What Sixties!

 What Sixties!

The pic attached to this post, popped up in my news feed, and I thought it’s time I used it. I have been reading and seeing in movies versions and facets of these, and marveled at the same. Sixties! Seventies! A revolutionary time in many places around the world. And what was I doing? I was a child in the sixties, a tween and teen in the seventies, into the eighties. Hadn't heard anything about any of these, let alone do anything remotely close to any of it. Got raked with the eyes of angry, judgmental nuns, got disciplined by mom, and other relatives, still managed to giggle with friends. That's all. Even though we lived in a small town in God's own country,, now I know it could very well have been the hicks. It was not Mumbai or Calcutta , not even Kochi. Back then, I may have seen an odd hippie sauntering through our parts, but even that is rare. It could have been a pic in a magazine that I saw, or a caricature in one of our movies. The other hippie I knew of was Appi Hippie in Bobanum Moliyum. Anyway, if I saw one, I dont remmeber what my thoughts were. Someone from another planet? Jesus Christ in disguise? A travelling monk or saadhu? A beggar? Maybe for my friends and I all foreigners were hippies?

At some point, maybe in college, they symbolized freedom, although nothing I could aspire to, in my wildest dreams, being a good girl among all the other good girls in a "respectable" part of the planet. After coming to the US, I heard talk about the wild sixties, and how people lived an extreme sort of life, with many falling into addictions of all kinds, and some not surviving the times. While others reformed and lead normal lives.

Now that post and the way those experiences have been described, is the upbeat version. Now let us look at one of the other sides of that. An example would be the story of the boy in the book I am reading right now. (Yes -- now you are in for it. I need to tell stories, sometimes mine, sometimes others' )

Child of a drug addict, alcoholic mother, who had him when she was sixteen. The boy's father died before he was born. His mother gets a new boyfriend. Soon the boy is introduced to the foster parent system You know where this is going. The name of the book is Demon Copperhead, if any of you want to read it. O liver Twist seems to be nestling in the lap of luxury compared to this liitle guy. For someone like me, from another country, another culture, one could get an education in the foster system, social workers. All created in the best interests of the families and chikdren, but often flawed in its implementation, ended io hurting who it set about protecting in the first place. Even though broken families were not as prevalent or public, as here, where I come from, it doesn't mean everyone was deliriously happy all the time, or that no parent messed up their child. And it is not that we do not have our own addicts and abusers, the only fact being the way such matters were dealt with. And that was mainly by containing it all within the walls of one's own home, cloaked in respectability. Mostly we are adepts at sweeping unsavory things under the rug, by just not talking about them, let alone showing. Extreme cases were subject to ridicule, punishment, pity etc and of course handled by religious institutions. (Social media is bursting some of those bubbles now, I know.)

That is why certain parts of the movie, Slumdog Millionaire was a shock to me , and a matter of embarrassment. It was so far removed from my own little corner. I kept thinking, Why? why show it? they will think all of India is like this! I know, what does it matter! Obviously, It is India too, and there are people in my part of world too who could identify with that kid from the slum. I understand . Coincidentally, there is a character in this book, an Indian untouchable, who grew up in a slum, and naturally, this white American "hillbilly" boy can identify with him.

And even though the book at times, reads like a case study or case work from the files of a social worker, I still find myself rooting for the guy. wanting to know and caring about what happens to young Damon. The old magic of words, strung like pearls on a gold wire, flowing like a babbling brook, raging like the ocean, telling stories, connecting cultures. That luminous net of imagination. I am ready to fall into it again. Surrender my disbelief for greater rewards - most importantly, of awareness.

Bonus, for sure, I can identify with this young person, on a human level, but more than that, in one aspect of his character__ the wanting more. Which as we all know, can lead to great happiness and its great opposite. This is a story, but there is no doubt that it is based on reality. By the way, I am not surprised at why not many in this country, and these days, even in my old country, will find it easy to relate to my stories. My books will remain unread!

Back to reading

August 15 was my dad's birthday. He would have been ninety. It has been thirteen years since he died. Yes, DIED. Not "gone", "left us", "departed". As usual, I sent a happy birthday out into the emptiness, and hoped he rests in peace, wherever he is, or not. As I went around doing my usual doings, this particular day, as usual, brought back memories. Memories which made my heart heavy, and brought tears to my eyes.

And feelings of shame and guilt. I have let him down, badly. He would find it hard to recognize this person that I have become. Maybe not. Maybe he always knew. He was so proud of me, deservedly or not. I realize now that he had nothing to be proud of about me. He was the one. He was the one we all were proud of. Deservedly. He did the toughest thing in the world -- loved us. Stood by us. Hoped for us, with us. And I let him down.

The most shameful thing is that I stopped reading. Sure, I read news items, flipped through magazines, read a few Mysteries and best sellers here and there, old and new, even bought a number of books, hoping I would read them. I never did, to my utter mortification. Books were my life. Classic, contemporary, many novels were devoured eagerly. Literary criticism, history, narrative theories, philosophy, psychology ... I loved the printed word. The smell of books, of libraries. And I loved research, and connecting the dots, and analyzing and imagining. And I even wrote one, which my father read, and raved about(Surprise!🙂)

Then he died. My world, which was already getting rather shaky, crumbled. And the next shameful matter. My father would have been shocked at what can only be called my lack of character. I came to the conclusion that I was jealous of writers who were published, whose books were read by people. I kept away from them. And when I did manage to read , my attention was on the narrative technique of the writer. It was as if the magic was gone. I found flaws, chinks in the stories they built, and I was put off. Even as I knew that it was all part of my resistance, my self-sabotaging system. Gone were the days when I loved a book so much that I did not want it to end.
I, who had always thought myself to be above petty jealousies and greed, who could laugh at anything, who saw everyone as a friend, became distant, and paralyzed- With fear. Of failure, of success, of life. Even old friends had to be avoided. As I am no longer an academic, or a writer not even a reader, I felt I did not belong in their world.

I know, my father is dead. He is not seeing or feeling anything, let alone my self-bashing. But on this birthday of his, I decided to start reading again. To go to the library. Just like that. I had made such decisions before, and given up soon enough. And I had stopped trusting myself. But this time I think, I hope it is different. Because I detect that old yearning to get back to the books. And I did. For a day.

I should have known. I started to read, but my numerous chores seemed to jump up on me. Hanging on to me, clawing at me, trying to grab my attention. It was then I realized how scattered my attention and energies were. I wasn't that busy, these days, I had thought. Wrong! Time for myself, to sit quietly and away from it all is not the reality. Or did I create all these routines and tasks to avoid sitting still and thinking?

Maybe both, but this time I am glad I want to get back to my book. I already finished one, and am on the second. And in that first book, the protagonist is a woman whose life came to a standstill when her sister died. And she tries to write, unsuccessfully, an interesting coincidence.

And when I do sit down to read, what amuses me is the surprised and puzzled look on my dog's face. She is used to seeing the phone in my hand, and she eyes the book suspiciously, sniffing at it curiously. She seems to be a little miffed that she doesn’t get my complete attention when I am reading. She will get used to it soon enough, I hope my new found longing to read doesn’t fizzle out.

Awaara - Part 2 or changed my mind

 So, I ended my last essay wondering what I was doing here -- "here" could mean home, country, planet ... . I still am not sure why I am here, but I am glad I am here. Now why am I sure about that? 

I always admired Abraham Lincoln. Who could not? (And he is an Aquarian like me.) Today we visited the Lincoln Museum in Springfield. A chance to get a glimpse of his life and times. I went in expecting to see some old world items and photos and writings. I did not expect to feel anything intense. Was I wrong! It was an emotional experience to go through those rooms. This was some man! The legend. The hero. The martyr. The saint. I felt as if I were walking on hallowed grounds. I was humbled at the great suffering that he went through. The extensive, deeply hurtful, shameful public ridicule, the criticism, the mockery that he and his family was subject to. I had no idea.

The great ambition of this boy who was not born with a silver spoon, who went on to get a good education, became the President of the United States, twice, put his family name among the ones in the top societal roster, single handedly. The strength of character, of purpose, of vision. And the dreams he had, the sublime goals he met, despite people pulling him in opposite directions, despite his own melancholy, the sweeping changes he could bring about, I was moved, to say the least.  My thinking about his wife underwent a transformation too. Not the unstable old lady that I have heard about at all. An educated, intelligent woman who knew her own mind, but who suffered along with her husband.

I have never felt anything like this before, I am sure. Even in the Holy Land, I was not as emotional as I had thought I would be. This person brought about some tangible changes for a better world. He was crucified by words and actions, and in the end, assassinated. He did not die to wash away my original sin, but for the very real, dangerous sins of hatred and bigotry. No religion has sprouted up in his name, nor has that religion plundered the world in its name. He is not God. He was the 16th President of the United States of America. 

And I am glad I live here, in the Land of Lincoln. I am fortunate. 

 

Awaara

"Awaara hoon!" I used to like that song. "My shoes are from Japan, my trousers are from England, and my red hat is from Russia." Raj Kapoor, as the lovable vagrant singing his heart out as he roams around, the citizen of the world.

These days, as I walk my dog, I feel the same. I even look like him, at least my outfit does. I don't look lovable, though. And I am no citizen of the world. I live in America. As I get older, I am more and more aware of my "homelessness". I do not belong anywhere. Like many an expatriate, I feel alienated and alone no matter where I am. I know you will say that alienation is felt by many people, even in their own homelands, even in their own homes.True. And that there are people who are really homeless. True, again. Just that this is one other offshoot of this thing called "life', and mind.

I love watching the geese and their young ones. I love to watch them cross busy streets. The leader up front, stepping gracefully, pompously even, the rest following, with another adult keeping guard, at the very end, checking to see if all the youngsters are gathered all right. I know they are a nuisance to many, as they waste the time of busy people who are on the go, holding up the traffic. And especially when they dirty up the sidewalks and yards. That does not make me stop feeling sorry for them. When we installed ponds and lakes in our neighborhoods maybe we didn't think that these exotic guests would arrive. Or maybe we thought they would leave. But they either liked it here or they just did not have the energy to leave, or they just did not have any place to go to anymore, or cannot go at all. Not that those who are not visitors, but existed (anywhere) way before, fared any better.

I love watching the geese and their young ones. I love to watch them cross busy streets. The leader up front, stepping gracefully, pompously even, the rest following, with another adult keeping guard, at the very end, checking to see if all the youngsters are gathered all right. I know they are a nuisance to many, as they waste the time of busy people who are on the go, holding up the traffic. And especially when they dirty up the sidewalks and yards. That does not make me stop feeling sorry for them. When we installed ponds and lakes in our neighborhoods maybe we didn't think that these exotic guests would arrive. Or maybe we thought they would leave. But they either liked it here or they just did not have the energy to leave, or they just did not have any place to go to anymore, or cannot go at all. Not that those who are not visitors, but existed (anywhere) way before, fared any better.

I find myself asking a goose who comes close to my parked car, hoping for a treat-- why are you even here, you silly goose? No one wants you here anymore, they never did.  Why don't you go back to where you came from? They have already started killing you, your babies, destroying your eggs before they hatched. Run! Run as far away as you can! But-- you can fly! did you forget that? Fly! Fly away! Far away! Where no one will touch you. Get away! for yourself! For your babies! For the survival of your species.

I am in my well- worn linen pants that shrunk in the wash, so they reach just above the ankle, my faded oversize jacket, and my walking shoes and khaki hat.  As I walk my dog, thinking I look like a clown, I amend myself, no, not just a clown, but an "awaara"--vagrant.  And, what AM I doing here?