Memories and impressions

A few nights ago, a bunch of heady middle aged women giggled and danced away like teenagers in their old school auditorium. A little while later, we may have complained about aches and pains, knees and other; but in that moment, we giggled and reminisced and danced to numbers we considered the ‘coolest ever’ in our teen years.

Nostalgia was high, memories ran loose, everyone seemed the same, everyone seemed changed. We seemed like a bunch of teenagers trying to pass off as grown women, artificially aged with make-up and wrinkles, haircolor and pretend postures.

Memories have a strange way of reappearing from the deep abyss of past when we move to familiar locations. Both good and bad, they emerge uninhibited from a past submerged and forgotten.

We sang the school song and were amazed that we could sing it without even glancing at the words.

A friend I met after 25 years looked at me carefully and declared, “It was you”.
“Uh oh,” I thought apprehensively. Fortunately, the memory was silly and funny enough that we laughed. Although I did not remember it, it did seem like something I would say, and it tickled me. It tickled me to think that she would remember something like that after so long. 

I met my geometry teacher, who I adored. With startling clarity, out leapt a memory that I had forgotten since the day it occurred.  

A military general and president of a neighboring country had died in an aircrash. Relations being hostile between the two countries then (this is over 25 years ago), some girls in our class wrote the headline on the board. That somehow led to applause. Honestly, we were too young to have opinions of our own and merely reflected those around.

Somehow it made me uncomfortable and I didn’t want to join in. All the more unsettling, as the entire goal of that age is to fit in. Just then, this teacher stepped in and upon witnessing what was going on, gave us a talk on respecting others – especially the dead, no matter who they may have been or what they may have done.

Seeing her, I remembered that day with clarity. I also remembered the huge wave of relief I felt once she endorsed that applause was not required. I no longer felt unpatriotic. Her words gave me permission from a certain pressure to fit in.  

I shared the memory with her. In her typical no-nonsense, lets-not-get-too-sentimental manner, she nodded and then chatted about something else.

I wondered how many people had made impressions on my then young mind and to what extent. I wondered how many people continue to make impressions on our not-so-young minds. I wondered if we still have the capacity and flexibility to allow the impressions to happen.

I hope we still do.

Rememberance of things past

This past Diwali, I decided to make besanache ladoo. I remembered the only person who could make them right. My grandmother. I remembered the many afternoons I had spent, pouring over the shiny steel plate, savoring the soft brown ball of goodness. I remembered how I would break the one ball into many…many many. How I would crumble the mother ball and roll it back (just like my grandma did) into a gathering of lookalikes – arranging each identical sibling in a neat pattern along the circular rim of the plate. Perhaps it was my way of making a good thing last. Perhaps, it was my way of pretending to be my grandmother.

Eventually, yet slowly, I would mouth each one – all whilst my grandmom chided me for playing with my food and making a mess. But I would like to think she enjoyed watching the amount of attention I gave her delicious creation. Each time. Unfailingly. 

My memories took me to an excerpt of Marcel Proust’s, Rememberance of things past (In search of lost time) that I had read a few centuries ago. It made me want to pick up Proust’s work and wade through all seven volumes. Fact unlikely to happen. But I wondered if my besanacha ladoo was similar to Proust’s madeleine – the sight, taste or even thought of which, had the capacity to awaken involuntary memories and emotions.

I thought of Proust again as we took the road that curved through the mountains on our arrival in India. As the orange dawn sun hit the cliffs, I studied the mountains, searching for familiar shapes, pointing out to my daughter, a cliff’s edge shaped like a nose. She said it looked like something else. I cannot even remember what; I dismissed the thought in my mind quickly, permanently. For to me, it was the Duke’s nose and it would always be so. Turning it into something else, would mean washing away and fading out memories of trips and hikes, especially in the rains, to these mountains.

I thought of Proust again, as I sat at my parent’s dining table eating familiar, yet now unfamiliar food. I noticed how much more I ate than usual. I noticed the vigor with which I ate.  

My husband has not read Proust, and is unlikely to ever do so, but seated in his mother’s kitchen, being served simple, yet favorite meals, his mind must know the comfort of involuntary memories his sensory faculties enable with the introduction of familiar objects. Add to it love. On our first day here, his cousin brought him jilebis (Indian sweet), from his favorite store, standing in line 20 minutes to do so. He does so each time with a welcome predictability.

My daughter remembered a certain sweet she had eaten on our last trip at my mom’s place. Not remembering the name, she gave us vivid descriptions – orange, translucent, square, sweet, almondy… we figured it out. My dad went and got her some right away.

This combination of sensory memories and affection has got to be a remarkable one. They have the potential to be comforting and soothing and healing. And I’m grateful that we can receive them.

Yes. There will be plenty of sensory memories during our stay here. Despite food examples, possibly because I thought of Proust; it could be the sight of a certain place or person, the chipped benches of a certain chai tapri (tea stall), a sound of familiar laughter, a drive though the countryside with its familiar landscape… a smile, a conversation, a meal, a landscape…

And just as Proust contrasts involuntary memories (as these – triggered through sensory faculties by things from the past), with voluntary memories (retrieved with effort and intelligence), I can sense – be it through smell, taste, sight… the power and capacity of these involuntary memories.

Perhaps not all memories are pleasant and there is no way to control the impact of involuntary memories. Unfortunately, they are just as powerful as the pleasant ones.  

But hopefully, we will experience more the soothing comfort of these memories. Although I have mixed feelings about nostalgia, given the melancholy it can bring about, these sensory memories bursting at the seams with emotion and remembrance, constitute who we are, who we were, who we may become…

View from the Edge

With the majestic ocean on one side and towering trees on the other, it had the makings of a beautiful hike.

Yes. The churning of the ocean, the swooshing of the conifers and… the grumbling of one ten-year-old.

“How much longer?” “Do we even know where our car is?” “I would rather go play with the bunnies.” “Parents…are you even listening???”

The parents continued to take in the nature and the hike and hoped the trees would soak up the complaining. Amidst dinosaur-like heaves and forced enthusiasm, one parent attempted to point out to the surrounding wonders of nature.

Now this was a fairly easy hike, but at one point as we got higher, the path gone narrower, the craggy cliff seemed to poke into our faces and the ground was slippery.

“Okay, now this is just plain dangerous. It is not safe for us to be here,” our ten-year-old pointed out in a familiar, at-least-one person-in-the-family-has-good-judgment tone.

“Oh, come on… it’s not that bad,” I replied and recounted stories of treacherous paths from childhood hikes in the Sahyadris.

Interested, but unconvinced, she shook her head, and mumbled some more about the wet slippery leaves, the narrow path and our bad judgment.  

Right about then, the narrow bend of the trail wrapped around the cliff and we stood at the edge. The view was spectacular. The forest beneath us opened into a wide expanse of ocean in an uninterrupted, forever sense of manner. There were no interruptions - nothing blocked the view. It was clear, simple and beautiful.

“You always get the best views from the edge of a cliff,” I commented to my girl.

I paused as I slowly repeated to myself: ‘you always get the best views from the edge’.

I sighed. Metaphorically speaking, in life’s trying moments, when it feels as if we are at the edge, the view is the clearest, it is the simplest. Right before us, stand in clarity, the few things (the remarkably few things) that really matter. Triviality and its enormous mass and fog, fades away taking with it much that we occupy our daily mind and day. We are left staring with clarity at only a handful of things.  

Certainly, there is a mountain behind us. But for an instance, standing at the edge of the precipice, we are not aware of the mountain. All we can see is the vast, wide expanse.  

There are no interruptions - nothing blocks the view. It is clear, simple and beautiful.

Agreed that despite the clarity, we cannot remain at the edge forever. It would not be safe to do so. We would not want to do so. But as we turn the curve, is it possible to not re-immerse ourselves into the fog of triviality and to remain with the clarity? To carry back the clarity?

For in it, there are no interruptions - nothing blocks the view. It is clear, simple and beautiful.

Activism: two stories

“Don’t let the system beat you down!”

My daughter and her team of Lego Robotics friends looked confusedly at the older gentleman who called out the earnest advice as they left the building. Then with the fickle attention span of most 10-year-olds, turned around and went on to chase each other in the parking lot.

As part of their Lego project, the kids had testified in front of the Washington County commissioners and were petitioning to get the county to start composting food waste. After a presentation at the Cedar Mill CPO, this gentleman had seen merit in their activism – ahem – perhaps more than the kids did.

The 10-year-olds in their cuteness and enthusiasm and research (forced on them by their coaches), seemed to have ignited a small spark. Several adults seem to want to see this happen, want to help the Epic Pineapples (team name), and have circulated the online petition which now has over a 1000 signatures.

So is that all it takes sometimes? To simply start a little spark and let it catch on through the imagination of others? The gentleman at the CPO who said he’s been wanting to do this for years, friends and other adults circulating the petition, are all interested in making this happen.

Even if the ten-year-olds may not completely understand the scope of their citizen participation and activism and impact, others do and will possibly help them carry it forward.   

Is it easier to be inspired by the not-yet-beaten-down-by-the-system enthusiasm of these kids? Is it easier to join in the energy and enthusiasm of those not beaten down by the system?

Will they someday, understand their civic participation and the impact it holds?

Will they not get beaten down by the system?

***

I never started a petition as a kid. I did however stand five years and three feet tall under the second floor window of an elderly lady, shouting out to her, asking her to return my kitten.

I did however collect a few neighborhood kids to rally forces, when she refused to return the cat.

“Apte Ajiiii…,” we shouted from downstairs (Apte - her last name, aji - grandma in Marathi).

Several faces peered out of several windows of the apartment complex.

“Give back the kitten…” we yelled.

Several faces disappeared, not wanting to get involved. But Apte Aji stayed. And she stayed put in her stance that she had found a stray on the street.

Now in her defense, the kitten wandered about the large yard and alleys, and came in and out of the house as she pleased – quite like her owner – moi. For both of us had reasonably unsupervised parenting – by the standards of today.  

When the boy next-door saw me wandering about, calling out to the cat, he told me that their cook had seen Apte Aji pick the kitten from outside our gate. Now this was reliable intelligence for the two detectives and we set off to set things straight.

But the woman refused to return the cat to its rightful owner.

We were determined. We continued to create a ruckus outside her building.

Apte Aji was determined. The kitten was hers and it was staying with her.

In a day or two, the other kids lost interest in creating a commotion outside an old lady’s home, and moved on to better things. The boy next door left (he was only visiting his grandma, my neighbor).

I refused to give up and spent several afternoons inside and outside the lady’s yard. I may have lived in my house, but all my attention was on the house down the street.

I circled her house, hid in her yard, sat on her neighbor’s fence…  I had the image of my kitty jumping out of the window, or wandering about, as I knew she liked to… Of course, I would be right there, to rescue her from the evil clutches of the villain in my story.  

It didn’t happen.

I saw that the summer was slipping away, and eventually I moved on to other things. But I had that same strange feeling inside each time I passed Apte aji’s house. Of sadness, of injustice, of defeat, of failed activism.   

My cat was happy in her new home. That traitor. Sometimes she paid us a visit in the manner of dignified royalty visiting the commoners. And despite my delight at seeing her, as I put out a bowl of milk for her, I had that same strange feeling inside. Of sadness, of injustice, of defeat, of failed activism.

A cluster of moments

Have you ever noticed the froth of foam that borders ocean waves?
As they lazily lick our feet on the sand, have you ever peered into the cluster of assorted-sized bubbles that make up this foam?

If we look closely into this gathering of unsteady bubbles, we notice our reflection in them. Yes. Each one of those bubbles - tiny and miniscule, carries our reflection – tiny and miniscule.

As long as I can remember, I have squinted into this cluster of bubbles to find my replications - head larger, body elongated, eyes curious, staring back. Tiny ones in the tiny bubbles, slightly bigger ones in the bigger bubbles - always in the center, always somewhat stretched out.

Each time it awakens a sense of wonder, a sense of infinite, a sense of being part of nature, a sense of being part of a larger whole. And trifle as it may be, I have experienced a sense of being everywhere in nature. I must be – if I am part of even the most trivial foam on the waves. 

And as quickly as my sense of importance rises, it disappears with a quicker pace as the bubbles burst and the waves disappear die their slow death in the sand, taking with them all those tiny me (mes?). But when I stare at my wet sandy feet, I know another wave will caress them soon, with more reflections – reminding me that I am still a part of all this.

The cycle never breaks. The bubbles in their effervescence and impermanence, continue with permanence, to contain a tiny part of my existence and then wash it away.

We were at the beach some days ago. I smiled as I stared at the tiny “mes” and pointed them out to my girl. We gazed into the foamy bubbles at our feet.

All at once and for the first time, I realized that my life was really no different.
My life was nothing more than a cluster of moments – good and bad, easy and hard, joyful and sad. Oddly enough it made me feel better.

I had been trying to wrap my head around a recent diagnosis – turning it into a huge giant sized mutant bubble. Perhaps those exist too. But nature was telling me different. Sure, some bubbles are larger than others, some bubbles burst quicker than others, but the bubbles all had me, and they were all going to be washed away. There was no holding on to the good ones, and the bad ones skulked away in the same manner.

A lot had happened over the summer and my head seems to be reeling from all of it. Yet, nature was telling me it was all just one bubble.

“Okay Nature, it was more like a hundred”, my mind replied indignantly.
“What is a cluster of a hundred bubbles in the larger scope of things?” nature seemed to ask back.

We are made of nature. We are a reflection of nature. Nature is made of us. Nature is a reflection of us. And the proof lay in the foam on my feet.

In that foam, was the bubble containing the sadness I felt about a recent diagnosis… next to it (the big one, of course) was the worry I felt about my future and that of my loved-ones…next to it was another bubble containing the laughter I felt watching a ten-year-old’s mad antics in the water…next to it was…

Yes. I was in each of those bubbles and my life was all there - in that cluster of bubbles. And each bubble got the same treatment from nature. There was comfort in the cyclical nature, there was comfort in detachment, there was comfort in moving on, there was comfort in impermanence and all clichés about impermanence being the only permanence.

And despite the comfort I found in this wisdom, I also knew that this bubble of wisdom would also soon burst, and another bubble of worry or groundlessness or sadness was likely to show up.

So, is that all we have? A cluster of bubbles? A cluster of moments – fickle, fleeting, beautiful, ugly...

So, if all we have really is a cluster of moments, then that is all this blog should be. That is all this blog can be.

I’m not convinced I still have the sunny optimism of years ago that will look only at the happy bubbles - iridescent with refraction and tiny rainbows inside as the sun hits them. But from what nature tells me, there also aren’t any black scary giant bubbles, even if they may seem so.

This blog is a cluster of moments. Of intense-noticing, of quick jottings, of sensory overload, of thought, of emotion, of laughter, of bubbles… and they are all the same… quick, effervescent, evanescing… filled with so much, filled with nothing…