Dance

When A told me what ran through his mind while he was under water, I became aware of the seed of my love for the sea. He said that if we ever needed inspiration for forms and colours, we only needed to look here. This was where the world as we knew it began approximately 4.5 billion years ago, covered in blue all over. Marine life is far more evolved than us, like billion years evolved. To just think of the advancement, the maturity that exists when compared to us, possibly the youngest animal on the planet, surpasses my ability to imagine. 

What I absorbed first was the sheer beauty. If I did not have to remember to breathe steadily, not bump into coral and basically try and be buoyant I would collapse in a heap wherever I land and just, stare. Even then I would not know where to look. At the coral, which formed the base of the marine life? Hideouts of small fishes, go-to places for the bigger ones at meal times? Or the ones lolling on the sea beds, sweeping into themselves plankton and anything else that chances on their path? This time we saw, fifteen metres deep, above ridges of coral, fusiliers, hundreds of them moving around in curves. They seemed to have created an infinite loop, engulfing us within it when we moved closer, pulled by the magnetism of their movements. Stone fish, expertly camouflaged on the coral, but not too far away from their passing prey. A shy octopus scuttled into the nearest cave, its curious head black in the dark, moving this way and that, observing us covertly.

Fusiliers in Dance

The perfect proportions and unthinkable combinations of colour. How do you know? How do you know what looks good with what and create something so compelling, you could spend an hour looking at it and still not have enough? Not just one something, millions of somethings. Over and over and over again. Each more perfect than the other.

Then I understood the rules. Not our rules, the divers’. They are aplenty, starting with don’t touch anything. The rules of the ocean. One, swim in the direction of the current. Swimming against the current is like calling someone at the other end of a cricket pitch during a match. Futile. Two, be benign. If the fish help the coral by identifying when predators are in sight, the coral will hide the fish when danger approaches. Like animal calls in the wild. The monkeys famously have alert calls for the jungle when the tiger is on a prowl. They share knowledge, let it out in the universe, trusting that it will be used for the greater good.

Clown fish and coral

Finally, I got a glimpse of wisdom. We did not belong in the water; we were foreign beings. With bubbles following us wherever we went, awkward movements, careening towards and away from surfaces. Shouting our approach loud and clear in the way we displaced water when we moved. Yet we were tolerated, welcomed, even. Fish moved around us. Nothing approached us and we were told that the only injuries came from touching or provoking animals, which otherwise just had better things to do with their time. Like look for lunch, find a mate, or just sail with the current. While boundaries exist, they are defined by the nature of the habitat like water temperature, currents or depth rather than being forceful, or contrived.

An enlightened friend once countered that we are also a part of nature, so surely we come imbibed with some of these qualities. To say that we behave unnaturally would be harsh. Perhaps, he is right. I hope to reach his level of optimism one day. 

Till then, I remember the silence, the colour, the purpose. Which, far from proving the next big thing, is just to exist. And, to dance. 

Willy, nilly, silly old Bear!

Oh, bother!

As I write this post on my all time favourite Bear, my heart beats faster than usual and I can feel my ear lobes heating up (that's what happens when I blush).

It was a simple but poignant article in today's newspaper that set me thinking about dedicating a blog to Winnie The Pooh. It was also through this article that I learnt that Winnie the Pooh was created in 1926! Almost 90 years of being cuddly and still going strong. 

Like most children in my time, I grew up watching many kinds of cartoons - Tom & Jerry, Bugs Bunny and Warner Bros, Scooby Doo, Captain Planet, Mickey Mouse. The only one that stayed with me after I graduated to Rom Coms, and then to Documentaries and Oscar Winning films was Winnie The Pooh and his adventures in the Hundred Acre Wood. While Pooh Bear cuddly toys and other licensed products are commonplace nowadays, my first (and unfortunately, the last) t shirt with Winnie the Pooh on it was bought at Colombo Airport in Sri Lanka in early 2003. It was a store for children and I had bought the largest size. I had worn the t shirt long after the rubber print had worn off, leaving faint shadows behind. 

Shortly after that a friend gifted me an A3 size poster of Pooh Bear and his friends. The poster occupied pride of place in my tiny hostel room in college, never ceasing to cheer me up, because: 

“Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.”

Then I was privileged to own, for a very short time, a Pooh cuddly toy. Sadly it got wet in the rain and never really returned to its original splendour after that. I had to give it away as its dank odour was making its position on the centre of my bed untenable. 

Like Cinderella, I have tried to rationalize my love for this fluffily stuffed Bear. The oil for this eternal flame, I now realise, is that Pooh has many facets to his nature, not unlike a diamond. I have discovered each part over time. 

There is an endearing simplicity in the Pooh stories, where all that mattered was protecting Piglet from fierce thunderstorms, or finding Eeyore's tail. If I could choose a life to lead, even from tomorrow, it would be with Pooh in the Hundred Acre Wood. I could borrow books from Owl, help Rabbit with his carrots and give Eeyore a hug when he loses his tail. Again. Maybe Tigger will teach me how to bounce like him, and Pooh will teach me that Life is as simple or complicated as we make it out to be. With Hundred Acres of Wood to explore, we would never run out of Adventures. 

Cutting to the present, my most recent discovery is his penchant for the bon mot. 

When he said, 

"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard." 

I thought about all the things in life that I take for granted. It is only when I have lost them that I have realised their worth. 

“What do you like doing best in the world, Pooh?”

“Well,” said Pooh, “what I like best-” and then he had to stop and think. Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn’t know what it was called. 

We are on a journey, and most of the time it is easy to mistake the journey for the destination. Where we are, every day, is at that point just before we begin to eat the honey, which is, like Pooh the Wise says, a moment that is better than the best. 

There are many, many more pearls of wisdom that Pooh has mouthed, and some of them can be found here. 

If it's too much to take in at one time: 

“Don’t underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear, and not bothering.”

Why Cinderella is my all time favourite story

I watched the film adaptation of Cinderella yesterday. While watching Lucifer trying to catch Jaq and Gus and crashing into the chest of drawers under which the mice scurried, I got transported almost 20 years back, to the first time I had seen Disney's 1950 Cinderella.

I had been completely enthralled. Since then I have watched the first adaptation many times, more than I care to count. I have always loved stories and over time I grew to love animated movies as well, but Cinderella stayed my favourite.

Firstly, the story. The quintessential fairy tale where a girl reduced to a servant in her own home catches the eye and the love of the Prince of the Kingdom. While the Prince did not slay any dragons or break anything (or anyone) to rescue her, he presented her with the opportunity to prove her identity, through the famous glass shoe.

Secondly, the animation. For 1950, the animation was definitely one of the best, not to mention the grandeur of the sets at the palace, Cinderella's home, her dresses and the wonder of her night at the ball. The effects blended with the story beautifully and became more than just a medium - they became the only medium through which the magic of the story itself could be felt.

I have often tried to dismiss my (irrational) love for this fairy tale, which I will admit has some regressive overtones. I pride myself on being logical and am fiercely protective of my independence, so submitting to the charms of such a tale is hypocritical.

My counter argument to the claim of hypocrisy is that seeing it so many times did little to change my world view of my destiny and the role I can play in shaping it. I am definitely not Cinderella. I would not have just sat there, slogging my life out for ungrateful people and then singing in happiness because I was too pure to feel otherwise.

This brings me to the third and possibly the last reason - the beauty. I think Cinderella was my first real brush with beauty. If we were to notice everything around the central characters, we would see perfect proportions, understated elegance and royal colours. It was the seed of my belief that for one to create beauty, one had to first experience it. I can, therefore, understand the lure of Paris and Venice, high costs and stinking canals notwithstanding.

From today's perspective, the taste of the decor featured in 1950's Cinderella would be called 'traditional' but for a 9 year old girl who spent most of her time reading books and creating alternate universes in her head, Cinderella gave my imagination glorious wings to spread and fly.

Like the Fairy Godmother says: "Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo!"

The Sea Movie

I touched the damp material to my chest. It smelt mildly of saline and something else. Nostalgia. Barely four hours after I had had the time of my life. This is bordering on the perverse, I thought. I could be forgiven, though, because I had no other proof - no selfie with the diving equipment on, no facebook photo with a 300 likes and 164 comments with a pic of my being suspended in open water, watching fish of all shapes, sizes and colours dart past me, and no words to explain the feeling of being 50 feet under the sea, watching an alternate world at work.

I did not want the material to dry. I wanted it to retain some of the famous Andamans magic in it. Every time I touched it, I wanted to get transported back to those moments, those special moments when I knew beyond a doubt, that this was what made it all worth it. The splurge on a four day trip, for which I had paid the equivalent of almost ten, thanks to the flight tickets, an internationally certified course, and premium accommodation so that I could stay at the same place as the dive site. 

School of Bumphead Parrotfish

It had felt, alternately, like driving on a whole new road with new rules and new vehicles; like watching strangers going about their day through a one way looking glass; and like starring in a movie about the sea, a movie like Finding Nemo. Neither of these comes close to what it actually felt like. Maybe it was a combination of all three. But then again, the mind can only conjure what it already knows. Who knows what all colours were there in the fish that passed me when we dived near a ship wreck, looking all stately and purposeful? Who knows what the majestic Sea Horse was thinking when it popped out of the sea bed as we hovered a couple of metres above, almost like as if it was waiting for us to arrive? 

Black Sea Horse on the sea bed. The diving team said it was rare sight. 

It was surreal. And I was grateful, for being allowed to view the magic up close. To all the creatures of the sea, who made me feel at home in their home. To the schools of parrot fish that majestically wove their way through the water right above us. To the three black and yellow striped fish, swimming in decreasing size in front of me as I descended particularly choppy waters, tired after a hard won battle with waves and wind at the top. They fluttered along in front of me as I descended slowly, a mild ear block preventing me from moving any faster. I looked at them and moved closer, wanting to study their colour pattern and look into their eyes. A little further and then a little more further, till I reached the bottom. And then again in the last three minutes of the dive, during the safety stop. There they were again, fluttering along next to each other in decreasing size. Almost as if wanting to know how my dive was and whether I would see them again soon. 

The clown fish which zig zagged between the live coral, and Long Fin Banner fish, of Finding Nemo fame. Schools of different kinds of fish zipping in one direction and another, reminding me of a busy highway. 

Long Fin Banner Fish

Sea Urchins, Scorpion Fish, Lion Fish and the lone Banded Sea Krait. And many, many more whose names I did not know. So many colours and so many shapes. I could have spent the whole day there, just watching them. Each one of them so beautiful, so graceful, so perfect.

Banded Sea Krait. We saw one hiding in one of the many caves created by dead coral. Its venom is one of the most toxic in the world, but it is very shy and non-aggressive.

Back in the room after a scrumptious lunch (diving is rigorous and I was always left with a healthy appetite after), I wondered what to do. We started the day early, going out on the boat by 7am, and we were back by 1pm, after two dives. So the whole day stretched before me, languid. I could read, write, go to the beach for a swim, walk to the market. Eventually I settled for sitting on my bed, looking through the little holes in the mosquito net tied to the poster above, to the painted pattern on the sloping cloth roof and reliving those moments underwater. When I awoke, it was past five. Ah, the perfect time for a walk on the beach to watch the sunset. And to say goodbye to my new marine friends. 

A bientot. 

P.S. All the pictures are from the internet. 

The Longest Walk of My Life

I must admit to thinking that the title sounded very ‘Chetan Bhagat’, if you get my drift. His books are the a-b-c of what to do to make people turn the cover to the read the first page and not put it down till the last. No mean feat, as anyone who tried to write a book could tell you. If you don’t know any such person, the millions of copies that each of his books sold should be enough to convince. 

Nevertheless, I would persevere in calling this the Longest Walk of My Life in my recent past, because I have a short memory when it comes to forgettable experiences, and most of them are well, forgettable. So, the question here was not about what I was looking forward to, but of what I was willing to risk to get to what I was looking forward to. 

Ten minutes, the friendly person at the Reception had said. Only four minutes had passed. The longest four minutes of my life (not counting the one minute I had to swim in 20 feet deep sea without my mask, but more on that later) and I had six more to go. Six and a completely dark and lonely stretch of road ahead. With possible redemption at the other end. 

Behind me, the Greats beckoned. Gold End, Havelock Favourite, Symphony Palms, Holiday Inn. The here and now, looking good. Did I dare? Did I dare venture into the unknown; did I want it badly enough to take an immeasurable risk to my safety? I stood in front of El Dorado, indeterminate. To the right stretched adventure, dark and mysterious. To the left, the familiar, brightly lit and warmly welcoming. 

I remembered Santhosh, the receptionist’s expression when I asked him, Is it safe for me to walk? Is it safe for a woman to walk, all alone on the road after dark? His answering smirk spoke volumes. Of course, what kind of a question is that? I am disappointed. I had rather hoped that you would ask what I would recommend you eat. Pah! Go away now, allow me to get back to my game of Solitaire on the computer. 

Switching on the flashlight on my phone, I turned right and started walking. A lone tube light shone a few metres away, banishing the dark. I walked faster, my eyes on it, unwavering. The sound of a motorbike behind me, every thud of the engine sounding like my heartbeat magnified a 100 times. I swallowed and concentrated harder on the tube light. Then capitulated and turned. Just in case. Looking for escape routes. A narrow lane turned into a few houses, bunched at right angles to each other. A child played in the lane, its buttocks bare. 

The motorcycle vroomed past, the two travellers too engrossed in their conversation to look hither or thither. The tube light illuminated the grubby interiors of a small room of around 30 square feet with a low wall facing the road and an entrance of about three feet in width at one end. Red plastic chairs caught my eye, as did the dark shape of a man in a nondescript shirt and lungi, his pot belly creating a gentle curve in the in the lower half of his torso. I looked ahead and saw more tube lights. I looked back to see the incredible feat I had accomplished, the proverbial walk on fire. It seemed irrelevant now that I had crossed it; ordinary even. All that courage and nothing to show for it except a sweat soaked shirt. I licked my lips and tasted Odomos. 

The phone glowed two minutes past the ten minutes it was supposed to take me to reach the best place in Havelock to have dinner (I supposed non vegetarians may venture to have their own opinion on this matter considering that it was an island on the Andaman Sea, but vegetarians had to be content with what was handed on from previous travel accounts of like minded individuals) I continued walking, the tube lights and the stray motorist passing me. I noticed the words “COCO” painted in blue on a red board, the nearest tube light putting the part above this line in the dark. I walked faster, unconsciously, my eyes riveted on ‘COCO’. The dark parted to reveal ‘Anju’ painted in the same faded blue paint. More lights, this time within an enclosure in which a few blonde heads bobbed.

Twenty minutes later, I scooped a spoonful of Paneer Makhani into my mouth and tasted sweet, sweet victory.

Forgiveness

We all do some things right, and some things wrong. Sometimes they happen so fast that it is all over before we know it, and sometimes it stretches like much chewed gum, on and on, getting thinner and more fragile by the second. But the one thing that binds both right things and wrong things is - they pass. They begin, they end and life moves on. 

Why are we so ready to forget the right things, and so slow to forget the wrong? Do we ever wonder why we spend so much time going over and over the argument from the previous day, or the hurtful messages, or someone’s expressions, when there were probably many more smaller but positive things that happened at the same time? 

I have held anger and hate inside me for a long time. Even when the fire soothed itself into glowing embers, I fanned it with thoughts of the past - sad, unfair thoughts of the past - and got it burning again. Only to go to bed completely exhausted at the end of it all. 

Retribution. I dreamed of it. To all the people who had let me down; treated me unfairly. Sometimes I pulled strangers who were, in my estimation, irresponsible or wrong into the same huddle. One day I would get back, I vowed to myself. Show them how wrong they were. 

It never came. The opportunity, the time to do it or even practically speaking, the resources like money. Instead, days and years passed, and I felt like I had not moved when the rest of the world raced ahead. 

In flashes of sudden enlightenment, I realised how some people were just fundamentally happy. Sure, they had problems; they had ups and downs just like the rest of us. But that did not stop them from smiling everyday, or just enjoying the moment. 

I was fundamentally unhappy. The only wall that stood between me and happiness was, well, me. The fires that burned inside took everything. They were fair that way. There was nothing left when it was all done. 

At the end of it all, when we go to sleep at night, or when we come home after a long day, we have ourselves for company. I asked myself - would I go away somewhere with myself? I did not even like myself at that point. When we are not comfortable with who we are, taking refuge in the company of others is the easy thing to do. Living with ourselves, our thoughts, our idiosyncrasies is difficult. 

Now I think about it more often - spending time with myself, going away, just enjoying my company. There will be some good, some bad, but I know that it’s what I make of it. I can live inside my head. And I know that so long as I am around, everything will be okay. 

To all the people who have wronged me - I forgive you. But you know the most important thing? I forgive myself. 

My Search for Satisfaction

You know this feeling when you are sitting in a group and someone says something significant and you chose that exact moment to get lost in reverie? By the time you are back to the World the information is dated and the moment has passed. But the lingering feeling that you have missed something does not. 

I feel this way all the time. It's like as if everyone has struck a deal with their conscience to forget its duty for a while, so that they can push, claw and do whatever else it takes to clear their way to the top. If that is indeed the top (The Ladder of Mediocrity tells you more). I forgot to do it, and now it is too late. No one listens to me now, let alone my conscience. 

The human trait of perennial dissatisfaction has been termed as one of the major differences between us and other species in this world, and has also been attributed as the reason for mankind's progress today. This dissatisfaction has also manifested itself in the Attitude towards others. Acquiescence and compromise are the new words for backwardness. It's the New Age Theory-of-Relativity. Why bother with the universal definition of good when being better than bad is enough? But the single thought that my dull brain is unable to wrap around itself is: everyone is ok with it. There is smugness, superciliousness and maybe even a hint of resignation, but no one is asking why. Everyone is only talking about the what. 

To be honest, I was one among the madly rushing horde till recently. When it hit me that the Ladder everyone is scrambling to climb is actually an Illusion, I lost all interest. Phat. Just like that. Because I knew that this was not going to give me Satisfaction. But then, is there anything else on offer?

I don't have an answer to this question. I have just started the search, and I don't expect it to end well. But I cannot be without trying. If there is one emotion that I do not want to have in my life, it is Regret. 

Till we meet again.