bed rest, ghost of pasts and a renewed passion

Sorry my Phantom Readers, for not being able to write so often. I have been rather unwell. My body has been feeling like a furnace coated with ice that never melts. And the thirst is so bad that I could gulp down the Ganges and still be thristy. But I am getting better, I am healing and realizing new layers inside me, within people around me and in this universe as well.

Two days ago, I woke up from my red sleep, burnt with amber of my feverish cells and I noticed that the first thought in my consciousness was, “ How will people remember me when I die?” Then I remembered for a few seconds feeling this immense fear. Once I remember not long ago, having said, “ I want to vanish into oblivion, I don’t want anyone to remember me.” But as soon as I had said it, I knew I was telling the biggest lie to myself.

What is the meaning of existing if the whole aim of my existence was to vanish into the darkness. I know scientifically thinking, at some point in time, somewhere in the future, things are going to change, humanity will change, there is a possibility that our solar system will be nothing but mere dark hole. Everything we have now, we aspire to be, millions of dreams and millions of existence would be just a vortex from where nothing would escape. No one will escape. So why this struggle, why this fear of the nothing?

Why do I want to; save money and travel the world, look into eyes of my lover (who I am sure is out there) and learn of freedom, look into eyes of children and learn of what love is, birth babies, bake cakes, conquer my fear of sky diving, ride the Royal Enfield from Kathmandu till Tibet and then some more… perhaps around the world.

Then I tell myself, look at yourself.. then again I tell myself, look out there.. so much to see, so much to learn.. This is a thirsty soul in search of knowledge, but I believe knowledge is like soft drink. Never quenches the real thirst.. you need water, pure H20 for that. And the water of life is ‘ being’.

Knowledge of freedom without living it  is nothing but a fallacy, knowledge of love, hate, ecstasy, rebellion, life, birth and death are the same. Shadows, which can somehow give you glimpses of the shapes but of not what the shapes, are of.

These thoughts have been loitering in the backstreets of my mind in silence; these strange thoughts which are so common and loiter inside each one of us but never knock on the door to make their presence felt. Sometimes, it takes few days in bed one moment clattering your jaws and next heating up like furnace, the thoughts of dying alone in a foreign land and not ever seeing your friends and family back home, never haveing that house in the hill, never falling in love again and never writing another set of words. It scares the shit out of the ever forgetting conscious mind and something from your subconscious jumps up and grabs your attention.

Then you write a letter to the man you loved most and tell him that you will always wish that all his dreams will fall on his lap like soft starlights and that he be happy where ever he is. ' Forgive and forget'. You let the ghosts of grudges cross the heavenly streams of forgiveness and never come back. You make a promise to be kinder, more generous to yoruself and letting your heart out of the shackles whatever the end result might be. Then you make an hour long journey across town in an overcrowded train, wondering at the beauty of life and universe that surrounds you and enroll yourself in that course you have wanted to enroll yourself ten years back!

Sometimes you need that prespective from the underside..

Much Love

- The Warrior Princess

The Pink Book Sale

We have a book sale here which is held every second Friday of the month in a shopping mall.  It is called ‘The Pink Book Sale’ and I try to attend it as much as I can, as early as possible. This is one place where I can spend money without a speck of guilt because the proceedings go to Breast cancer awareness and treatment for those who cannot afford.

I think book sales are amazing. It is like a treasure hunt. If you got sharp eyes and mind with quick hands and reflexes, you get away at the end with so many wonderful books that you consider the body ache and tired feet blissful. Not to mention the price, that is slashed to one tenth of the original prices, which makes the effort worthwhile. I got Hemingway, Coetzee, Gibran, Murakami McCourt and others in just under 90 bucks! Getting the Murakami was a bit of a tussle between the newly red haired me and the giant Irish redhead woman. It was like they show on tv shows. One book and two women fighting over it, a good humored fight though. They had a book of DH Lawrence but I am waiting for the price to go even more down (I know that no one will buy it for sure with the condition of the cover). Next sale will be the right time to snatch it.

Among those hundreds of book there was this one thin, sleek looking book in glamorous black shiny cover, standing out, calling my name. I thought it was some book on design and picked it up. When I saw the title, I had a big laugh. It was ‘Art of Seduction’ by some guy writer whose snapshot looked like that of someone caught in middle of swooning, frozen forever in that expression of 'come hither' look and an almost pout! Almost with a look of a desperation.

'Jesus, man with a pout!’was my first thought. But I bought it for the fun it and it was so cheap! Been through half of it already and it’s so informative! I never really imagined people had ways of thinking as mentioned in the book but when I come to think of my interaction with the opposite sex, everything matches! Well almost everything... Their blowing hot and cold, their acting mysterious, their giving out mixed signals... I was howling with aching belly and lungs with realization of all this little games! Now I have a tool to understand the male psychology! I am empowered! Hence, it proves again, ' Never judge a book by it's cover' or the snapshot of the writer on the cover..

There is also another reason for which I love book sales, leaving the prices and the rush of ‘treasure hunt’. Each book has two stories to tell: one that is written by the author and the other of the reader/ readers. The dog eared book that has been handed down and around families and friends, the books in almost perfect condition which was given as gift and you wonder why would you ever let it go. Personally I am someone who can keep even the wrappers of chocolates and presents. I am sentimental, emotional, very much.

I found a handmade greeting in one of the books. It is lovely, a family history.  The small piece of paper holds so much of a story in it. Though I myself do not write on my books, I love discovering messages, quotes and even the words underlined amongst the pages. It is always heart touching to come across small bits of personal history of unknown people accidently.

Don’t you think so?

- The Warrior Princess

Henry Miller Reads

loose diamonds, shifting flats and mother's day

Hello There!

I had been gone for a week. Did you miss me?

Well, there are no excuses except for the fact that sometimes working, studying, blogging, socializing gets too much for one to juggle. It really drains you out. Especially when you happen to be shifting nest on top of all the other activities of the week. But the dust has settled down, swept away rather, wardrobes cleaned, books categorized and shelved, and the birthday teddy bear washed, dried, fluff-ied and placed at his rightful place i.e. next to my pillow ( yes I still have my girlyness alive).

Now that everything is where it should be, I am back! This is the third time I have shifted in this year. I like the process. It’s like a mini adventure, always jogs your memory. You find small trinkets of past and could be future tucked between one of the books, some random sketches and designs which I mean to turn into real work, loose diamonds from a ring given by certain someone! (I am still to decide if I should dump them in the ocean..)

My roomates always get amazed to see that I have more books than clothes. And even more so to see that I have loose diamonds in old torn wallet where I keep other knick knacks and old black and white pictures. One of them is of my mom in a vintage knee length dress. She has her hair in ponytail and a front bang right till her eyebrows. She is wearing a small strappy kitten heel and standing in the back with other girls in the group. She is a nurse and this picture was taken during her last college year. She is voluptous in build and is leaning forward on a chair so you can see that she has a bulging stomach. That is apparently me in her womb! Her face has hint of shyness but does she look beautiful! Well perhaps, she is my mother so my judgement can be very biased.

I think it was during my early years when I started exploring English literature, I learnt of the phrase and it felt as if some age old unknown curse had fallen upon me. It went something like this. ‘All women become like their mother. That is their tragedy.’

At that age, I in no manner wanted to be like my mother. In fact, I hated her. I would wonder why couldn't she be the normal mother that my friends had. Why she wouldn't stay home, make us warm food, clean for us, always be there on my father's call. Why would she have to rush to stranger's house calls at random hours, why she was not there to celebrate our birthdays, our annual school functions when we were the ones who won almost half of the prizes (?)

Now that I am older, I understand her more. To think that at my age, she had given birth to two kids, was working full time, mothered us the best she knew, supported my father through his college amazes me. She was that strong and more, she was that giving, loving and more. I have seen her like that. And I have seen her in other lights too.

I had seen her love, her rage; at age of twelve when I was in a very confusing place called adolescence, sitting next to the sad and heaving figure of my mother, I have looked into her eyes, heard her words that echoed so much loneliness and sadness of being misunderstood that I think it scarred me till last half a dozen years.

I was a silent witness when society systematically with its age old hypocritical laws and labels killed one smile after another in her face; it dulled the fire in her eyes that was always ready to flare against unjust social taboos. Every time she was late from work, after saving yet another life of a newborn baby, or a mother, or a patient; she would be a loose woman! Every time she talked to another man, to prescribe his dose of medicine, to teach him how to care for his baby or his sick wife, she would be a whore!

I have also seen her love a man so much that she wiped her identity for him, she became him. I have seen her heart breaking and going down the dark and murky hole of depression. Seeing my mother as a person was very confusing and frustrating.

It is difficult to think that the woman who is the source of our life could be that vulnerable. It shakes your own confidence, make you vulnerable as well.  I was always the defiant one in the family, defiant and naïve to the limit of appearing stupid at times and all that confused me. I couldn’t understand that there were so many other lone warriors like her, who gave up sooner or later, tried from defending her honour again and again and again. And at the end, end up being what the society always labeled and wanted them to be. An outcast, a mere fallen mortal, who had gone beyond what the society deemed was right in the books.

But I have also seen her fight back.  I have seen her going down the dark and murky hole of depression and emerging out of it a victorious heart. I have seen and now understand her actions which were her answers to the so called puritan society and I feel proud that I am her daughter.

At the time when women were supposed to sit at home, clean kitchens and serve their husbands, my mother was out in the world, fighting in it for her own place under the sun, marching to her own drum beat. She rode an old bicycle every day for hours back and forth the remote health post, where she saved lives. She was a fighter; she was a savior. She was even the fashion trend setter :) ( the first one of wear kurtas instead of saris, first one to sassy in jeans and tops, first one to get that nasty noodle hair as my dad said, first one to wear red lipstick GASP!) She was a lover (GASP AGAIN!) rather than a submissive wife; she was the provider and not the helpless, at home she was adored and respected while most women were treated as if they were  some kind of household item, to be made well use of.

Despite all the name calling and blames she got (being a nurse was a big no no for a woman from respectable family then and running away from home to pursue education was even bigger social offence, my mother was guilty of both) she is still at her work. In fact, she has been promoted several times now and she has changed a whole village where she lives now with her fiery attitude. Because of her, most of the people have now enrolled their daughters in nursing school, while I was the one who in fear of becoming like my mother decided to take a compeletely different course of life.  

I cannot speak for men, they might have their own personal wars to win and heartbreaks to heal, as I can recall from my father's life (entirely different story and today is Mother's day). What I have learnt is that different course from your mother or not, there will always be heartbreaks, struggle for identity, you will always have to fight for your rights and what you deserve anywhere you go.

She will always be my inspiration. My friends tell me how envious they are that I have a mother who is more a friend and intellectual sound board rather than an old heckling hen. And what more, she still lives her life passionately. If that saying is true, than I look forward to becoming more like who she is.

- The Warrior Princess