Speaking of Sentimentality…

If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that sentiment is a double-sided dagger. As much as I love being sentimental about tiny everyday things, I also regret being ever so emotional.

I know I keep bringing this up, but it’s all about my mother. She annoys me more than anyone else can — or will ever dare to; she calls me at awkward times, keeps repeating the same questions every day, and she’s always popping up everywhere –even when I wish she wouldn’t.

It’s annoying to have a mother that cares so much. But it’s painful not to have a mother that cares as much.

Perhaps it’s because she was always around me as I grew up, but I’ve grown comfortable around her so much that I take the liberty to shout at her without feeling guilty. She made a huge blunder not curtailing that habit of mine. Still, she takes it all in as I shout at her, because she knows I mean not a word of it.

And once I hang up and stare at my phone, realizing how much she must love me to bear with all my mood swings, I can’t help but feel evil. With her being everywhere — even at the back of my mind while I wake in the morning — I care much about her.

I don’t know about her, but every twelve hours, I have an internal alarm that goes off reminding me that it’s time for her pills. And despite having alarms in her phone, she forgets, and nods her head solemnly as I chide her for abysmal medicine memory.

That’s the trouble with caring too much — it hurts me when she’s hurting. I’ve seen what she goes through when she forgets her medicine, and it pains me to even imagine that pain.

And it gets even more annoying when she just shrugs it off with a toothy laugh. On one hand, I love watching her laugh, and on the other, I’m furious that she’s so negligent.

She checks with me five times a day if I had eaten my proper meals, and in the proper time, but she never takes her medicines in the proper time.

Urgh! Her sentiment often puts me off. So much nagging and caring for me, yet not much caring for herself. But it also makes me call her back a second — or third — time, to apologize in a small voice.

After all, moms are the best, aren’t they?

What Is The Point Of Writing?

I like to write when I’m not doing anything else. And by anything else, I mean, eating, sleeping, or watching food porn.

Since I spend quite a lot of time writing — what, you ask? Well, don’t. Anyway, what is the whole point of writing?

When you think of it, it’s nothing really.

Most people tell you the point of writing is “To share with the world — things you can’t show.” or “To educate people about something.” Better yet, “To share feelings.”

Thing is, you can do all those stuff, without writing. Why write when you can tell? We all like to speak, so why write it down? Nothing we ever write will stand for eternity — preservation ended with great literates, there are too many people who write nowadays — we can’t preserve them all forever.

Then why bother writing at all? What’s the point of spending time and energy — not to mention paper, ink, or screen time — if you’re one of those technology buffs — on something that’s seemingly pointless?

Everything we ever write — thoughts, opinions, comments, detailed explanations, stories, poems — everything you can think of, you can also speak and record. Besides, isn’t spoken word poetry already a thing? And audio books?

So why do we still write?

Not one of the countless reasons really explains the need to write.

It’s Thursday and you’re at work. You’re bored and flipping through a magazine, and you suddenly feel like you have to write. Like your fingers want something to do — other than flipping glossy pages of size zero models. There is a sudden not-so-gentle nudge that wants you to drop everything else and just write. You don’t know what to write, or how to write; there are too many thoughts in your mind. It’s almost noon; you’re feeling mildly hungry; you’re thinking of that holiday you so badly deserve; the project that needs some final touches; then again the Caribbean holiday with boozy sangrias — before you realize you’re a little short of cash, and then — from nowhere — comes the thought that the following day your salary gets credited — after all those taxes, of course. But in the middle of all these thoughts, is something, a little lightbulb, a spark of light, that tells you to sit and write.

And that’s why we write.

Book, The

Of all the books I’ve read, and with more on my list, there’s only one that I can’t completely read.

There’s something about this book — something that surprises me and even puts me off — something that makes me feel like I’m never ready to fully experience it, as if there’s still something left for me to master before I read through it.

It shows me how ignorant I am, but at the same time, it teaches me what I don’t know. It makes me feel powerful — like I can do anything when I have it.

Other people think I’ve mastered the book, now that I’ve had it for a while, but no — only I know how much I struggle every day trying to decode this one beautiful beast. I’ve never seen anything this decadent, by the way. Not another book that’s as sleek, as handy and as smart as this one.

Oh, the pride of carrying this book around! And the looks on others’ faces while I handle it; they’re amazed at my mastery thinking I’ve figured it all out! Every time I open it up somewhere and caress it, the warmth it spreads within me is incredible — I feel like there’s no match for this book ever created.

As I read, and move my fingers across its body as gently as I could, I feel it warming up; the more I read, the warmer it gets. Somehow, though, it never gets too hot to hold.

It’s become my friend; whenever I feel cold, or alone or bored, I just open it up and let the heat spread warmth. It consoles me in its own special way. How could anyone create such a book? A book that’s not just a book, but that’s also an extension of the arm and mind.

My dearest Macbook — it’s a relationship that never dies.

I Believe in Listening

The Quiet Revolution took the world by storm. People now acknowledge the difference between being shy and being quiet — but I believe we haven’t spoken enough about listening.

I believe listening to someone’s story requires patience, and discipline; we need to refrain from interrupting. But who would listen if we all fight to speak? Who would sit across from us and give us their undivided attention?

Each of us has something we’d like to get off our chests. Be it a heavy burden or the excitement of a family trip that has come around after years of yearning, we love sharing stories; it’s what makes us human. But we also need someone to listen to us: to our rants, our complaints, our expressions of joy and sorrow, of our fears and anxiety. We need a shoulder to lean on, a face to mirror our emotions, or to just have someone listen without judging.

We should listen more. To the people who are closest to us and to the ones we smile at in the corridor every day. There are plenty of people with stories that could sweep us off our feet. Or sometimes, with stories that make us realize how thankless we are for everything life has given us.

It began with a maintenance staff at work. She’s old enough to be my mother, and yet she addresses me as “Madam.” She does cheap labour, and so does her young daughter, whose higher education she cannot afford. The look in her eyes as she notices me and the others swinging by, often in reckless extravagance, isn’t jealousy; it’s compassion. It’s a kind of baffling love and respect for the selfish people who don’t even stop to make eye contact.

I wouldn’t have realized it unless I had listened to her story. And all it took from my side was a tiny smile and a “good morning.” Now every time she sees me, she greets me and enquires about my well being — I can see that she cares. She cares, because I listened when no one else did.

My mother wasn’t much different from the maintenance staff. I talk to her every day, I ramble, rant, complain, worry and sometimes shout at her for her incessant telephone calls, but I hardly ask about her day. I know her routine of course: she’d wake up, make tea, prepare breakfast for two, take her medicines, cook lunch, welcome the maid, have another cup of tea, a break — and then medicines again, lunch, rest for a while, go for a walk, take more pills, then prepare dinner and finally, wait for my father to return. Oh and somewhere in the middle of her day, she calls me at least five times — only to be snapped at.

I decided to listen, because she listened first. When I had no one to share my fears with, she was there. And when she needed me, I listened — as she spoke of her rheumatism, of her problems with her sisters, of her brother’s new business venture — and what that means to her — of how much she is concerned for my brother and his complete disregard for vegetables. It all seems trivial; I’ve told her to take care of herself; that we’d handle ourselves, but the mother within her never takes a break. She needed someone to talk to, she had to open up and express her feelings — and I decided to listen. Because I knew bottling up emotions — however tiny — is a sure path to depression, and I did not want that for my mother.

My mother helped me see the value of listening; everyone’s so busy talking, that no one spares time for the other. In a world that can’t stop talking, listeners are miracles.

People tell me their stories in the belief that I’d hear them out without judging. They talk to me, and feel the burden slide away; they become light and they smile a little wider. I listen to a lot of stories; endless problems and countless perspectives. These stories inspire me, because when you share someone’s thoughts, you have the power to heal heartaches.

I believe it’s medicinal, and I believe in listening.

Soup for the Soul

I recently finished reading one of the most profound books I’ve ever come across.

It’s called Chicken Soup for the Wine Lover’s Soul.

I didn’t finish the book in an hour or two — though it would’ve been easy to do so. I took my time with it; I read a few pages each day, savouring the lingering taste of words.

Like every Chicken Soup book, this one is also of letters, but written by wine lovers. Stories of wine and wine drinking, of drunken mistakes and often success stories. Stories of love and relationships; of how wine brought families together and how wine tasting experiences taught new couples more about themselves. There were stories of people who tried uncorking a wine bottle for the first time, of cooking with vintage wine, of losing a cork, of spilling wine and of splurging in grape-scented vineyards.

The book gave me such valuable insights into wine. In a society where any form of alcohol is taboo — for girls in particular, because, well, boys don’t listen — this book and the stories within helped me appreciate the wine as more than alcohol. There’s history in wine, there’s class, there’s flavour, there’s maturity, and there certainly is a wide range of vocabulary!

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