Category: Thoughts uncut

What rules?

It was in an English literature class, while studying Shakespeare, that I first heard of poetic licenses.

Poets breaking rules.

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Writing as their heart desired. Morphing labels, forging words, scouring attention.

It fascinated me. I grew up learning to obey authority, as most of us did. And I followed devotedly, setting additional rules for myself.

I hated putting a foot out of line. Always submitted homework on time.

Though I loved restrictions, I also found immense joy in testing those boundaries. That’s why haiku as a poetic form attracted me. It threw a challenge: tell a story with limited words. Couldn’t resist.

I’ve been writing haiku for a while. And I’ve always vehemently stuck to the traditional pattern. A haiku is a Japanese form of poetry containing three lines in the 5-7-5 syllable pattern. That’s how I’ve always written it; that’s the only way I knew of writing haiku.

Until I heard of Haibun—a piece that combines haiku and prose, often in travel writing and autobiographies.

Haiga—a haiku accompanied by a work of art like a painting or photograph.

And haikai—linked verses relating to vulgar, witty, and earthy topics written by multiple poets.

And then I heard of “modern English haiku”.

Apparently, contemporary haiku in English uses a 3-5-3 syllable pattern (with exceptions, of course).

I also learnt that the longer version is more suitable for Japanese haiku because of the language’s natural rhythm.

Hmm.

So after being inspired by a bunch of modern haikus, I decided to give it a shot myself. Oh, well—it’s not breaking the rules if there’re no rules to begin with.

rebellion 
poetic license 
now convention

Thoughts, friends?

So many people

For five years, I lived in Chennai (south India), a city of 4 million. Imagine—that’s more than 10 times the people in Canberra.

I’ve been living in Canberra for about three months now, and the one thing I’m certain is that this green, bushy, mountainous, and lake-laden (words I’d never place alongside in any other scenario) city is small.

Yet I hear locals musing how fast Canberra’s population seems to be growing. I see it too—much like the ducks and swans, cranes are also an inevitable element of my everyday lake walks—expectable like the sunset. Commercial names are popping up all over residential areas, and corporates are fighting over who gets to build the tallest building and how to overcome challenges of the already-manifested leaks and rat-infested homes.

But—

I hadn’t heard of Canberra until about two-and-a-half years ago. That’s when I started planning for migration. My friends and colleagues know it now because I’m here, but they still think of it as a quaint, rather mysterious town far away from anything remotely familiar.

And aside from the clever kids who won general knowledge quizzes in school, most of the world believes Sydney’s the capital, Melbourne the corporate centre, and Queensland the Miami Down Under. Like the Tassie tigger, the remainder of this vast pool of sand is lost to the world.

Canberra is to Australia what Australia is to the rest of the world.

At least from what I observe. People come here on school trips, visiting the national museums, the parliament, the war memorial. It’s where national policies are concocted. Apart from that, Canberra’s small and boring for most people. It’s got no late life, no night lights, and not much life at all. Winters are horrible, summer’s terrible, and the average day is as bland as saltless porridge. The average person is an adulting public service worker—pointed black shoes, black trousers or skirt, shirt tucked in, and a jacked pulled over. It’s like looking at a well-directed tele series depicting the non-existent social lives of political members. They go to work, attend official meetings and gatherings, and return home to a cozy white villa, with clean-cut apple rings in the fridge, A-grade children, and a stony watchman guarding the house 24/7.

So contradictory, if you think about it. How is such a self-contained community attracting so much construction—who’s coming to Canberra? And why?

I may have found a clue.

I dread pitching the “is this vegan?” question at any place with food, because of the weird looks that accompany it. And so I’ve always avoided such situations. However, in the last month, I’ve tried to go out more—to food festivals, poetry readings, casual meetings in bars.

I wanted to meet people—the real Canberrans behind the bushy facade that most others see.

And I’m amazed every day.

So far, I’ve come across scientists who write poetry, writers who dance, dancers who sing, chemists who write songs, psychologists who study bartending, bartenders who are professors, and most recently—a full-time employee who makes fudge over the weekends—just for the hell of it (and partners with wineries to launch their vintages).

Canberra is like the secret life of adulthood. Micro breweries, cafés, bakeries, and shops support and welcome quirky hobbyists. Hundreds of small, family-owned businesses thrive here.

It seems like more and more people come here for something beyond 9-to-5 weekdays and weekend hangovers. This is a place to explore a world of opportunities. And I’m excited to be part of it.

Alternative reality

“I’ll have a flat white with an extra shot and almond milk, please.”

For most of us, that’s just another coffee order. A custom drink unlike the regular rather milky beverage.

However, until recently, that was more than a luxury for me. Before I moved to Australia, I took my coffee black or with home-made oat milk, which I wasn’t a huge fan of anyway. I’m vegan, and so my only option back in India was to go black or go home. I didn’t mind much, because I’ve always felt that functional coffee should be strong, sugarless, and black.

Still, it would’ve been nice to blend a splash of almond milk in my coffee.

Sure, I could still get it off one of those niche supermarkets that almost no one goes to, where they stock about two or three cartons of alternative milk every six months. The reason—almond milk is an imported good. And so, naturally it was far too expensive for my lifestyle. It remained a rare and pricey trinket I could observe from a distance, without ever a hope of possession.

Coffee shops stood no chance of offering it.

Does that sound pathetic?

Because it is.

Now though, I have three cartons of almond milk in my pantry. Yes, it costs little more than regular milk, but it’s still abundant and accessible. That’s first-world privilege.

We don’t often realise that even the most negligible aspects of our everyday life is such a big deal for the rest of the world. Coming from the rest of the world, I am stunned at the level of eschewal in society. Of course, I don’t expect people to worship the alternative milk aisle, but instead, I realise I’ve become more grateful than I thought I could be. It’s a strange side of my character I didn’t know I had—a side that’s so conscious and appreciative of the little things in life.

But let’s talk about something more important.

A child from an average household in a developing country wouldn’t need or want alternative milk.

I didn’t until I went vegan. Although I didn’t grow up vegetarian, my family thrived on vegetable nutrition at least 6 days of the week. Sundays were special—lamb days. Or chicken. Or eating out. You get the idea. 

But, milk was the beverage staple, just as rice was for meals. It was a habit I grew into as I got older, because that’s the way we’ve always done things. No questions asked. It also helps that most Indian foods are largely plant-based. Alternatives weren’t part of the culture, and so weren’t an available option anywhere.

Someone once told me that health-conscious dietary practices are first-world problems. And the more I thought about it, the more I realised it’s true. A family that survives on gruel twice a day wouldn’t bargain or complain about not getting almond milk. Any milk is blessing. 

And when you’re growing up in such an environment, you don’t always know or listen to your body. You’ll just shrug off the bloat from gluten and the gas from milk as just another bad day. Because you’ve never experienced gluten-free, vegan, or raw food habits.

Lack of awareness leads to lack of wants. Which may seem like a good idea, but it also leads to unhealthy practices and lifestyles. Which is the disappointing reality in many of our so-called under-developed countries.

Perhaps, tea

whee
eeeeee
eeeeeeeee
eeeeeeeeeeee

the boiling teapot brought back memories
arm in hand they’d walked down the aisle
best man and bridesmaid of best friends
it had all started at the rehearsal dinner

when he arrived late and flustered
though she’d been on time, awaiting
her mascara was on before his coat
yet she’d had to wait up for him to suit up

couldn’t bear to see him in the face, anger
brimming on the surface, so threatening
she glanced aside to set her mind at ease
for tardiness was as good as neediness

a cup of tea she’d had as she waited

whee
eeeeee
eeeeeeeee
eeeeeeeeeeee

the boiling teapot jerked her to reality
sitting at home, the mighty housewife
cleaning, washing, washing, and cleaning
everyday household chores multiplying

she’d woken up early that morning
way before he’d even stifled a yawn
yet she stayed in bed for him to rise
for her beloved had to dress, to work

man of the house he was breadwinner,
and she bread maker, just a part-timer
she had much time, she needn’t rush
wasn’t like she had a wedding to blush

perhaps first, she’d have a cup of tea

Artists are sad people

I’ve been living in Canberra for almost two months now. And for a long time, I had trouble believing that I now lived in a first-world country. The main reason is that I grew up in a place where sidewalks are unheard of and pedestrians are more close to the pyre than they are to having priority in the streets. I walked about a kilometre every day to work and every day I grazed whizzing motorcycles, trying hard not to jump at the horns blaring next to my ear.

I don’t mean to sound depressed.

But I was.

It‘s hard not to be. In a society like that, people don’t live—they subsist. Every day is a struggle to get through. There’s always something or another to worry about: bills, rent, school fees, office politics, weak knees, unidentifiable skin allergies, lack of health insurance, yada yada.

And as a blogger, I had so much to talk about. To complain. Things I wished would be better, public services that could’ve existed, footpaths that should’ve been paved, and scowls we could do without.

All these emotions and opinions fed my creativity.

In Canberra, however, I have none of the negative feelings I used to have. For the first time in my life, I don’t have pressing matters chocking my existence, barring my experience of life.

In other words, I have almost nothing to complain about.

That’s scary. Because without something or someone to whine about, I have no writing material. I’ve hit a hurdle, except that this isn’t the dreaded writer’s block.

This is happiness.

Although it’s what I’ve always wanted to achieve for myself, this also terrifies me. Now, unlike before, I don’t have a raging flame fuming my words. Instead, I have to find an impetus elsewhere. I have to work harder to come up with material because my life has nothing newsworthy about it.

Perfect isn’t always good, remember.

When I realised this a week ago, I was anxious at first. Now that life’s plenty of good things, I didn’t know how I‘d sustain as a writer without all the bad things to reflect upon.

Then I understood something big.

So what if all I did today was bussing to the city back? So what if I’m living an ordinary life?

I’m finally free. Free to imagine.