Category: Thoughts uncut

The feeling of home

It’s been just over two months since I moved to Canberra, and I’ve at last started to feel like a local.

It’s nice too—I can now walk to the shop nearby without having to look at a map ten times along the way. I like knowing how many signals I need to cross before reaching the mall, and which entrances are be open later in the night. I find myself analysing the various walkways to my destination and choosing the closest or the most scenic depending on my mood.

It’s empowering in a way that I don’t have to rely on someone or a some technology to help me navigate, to help me get through every day.

That’s the life of a local—knowing the right bus stops and the frequent routes, not because you’ve memorised them but because they’ve become part of your routine. I even shrug off the little things that a someone new in town might roll their eyes at; well, that’s Canberra for ya, mate.

But it also means that I no longer feel the city the same way as a traveller does. And I felt that way for quite a while. Everywhere, I saw something worthy of a jaw drop, a closer look, a lingering moment. Everything fascinated me, and I’d willingly walk an extra kilometre to read the street names and stare at the buildings.

I don’t do that as much nowadays. Sure, I still walk four kilometres everyday around the lake just because I want to experience the many wonderful trees and birds and noises—they’re so enchantingly different every time.

However, I also see the other side. And resonate with it.

I see the things, the little annoyances, jitters, that a common person sees. I understand more about why some people don’t appreciate the new bus routes. I loved them when I arrived—extra buses, free services for a month, what’s not to love, I wondered.

Now I know how it’s affected some people’s lives. How a small change in their schedule has toppled regular commuters who find it difficult to adjust to the new system. I’d never have understood that a couple of months ago. Now, though, I can sympathise with them. And now when the old lady sitting at the bus stop tells me that the previous bus never showed up for some reason, I realise what it means to her. And the best of all, I’m now local enough to agree with her and tell her about the time I sat waiting and the bus never showed.

It’s the little things like that that make home feel homey. My lifestyle has melded into the ways of other Canberrans, so much so that I’m now a regular spectator at a local Morris dancing practice. The dancers identify me so that if we run into each other someplace else, we’d exchange a warm hello. I have events and things to do every week—people to meet, shanties to sing, writing clubs to be accountable to—things I look forward to. Things that make living in a society enjoyable and worthwhile.

That’s what it means to be local.

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