looked out from the window, I saw him look at me and wave.Curious, I went out and signaled with my hands that I had no money, yet he still kept waving and jingling his bell. I ran out, he outstretched his arms and handed me a packet.

And he strode off, strutting along, humming his usual tune to match the jingle, only today he seemed happier.
That was the day I realized that he did not sell cotton candy. He was the man who sold happiness.

An Introvert at a Funeral

Common funeral practices are sometimes a cruel joke played on introverts. Most of us accept that we live in an extravert’s world. While the value of the introvert is gaining attention of late, society still holds the person with many friends and a gregarious personality as the model to mirror.

Funerals are no different from any other social construct. Long lines of mourners attend the successful wake. Giving eulogies for the deceased in a church with empty pews is just sad. Many traditions need a second graveside service followed by an open house at the home of the bereaved. People are everywhere. A friend recently said, “The only time my house is filled with people is when somebody in my family dies.”

We all want and, in some ways, need people around during a time of death. It’s comforting to know that others care. However, consider introverts. They are no different in that they need people around and they want people to show they care. They just don’t need them around as much as the extravert does.

It’s all about energy. Grief, sadness and depression are all emotional states that drain a person’s energy. Once we get past the anger of losing someone, these feelings follow closely behind. During times of grief, we don’t seek pleasure and we don’t enjoy life. Our energy for such matters usually evaporates during mourning. The energy depletion is often intense and we sometimes hear phrases like, “I don’t know how I’m going to go on with my life.”

Funerals are to help the living come to grips with the death of a loved one. Healthy mourning allows people to pass through their exhausting sadness, to accept their loss and then to arrive at a “new normal”. Energy gained from interacting with others helps the extravert during these times while social intercourse usually only exhausts the introvert’s energy. So, when introverts lose someone, they not only have to deal with grief and sadness depleting their energy. They usually also have to run the gauntlet of social expectations which drains them rather than feeds them. It can become a double curse of energy loss.

Introverts often report others misunderstand them when they seek the restorative solitude that they need during these times. Some see the mourning introvert as rude and disrespectful for not being ever-present. Or others assess them to be worse off than they are. One person who identifies herself as introverted said her family became alarmed when she went off by herself for several hours during a time of family mourning and questioned her about suicidal thoughts. She had no such thoughts. She just needed some time alone.

Effective grief counseling is mostly about giving people permission to deal with death in the way that suits them best. For introverts, this does mean connecting with the people in their lives who care about them and the deceased loved one. However, it also means finding time alone to explore their loss and to gain energy, as they typically do, on their own. Most introverts will not want to isolate altogether.

It’s less about getting away from others and more about being alone, however subtle that difference may be. People often describe a feeling of emptiness and a deep loneliness when the last mourner has left. However, the typical introvert will most likely feel gratitude for the mourners having come, but they will also feel relief that they are now gone.

So, whether you’re an extravert or an introvert, when you face a loss, give yourself permission to do whatever it takes to get through the experience in your own way. And be generous enough to allow others to grieve in their fashion even if it doesn’t feel quite right to you.

Just Looking at the World Through My Lens

The Following are Pictures from a Trip to “Top Slip” and “Parambikulam Tiger Reserve” in Tamil Nadu and Kerala, respectively.
Both these Locations are Awe inspiring tributes to Nature’s Beauty.
A Typical house construct at Top Slip.

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The Shimmering Blue sky even in the hours of dusk.
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EVERY Monkey’s Dream 😉
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Even the Trees have ways of speaking to the eyes.
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A Spotted deer grazing Majestically.

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A Stone Monument Dedicated to the Movement To Educate Tribal People in the Locality.
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Just a Cute Kid 😉
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Monkey Business, Nuff’ Said 😀
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A Tusked Elephant lazing about.
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Through The Looking glass.
editt