the note versus the post

posted this as a note on FB some days back. realized I have somehow done injustice with my old faithful blog by opting the 'note' to the 'post'. And injustice I can not brook. Hence...

All hail the script!

At age 35, I look back (I usually don't, this here is a rare moment, thoda sa roomani ho jaye etc) and see the distance I have traversed. It has been quite a ride with more than a few twists and turns. ‘Kahani mein twist’. Changes where least expected. Uncharacteristic decisions. Unexplainable, unmitigated Loss that changed life forever. Gains. Beautiful memories that stay suspended, forming a parallel dimension that I can sneak into, when reality gets murky, or worse, algae-d. And the in-between.

Not exactly a potboiler, but decent screenplay, totally. If I were sure I would be living into my 70s, I could say with confidence that half my life is over. In these longevity-challenged times, it would be ambitious to predict thus. But I digress...so, if half my life is over, do I have an interesting enough story to show for it? I say, I do, though the oomph factor isn’t exactly burning a hole through the roof. Oh well, maybe next time.

We all have our stories.

My dad had one (I loved gobbling what he told me of it and made him repeat anecdotes from his childhood, youth and working life), so does my mom (I keep telling her to document it, like I did my dad, but they both prefer to actually live, and at times, relive their stories…fair enough).

The dude on a bike trying to zoom over a red light on his way to work, but is actually ramming into a Tavera, does. The corporate-to-a-T BlackBerried girl with her coiffed hair and manicured air does. Some stories are more dramatic than others, but we all have one. Faces in the crowd, some more revealing than others.

They say, people come into our lives for a reason, good or bad. I agree. Our stories are populated with characters - some get lost on the way, some accompany us beyond Time and dimension, some resurface in serendipitous ways. Others decide to hang around on the periphery, purely out of social obligations. They all leave traces – faint or indelible.

But in the end, it is (like I am so fond of repeating ad nauseam to anyone who will suffer me) all about the script, really.

Karma, destiny, free will, what have you, all built into the plot, beautifully. Mini/abridged Mahabharatas, Ramayanas, Odysseys... Life and its flip sibling Death insist on having the final word though, across narratives.

My dad, the wind beneath my wings, always wanted me to write a book, he thought I could probably weave a story.

Someday I might. Till then, I'll just continue living my story, like he did. On to Act 3, Scene 2.

--

back to the shell.

knots

been a choppy phase the last some weeks...first, my kid and then the hubby got chickenpox...the former had a rather mild (tho still worrisome) episode, while the latter is still in the midst of the slump - nursing him back to health...we all lust for and dream of a break soon, in some wildlife resort or by the ocean or in some forgotten tucked away hill resort...ah.

being ill temporarily where one can do nothing but lie and contemplate the ceiling, changes one's perspective in life...I've had an event where I literally was only doing that for almost a month or so...not knowing if I could walk again and have a life I had...a freak incident that tested me and my family beyond the limits...have risen through it and cherish the experience as one that most of my peers wouldnt, and shouldnt, identify with.

life is like that...you bloody well have to be prepared for everything it throws at you. right in the middle of a dull plateau, boom, there's a vortex right below your feet that suck n drops you to the bottom of an abyss...somebody i know went through a similar experience...but the icky part was that it was somebody she called her partner, her life-companion who arranged for the sudden change in fortunes...shes a fighter and clawing her way back to a future full of hope.

another is stuck with a man whose idea of love is, in a word, sick...after years of abuse, and after she vented out her angst to a friend, she decides its not worth it...the stronger she gets, the more insecure, weaker, inferior he thinks he gets...and this is a very accomplished highly educated urban couple...she will hang on for the kid, but has resolved not to deny herself the right to live the way she wants to anymore...all living beings have the right to live the life they want to....tho its a cliche, freedom *is* everyone's birthright that some with their sick manipulative ways, deprive the ones they supposedly love or care for, of...that's not love, that's self-love and being a control-freak.

remembering you fondly...

as you languish. life's crowded. no time to air my thoughts, that mad jumble, that ever-changing mercurial mass...have I changed? yes...I am resolute in living each second...not knowing where the next shall take me. curious as to how much more of the role's left...but not enough to stop and take stock.

ah, to fly...take wing and do cartwheels or just stay suspended in the heights...light and airy.

people often tell me to write...is there a book inside of me? maybe? but do I want to write? or am I being true to myself by denying the words...by letting them be in my sub-subconscious.

music - i have music in me...but I am not into it anymore.

pictures - I continue to spot frames and moments that could be captured. but I let them fade out in my mind's lens.

I am creative...without creating much. I am true to myself, this much I know.

if the self changes someday, I will follow.

high and low...zipping by...pausing briefly, fondly...but always moving.

the more I scatter, the more 'I' withdraw.

strange fascinating experiences, connecting randomly...scatter generous happy flaky whacky trippin dancing

the journey mid-way...the road beckons...fog sunshine rain evening...the usual

living with a vengeance.