That's most college students for you, in a nutshell. Who we are, and who we are instead.
Consider this notion: every man is bound by the limits of his own perception and reality. There is no absolute reality because everyone constructs their own versions of events, theories, and ideas. In college, all of us come in contact with a plethora of people, some fade-out and some don't. Their ideas rub off on us, as do their personalities, tastes, and lifestyles in general. Pop culture. Generation Y. These weren't created by one mind alone. These were created by a mixture of originality, influence, acceptance and then conformity.
Most people like to think that college students are lazy and apathetic. These views trickle down to us, and we like to think of us as lazy and apathetic too. It's how college students are. When in college, that is how one must be. How one is. Except that, it is not. Those who have heard us converse will tell you about our potential. The ideas we develop in our minds, the worlds we create -- whose plausibility is yet to be determined and yet we are hopeful. There is potential waiting to be honed, directed and harnessed. And yes, we can be lazy. This fast-paced competitive world distills the ideas of "fending for yourself" and competition into most of us. Life is hard and convoluted. You must struggle and struggle before you can achieve your heart's dearest desires. And you struggle so much that you slowly forget what you loved. Who you loved. Who you were.Your true self becomes more and more distant from you, and what you are left with is an illusion of yourself. The image that others projected on you. You have to construct your own life to the best of your ability, if you are to be successful. You don't have the time to worry about others. There are no "others" in your life. It is just you.
Really? I wonder.
I wonder where the concept of man being a social being evolved from. From the beginning of time, right? We are made of people. We are People. Every bit of our fabric is made of a person who left an imprint on us. And very spark of our imagination is filled with people we are yet to meet. The possibilites. Tabula rasa.
Yes, this is a very idealistic way of thinking. But this is, more than anything, an acceptance of who we are when our mind is free, and without fear. As a friend once said, there are those that destroy and those that mend, and in the end, there is some balance.
We are the balance. We are the World. We are People.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Strike
Each night is an eyelid, the thorns never stop piercing. And the day never ends, never stops counting itself, broken into copper coins. I am tired of so many stone beads scattered in the dust. I am tired of this unfinished solitaire. Lucky the mother scorpion who devours her young. Lucky the spider. Lucky the snake that sheds its skin. Lucky the water that drinks itself. When will these images stop devouring me? When will I stop falling in those empty eyes?
I am alone and fallen, grain of corn pulled from the ear of time. Sow me among the battle dead. I will be born in the captain's eye. Rain down on me, give me sun. My body, plowed by your body, will turn into a field where one is sown and a hundred reaped. Wait for me on the other side of the year: you will meet me like a lightning flash stretched to the edge of autumn. Touch my grass breasts. Kiss my belly, sacrificial stone. In my navel the whirlwind grows calm: I am the fixed center that moves the dance. Burn, fall into me: I am the pit of living lime that cures the bones of their afflictions. Die in my lips. Rise from my eyes. Images gush from my body: drink in these waters and remember what you forgot at birth. I am the wound that does not heal, the small solar stone: if you strike me the world will go up in flames.
Take my necklace of tears. I wait for you on this side of time where light has inaugurated a joyous rein: the covenant of the enemy twins, water, that escapes between our fingers, and ice, petrified like a king in his pride. There you will open my body to read the inscription of your fate.
-- Obsidian Butterfly, Octavio Paz.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Fingers crossed
Tomorrow is going to be a big day...
[** Februrary 29th, 2008 was the first ever Student Conference on Global Challenages at Drexel.]
[** Februrary 29th, 2008 was the first ever Student Conference on Global Challenages at Drexel.]
Daadi Maa
"Hoshiyaari se jaana!" Be careful.
Those would be my grandmother's words every time I'd step out of the house, even if I was just going to take the trash outside. They still echo in my ears, even though it's been three years since she said them to me last. And it was when I was boarding the plane to United States to chase a dream my parents dreamed for me. To win the future they so willed.
I was very restless and kept looking back every now and then from the immigration line. I always found her looking at me, with her eyes enlarged through the bifocals and her hands clasped to her chest. Smiling, and waving. She always did that. She watched people go; she liked seeing them off. Literally. That was one of the first things I learned from her. She always stood by the window and waved, and only went inside when my school bus turned the corner and she couldn’t see it anymore. And I always looked back. She was there. She would always be there.
“Why do you do that?”
“What?”
“Watch people from the window as they leave.”
“You never know who might look back for an extra smile. It makes someone’s day brighter. Besides, I like to watch people walking.”
“Why?”
“There is a lot you can tell about a person’s state of mind from the way they walk.”
To this day, my friends tell me how weird I am for noticing how people walk.
“Apna dhyan rakhna, theek?” Take care of yourself.
“Ji, Dadi.”
Dadi. Hindi for grandmother. I’ve called her that my entire life. It wasn’t until I was seven that I actually learned her name.
My childhood was short, but very colorful. There was no TV, no radio, and of course, no computer. When I was ten, I saw my first movie at the theatre. I read, but not often. Childhood for me meant running across fields of wheat and mustard to get to the nearest ‘Cricket pitch’, haggling for bangles at the Bazaar, making paper boats when it rained, flying kites when it didn’t, firecrackers on Diwali, colors on Holi, and my grandmother’s stories. Of all those moments and memories, the ones with her smell the warmest—mustard oil, basil, and soil.
She was my greatest ally. She knew I didn’t always obey my parents unlike every good daughter, and yet she never gave me away. My parents weren’t very secular. If I showed even the slightest appreciation for some other religion, I would get dirty looks from them. But I loved the sound of Farsi and Arabic prayers from the Quran, even though I had no idea what they meant. I loved waking up to the collective sounds of the kirtans and azaans. Sometimes when my parents weren’t home, I’d take a small rug, estimate where West was, kneel and say that one sentence out loud which I knew I would land me in serious trouble, if my parents heard me. La illaha il Allah, Muhammad u rasul ullah. I would straighten up to find goosebumps on my arms, and I loved the thrill. She saw me do this once as she walked by my room, and pretended to look away.
“You are quite the rebel.”
“Oh come on Dadi! I am not. I am a good girl.”
“Being a rebel doesn’t make you bad.”
“No?”
“Not if you’re honest.”
It was hard to believe that she was illiterate. The wisdom in the simplicity of her words was unbelievable, almost. It made more sense to me than most things my parents and my teachers taught me. She became my dearest confidant soon.
“Dadi, what if I don’t turn out the way my parents want me to?”
“As in?”
“As in what if I end up choosing a life they disapprove of. What do you think will happen?”
“I don’t know what will actually happen, but I know what you will do.”
“What will I do?”
“If it’s worth it, you’ll fight for it, as they say.”
“Fight my parents?”
“If it’s worth it.”
I miss her. I miss her stories, her missing teeth, her enlarged eyes, and most of all, her laughter. I laugh like her, I am told. Thank God. At least, I am not the only one with a predisposition for hysterics.
“You laugh like a horse, Mini.”
“So do you, Dadi.”
“Indeed. But horses are such spirited animals. So wild and free.”
“Dadi, I sometimes wonder what would happen if I looked like a cow.”
“Then we’d have to put you in that shed with the rest of them.”
“Would I also have to give milk?”
“Only on Mondays.”
We would crack up and peals of laughter echoed through the house.
The years have caught up with her now. Old age and infirmity has gnawed at her body. She is thin and frail and is counting down the years she has left to live, she tells me. She is just recuperating from massive blood loss and we’re talking on the phone.
“Oh pshaw, Dadi! You are going to be just fine. You just don’t take care of yourself enough.”
“But my time has also come, no? And what’s that in your voice?”
“What is in my voice?”
“You are sad.”
“No, I’m not. How are you feeling now?”
“What happened?”
Sigh.
“Nothing. I just…I just kinda… fell out with one of my closest friends.”
“Oh Mini...This isn’t the first time. You and your hot blood. Maafi maangi?”
“Haan, maangi.”
“Toh phir koi nahi, sab theek ho jaayegaa.” Everything will be ok.
“Ji, Dadi."
"Mini, I will go soon an—"
"So, what did you cook today?"
As I talk to her, I wonder if I should start counting down the years too. It doesn’t help to know that she might just breathe her last and I won’t be at her bedside. Perhaps I should start preparing myself for the inevitable. But I don’t want to.
Not just yet.
Those would be my grandmother's words every time I'd step out of the house, even if I was just going to take the trash outside. They still echo in my ears, even though it's been three years since she said them to me last. And it was when I was boarding the plane to United States to chase a dream my parents dreamed for me. To win the future they so willed.
I was very restless and kept looking back every now and then from the immigration line. I always found her looking at me, with her eyes enlarged through the bifocals and her hands clasped to her chest. Smiling, and waving. She always did that. She watched people go; she liked seeing them off. Literally. That was one of the first things I learned from her. She always stood by the window and waved, and only went inside when my school bus turned the corner and she couldn’t see it anymore. And I always looked back. She was there. She would always be there.
“Why do you do that?”
“What?”
“Watch people from the window as they leave.”
“You never know who might look back for an extra smile. It makes someone’s day brighter. Besides, I like to watch people walking.”
“Why?”
“There is a lot you can tell about a person’s state of mind from the way they walk.”
To this day, my friends tell me how weird I am for noticing how people walk.
“Apna dhyan rakhna, theek?” Take care of yourself.
“Ji, Dadi.”
Dadi. Hindi for grandmother. I’ve called her that my entire life. It wasn’t until I was seven that I actually learned her name.
My childhood was short, but very colorful. There was no TV, no radio, and of course, no computer. When I was ten, I saw my first movie at the theatre. I read, but not often. Childhood for me meant running across fields of wheat and mustard to get to the nearest ‘Cricket pitch’, haggling for bangles at the Bazaar, making paper boats when it rained, flying kites when it didn’t, firecrackers on Diwali, colors on Holi, and my grandmother’s stories. Of all those moments and memories, the ones with her smell the warmest—mustard oil, basil, and soil.
She was my greatest ally. She knew I didn’t always obey my parents unlike every good daughter, and yet she never gave me away. My parents weren’t very secular. If I showed even the slightest appreciation for some other religion, I would get dirty looks from them. But I loved the sound of Farsi and Arabic prayers from the Quran, even though I had no idea what they meant. I loved waking up to the collective sounds of the kirtans and azaans. Sometimes when my parents weren’t home, I’d take a small rug, estimate where West was, kneel and say that one sentence out loud which I knew I would land me in serious trouble, if my parents heard me. La illaha il Allah, Muhammad u rasul ullah. I would straighten up to find goosebumps on my arms, and I loved the thrill. She saw me do this once as she walked by my room, and pretended to look away.
“You are quite the rebel.”
“Oh come on Dadi! I am not. I am a good girl.”
“Being a rebel doesn’t make you bad.”
“No?”
“Not if you’re honest.”
It was hard to believe that she was illiterate. The wisdom in the simplicity of her words was unbelievable, almost. It made more sense to me than most things my parents and my teachers taught me. She became my dearest confidant soon.
“Dadi, what if I don’t turn out the way my parents want me to?”
“As in?”
“As in what if I end up choosing a life they disapprove of. What do you think will happen?”
“I don’t know what will actually happen, but I know what you will do.”
“What will I do?”
“If it’s worth it, you’ll fight for it, as they say.”
“Fight my parents?”
“If it’s worth it.”
I miss her. I miss her stories, her missing teeth, her enlarged eyes, and most of all, her laughter. I laugh like her, I am told. Thank God. At least, I am not the only one with a predisposition for hysterics.
“You laugh like a horse, Mini.”
“So do you, Dadi.”
“Indeed. But horses are such spirited animals. So wild and free.”
“Dadi, I sometimes wonder what would happen if I looked like a cow.”
“Then we’d have to put you in that shed with the rest of them.”
“Would I also have to give milk?”
“Only on Mondays.”
We would crack up and peals of laughter echoed through the house.
The years have caught up with her now. Old age and infirmity has gnawed at her body. She is thin and frail and is counting down the years she has left to live, she tells me. She is just recuperating from massive blood loss and we’re talking on the phone.
“Oh pshaw, Dadi! You are going to be just fine. You just don’t take care of yourself enough.”
“But my time has also come, no? And what’s that in your voice?”
“What is in my voice?”
“You are sad.”
“No, I’m not. How are you feeling now?”
“What happened?”
Sigh.
“Nothing. I just…I just kinda… fell out with one of my closest friends.”
“Oh Mini...This isn’t the first time. You and your hot blood. Maafi maangi?”
“Haan, maangi.”
“Toh phir koi nahi, sab theek ho jaayegaa.” Everything will be ok.
“Ji, Dadi."
"Mini, I will go soon an—"
"So, what did you cook today?"
As I talk to her, I wonder if I should start counting down the years too. It doesn’t help to know that she might just breathe her last and I won’t be at her bedside. Perhaps I should start preparing myself for the inevitable. But I don’t want to.
Not just yet.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
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