Qu'est ce que vous avez fait le weekend?

 Qu'est ce que vous avez fait le weekend?

I asked myself this question all weekend. And yes, in French, just like our professor at an Alliance Francaise class would ask the class, about three decades ago in Pune, India. We would go around in a circle, sharing fragments of our rather inconsequential, but busy weekends - maybe a party, a birthday celebration, goofing around with friends, cramming for an exam, hanging at the one of our “kattas” or a regular haunt or restaurants, perhaps a hobby or sport, perhaps a hike up the “tekdi” (hills in Pune). I honestly cannot remember noting with interest, anything anyone did. Up until someone asked our teacher, how she spent her weekend.

I should mention here that our teacher belonged to a family of notable artists, historians and theater personalities. She was an artist, writer, actor, singer, linguist, (and possibly more), in addition to the one thing apparent to us, our teacher.

She would nonchalantly recount how she finally finished a painting she had been working on, or had spent the weekend at a theater workshop, or had worked on a children’s book, or translated something from French to Marathi. She spoke with a certain simplicity, as if everything she had worked on was routine and normal and simple. To her, it was.  

If she saw a puzzled look, she would explain a word or expression she had used (in French). I realize, now, our expressions were probably of awe (in my case, for sure). We were not stumped by the nuances of the French language, but her prolific pursuits, her passion, her art, and her use of her time (in my case, for sure).

I felt happy when I had dance rehearsals for a show to report or a really good book I had devoured, or the artist guild I was member of. But I knew even then, that while these activities filled me up, I was simply joining a group, surrounding myself with talent and art, and timidly, to a small extent attempting my own. I knew even then, I was not creating art, or thought, with the intentionality and independent thought that my teacher clearly was and that her use of time was vastly different from mine.  

As college kids go, as we left the class, we forgot our awe, and re-immersed ourselves in our self-involved and fairly inconsequential existence.

******

This weekend is an open slate. No plans, no activities, my husband is travelling, just the dog and me.  

I should make some plans, be proactive, I tell myself. I watch TV, dog curled on my lap. Killers of the Flower Moon, takes up many hours and more so, since I decide to read up on Osage tribes and David Grann’s other books. My husband would not have the patience for it.

Qu'est ce que vous avez fait le weekend?   

I am becoming a hermit. My friend (from India) calls me morning and evening all four days that my husband is gone. On the first evening, I tell her how I keep thinking there is someone upstairs, especially since there is noise from the wind. “Are you scared”, she asks me. “No”, I reply. I’ve never been scared of staying home alone. She checks in on me, maybe she is a little concerned about my mental faculties. But ahem, that would be a topic for a separate essay.

“Make some plans”, she tells me. I should make some plans, I tell myself. I do nothing. I am becoming a hermit. I should be proactive. I think of the low-grade drama and politics of inclusion and exclusion I seem to find myself in, not in my youth, but in the last decade or so. I clearly don’t have the skills to navigate any of it. I am going to be a hermit, I sigh.  

Not entirely, I go for a group tai chi, and a short walk with a friend, we meet a lady in a neighboring street whose house has been destroyed by large trees falling on it in the recent storm. We chat with her, we empathize for her loss, and for those in neighboring houses, we are impressed by her positivity.

Qu'est ce que vous avez fait le weekend?

I go for several walks with the dog. I read part of Stephen King’s, On Writing. I’m inspired. Till the point where he says to spend six hours or so writing daily. I balk. I decide to do research on a book I am working on (supposedly). A trip to the library and online research later, it’s all interesting, just not sure, how relevant it is to the book. Unless the focus of the book has changed, which it just as may have. Sigh…

Qu'est ce que vous avez fait le weekend?

I go to the grocery store. I buy leeks and make a lamb and leek recipe. It is delicious. I have never cooked with them before. I wonder why.   

Qu'est ce que vous avez fait le weekend?

The question dogs me all weekend. I wonder why after all these years, it has come back to haunt me. Or straighten me, or inspire me? Maybe I don’t have the confidence or intentionality that I once found so inspiring in my teacher. And while she seemed “old” then, she was clearly a lot younger than I am right now. Sigh…Just great.

I write a blog, I try to straighten my thoughts, or at least air them. Maybe I have done a random scattering of things over “le weekend”. As we all do. And perhaps, I will learn to pick up the pieces that matter and add intentionality and vigor such that I won’t have to rack my brain when I ask myself,

Qu'est ce que vous avez fait le weekend?