Tag: beliefs

Chapter Two: Early Days – As told in the Diary

November 1, 1996
Diary,

Praveena turned eight yesterday, and I am so proud of her. She’s grown into such a darling — my darling. I love her more than I can ever tell her in words. There’s just one thing that bugs me though: she watches too much of cartoons. I know, and it’s not like there’s a problem with that or anything, but isn’t it unhealthy to sit in front of the television for such long hours? I don’t want her to fall prey to obesity or, worse still, spectacles. It’s such a bad thing that you can’t see things without spectacles, it’s like being dependent on something. I know because that’s my life. I should tell her that; she should take care of herself a bit more.

Geetha tells me that I worry too much about Praveena. But how can I not worry? She’s my daughter. But Geetha’s right too, maybe I should allow Praveena to figure things out for herself.

You know Diary, Praveena and Geetha — they are so much like each other. Sometimes, her confidence and her conviction surprises me. She wants to be a superhero. Ha! Imagine that! It’s a childhood fantasy, I know. But she doesn’t, and what’s more, she says she’s figured it all out. She tells me, even though she has no superpowers like Superman or Spiderman, she could change the world by just doing the right thing. “Like Batman,” she says.

I was stupefied. She’s eight! And she speaks like she’s much older. I couldn’t believe it. Again, Geetha advised me to just listen and nod on. “She’s just a child, Kamal” she keeps telling me, and I’ve decided to listen to her.

After all, mother knows best. Right?

Goodnight.

November 3, 1996
Dear Diary,

I heard some distressing news last night. A kid, some nine or ten year old, got so immersed in Spiderman, and believing he could jump from one building to another, jumped from a building.

Goodness, I didn’t know how to react when I heard this. I was so worried as if the kid was my own; how his parents would have felt! They would have cursed themselves for allowing their kid anywhere near that franchise. They would have thought that it was no harm – who would? Just like I feel about Praveena and her obsession with Batman. Oh, what do I do now? I thought it was okay, but now after this news, I’m worried. Should I restrict Praveena?

I’m too confused.

Goodnight.

November 12, 1996
Dear Diary,

I am so relieved. I spoke to Praveena about the kid who jumped off the building, and I ended up wondering why I hadn’t spoken to her sooner.

I was wondering how to begin when she started the matter herself. It seems she had noticed my “bad mood”, as she called it.

There I was, staring at her Batman dolls while she watched TV. All of a sudden, she exclaimed, “Don’t worry Pa, I am not stupid enough to jump off a building.”

I was startled. How did she know what I had been thinking? She went on, “I know superheroes don’t exist in the real world. When I said I wanted to be a superhero, I meant, I want to help people. That’s all.”

You can imagine the rush of love that swept over me. I stood up and hugged her. I couldn’t tell describe to her the relief that ran through my veins. I slept well that night, and a few nights later. That’s why I couldn’t tell you about it earlier. *Yawn*

Goodnight.

October 31, 2001
Dear Diary,

It’s Praveena’s birthday! She’s now thirteen; a teenager. Wow, how soon time flies! I didn’t even realize the years passing. It seems only like yesterday that I had shaved my beard for the first time since college. And so soon, Praveena’s a teenager!

As always, Geetha and I baked a small coffee cake – her favourite. She didn’t want to invite any of her friends this time, so it was just the three of us.

Geetha tried calling her parents — just to tell them that Praveena was growing faster than we’d like — but they didn’t respond, as usual. And I stopped calling my folks two years ago — there’s just no use.

Anyway, Praveena got herself a nice dress for her birthday. You know the drill; she gets her own birthday present – happening for the third year this time. She’s such an independent kid, you know, that’s the way she does it. Sometimes it terrifies me, but — no questions asked, Geetha’s rule.

Besides the dress, she bought Nelson Mandela’s autobiography (I know! Only thirteen!) and a Batman comic. I don’t know what joy she gets from reading the comics, but she does it everyday. Anyway, I stopped worrying a long time ago. I’m just happy.

Goodnight.

November 25, 2001
Dear Diary,

Today, I went shopping with Praveena. That’s when I realized, she’s so unlike other kids her age. She seems to hate being around people. She doesn’t behave like others, and I’m starting to wonder if she needs help.

She’s so short tempered nowadays. She even shouted at Geetha yesterday. It’s surprising. She’s never behaved like this before. She locks herself in her room and either sleeps all day or busies herself with homework.

I know that she has mountains of homework — and I do plan to talk to her teacher about it — but even when she’s not doing homework, she’s scribbling something or the other in her diary. You know sometimes I wonder whether she got that from me and whether it’s a good thing at all. I mean, she never tells us what she feels — isn’t that a bad sign?

She seems such a mystery to me. I can’t understand what she’s thinking, and she isn’t helping me to help her either.

Geetha’s health, on the other hand, is is steadily deteriorating. On our last checkup, doctors narrowed her health to another eight to ten months. She’s active and on her feet, busy with the house work, but I can see the cancer getting to her. Her hair’s no more and her eyes look more tired than I have ever seen them. Each time I see her, I feel like weeping. She smiles at me in the same way she did every other time, but I can sense the weakly concealed pain.

I can’t tell her — or anyone, for that matter — but, it makes me so sad that we only had so few years together. It pains me so much to have to see her leave me and Praveena all alone. She has always been such a great support, and going into the future without her would be like stepping into the unknown oblivion. But I’ll have to do it. For Praveena.

That’s it for today.
Goodnight.

Chapter One | Chapter Three

Chapter One: A New Welcome

It was a dark night, no moon and not a single street light shone as far as the eye could see. But that was the least of Kamal’s worries. He wasn’t outdoors enjoying the gentle July breeze that swept through the streets; instead, he stood under fading tube lights, distraught between shooing flies away from his face and staring at the door waiting for it to open.

They had told him to wait. He couldn’t, not anymore; he had waited for an hour already, and his patience was running out, fast. It was as if an invisible force stretched him from both sides, trying to discern how long before he’d snap.

He had waited, along with his wife, for ten long months. Now he understood what they meant, that time would creep when you expect something — or someone. It was torture.

He tried leaning on the decaying walls. He sat, but couldn’t for long. He began pacing to and fro the narrow windowless corridor. He couldn’t think straight; his mind was garbled with emotions he couldn’t explain — even to himself. It was his first experience; he was excited, filled with enthusiasm. But he was also worried, his wife needed him — now — more than ever. But here he stood instead, waiting with bated breath and an uncontrollable urge to break down the door.

For months leading to this day, he had assailed his friends and colleagues with questions about their experiences. He had dedicated more attention to their words than he had ever done during his Economics classes back in college. However, no matter how much he had been tutored to stay calm and relax, it was nothing — nothing compared to what he now faced.

The nurses all laughed at his restlessness; the sight wasn’t new for them. Day after day they would watch, as expecting fathers stole longing glances at the closed door.

Each moment seemed an age, and Kamal was growing desperate. He looked around the corridor. It had a surprising sense go gloom, for a labour ward. The lights above his head flickered. In the farthest corner, he saw another agitated young father clinging on to the door knob, expecting news of his child. Turning to his own door, Kamal noticed the paintings on the walls. There were babies. Three babies huddled together in one picture while in another, a baby peeked from behind a fluffy white pillow. Kamal’s lips parted in a tiny smile, and before he knew it, his smile had reached his eyes; he couldn’t wait. He pressed his ear to the door in eager anticipation, hoping to hear the doctor’s footsteps coming towards him. But there was no sound.

Why wasn’t there any sound? He thought back to all the movies he had seen, where relatives waiting outside would celebrate as soon as they heard the baby’s cries and the mother’s wails from within.

What was going on?

A nurse decided to explain; “It’s a sound-proof door, Mr Kamal!”

And a minute later, the mahogany door swung open and out strode the doctor, with two nurses at his heels. The doctor grinned at him through his grey-lined mustache, “Congratulations, Mr. Kamal. You are now the father of a beautiful girl.” The effect was instantaneous — Kamal’s face split into a huge smile and tears escaped though his eye lids. His legs almost gave away, and he clutched the lined chairs just in time to balance himself. For a few seconds, he stood speechless. He opened his mouth but couldn’t form words. Clearing his throat, he tried again gesturing towards the inside of the room.

The doctor threw his head back and laughed. A high-pitched belly laugh, “Yes, you can go and see them.”

Kamal managed a weak “Thank you”, before dragging his weak legs into the room. There on the bed lay his pretty wife, her eyes closed in a peaceful slumber. He saw beads of sweat on her forehead, and next to her, was the cot. He stood at the door, watching his wife. She had suffered in his absence, but he was going to change it. He swore to himself never to leave her side again.

Walking over to the cot, he peeped in slowly, for fear of waking his baby. But she wasn’t asleep; she looked up at her father, smiling and cackling. It awoke his wife. Stirring, she sat up and smiled at him; the same smile that had made him a hopeless lover.

He lifted his girl in tender arms and, trying to be gentle, planted a kiss on her cheek. She began crying immediately. With a baffled look, he handed his baby to his wife. Once settled in her mother’s arms, the baby stopped crying. Smiling at his confusion, his wife mused, “Your beard.”

“I’ll shave it.” He waved a hand, “First thing tomorrow.” He was dazed; his daughter had succeeded where his parents and relatives had failed. For the first time in his life, he agreed to give up his beard. He would give his daughter everything, she would grow up the happiest girl in the world.

“I love you,” He declared to his daughter and she smiled in return. Smiled as if she understood every syllable her father uttered.

Chapter Two

Yet another pledge

Alright, I’ll say it: it’s November again and my first stab at a novel still remains just that.

I did some editing, but I’m not happy. Still. And so this November, I’ve decided to tackle National Blog Posting Month by editing the novel (if I can still call it that) I wrote during National Novel Writing Month two years ago.

Every day this November, I’ll post one chapter from my novel — one edited chapter per day. That way, I’ll get some editing done at least. But in case I get bored, I’ll publish the usual ramblings too.

Do me a favor, people: do you think this idea is worth a shot?

Oh and also, Happy Halloween! Never understood it — but hey  — at least it’s a celebration!

One step at a time

I’m prone to trip. Even when there’s nothing to trip on. That’s how I am, and that’s why I take every step with care. And a little extra care on stairs.

careful

Loyalty

Sunday

I’m loyal.

To brands. And it’s not at all weird.

The best example is the truest example. Like so many others, I’ve subscribed to Brain Pickings. I get my weekly emails on Sundays. But— Sunday is when I take the day off from everything. From people, from work, from going out, from dressing up, from even being civil. Except eating. Sunday, I devour.

Sunday is the one day I sleep all day. I don’t care what happens in the world, or outside my room, I will neither wake up nor care.

So when I get my weekly email on Sunday, I don’t often feel like reading it. Sundays are the days I’m too bored and lazy to lift even a limb, let alone prop up my laptop and read.

So I just convince myself I’d read it on Monday. And I now have 22 unread emails from Brain Pickings. That’s 22 weeks of procrastination. That’s almost half a year.

I’m a little dull when it comes to numbers, but even I know that was a long time. But the thing is, I don’t know what to do about it. Brain Pickings newsletters are interesting and long. And if I just manage to get started, I know I wouldn’t be able to stop. It’s the starting that’s problematic.

Sometimes, I look at all the subjects of the emails in bold and feel so helpless. As if there’s nothing I can do to read them without reading them.

And it doesn’t help that I don’t like having unread emails in my inbox. I like my inbox clean. It’s something to do with closure, I hear.

Of course there’s one thing: I can just unsubscribe. But I won’t. It’s the one thing I will not do. I’ve unsubscribed from loads of other online magazines and blogs that became too strenuous to follow — but I won’t unsubscribe from Brain Pickings.

Because I’m loyal.

Yes, it freaks me out too. I’m so in love with what they do that I want to know everything they publish. But it’s also overwhelming, I accept. And though I accept it, I will never unsubscribe. Because I’m loyal that way.

Every time I think of unsubscribing, I feel a hot rush of guilt running through me. As if it’s a wrong thing to do. Wrong as in, morally wrong. I feel so guilty even thinking about unsubscribing from the magazine. Because I love their work.

But guilt changes nothing. I still have 22 unread emails from Brain Pickings. Talk about obsession, huh?