Tag: favourites

Focussed on one, un-focussing all else

This week’s photo challenge is interesting for two reasons. One, David Watkis posted a bokeh, almost out-of-focus, photo of the New York skyline, asking for something that represents focus to us. I never keep the remains of my disastrous, no-focus photographs. And so my initial reaction was to hold my head in my hands and wonder what to do.

Later, though, I looked at my archives and I realised that I indeed have a bunch of then-embarrassing photos. That’s the second reason this challenge is interesting. When I looked at that photograph, I relived the moment: It was couple of years ago in Pondicherry, a city I’d love to  return to any weekend of the year. It’s close by and offers a lot more than affordable alcohol and glorious gelato.

It was around five o’clock in the morning when I looked through our hotel window. The street was deserted except for a few early-morning health walkers and yoga enthusiasts. I was so focussed on capturing the emptiness in the street that only later did I realise  how the objects in the photo came out un-focssed. For some weird reason I hadn’t deleted the photo, and I’m glad I didn’t.

Focus

Morning’s here

My alarm goes off as it always does, and I wake up to my well-crafted routine: yet another week of working all day and reading through the night.

I’m awake tireless as the fresh morning oxygen spreads through the room, seeping through me, soaking me from within, waking the rest of the deep-sleeping cells in my brain.

Though it’s only five AM when I look through my mosquito-proofed window, I see that the navy sky has already lost most of its depth, while lighter hues of blue appear in batches like patches on rough skin. Day breaks early, the long-lingering aftermath of a dry and scorching summer; a May that followed months of rainless skies.

Somewhere far away, a lone young cuckoo calls, jerking the others in the family awake. They all call to each other greeting the rising day, as I turn away—it’s time for my workout.

A few burps, some burpees and lunges later, I put a pot on the stove and cast my window’s curtains aside. Turquoise has replaced the navy and white streaks meld with the blue as the morning prepares to wake the sleeping sun. Grabbing my tea, I sit facing my window, looking through the checkered mosquito-net, looking beyond at the now cloud-filled sky.

I look closer, harder, squinting my eye at the unblemished white blanket that hangs over my roof, trying to catch a glimpse, a peek, at the waning crescent of a moon while she waits in stillness for the gliding clouds to gobble her remains. As she goes by, a gentle breeze wafts through the bars of my window, bringing with it, scent of warming wet sand and photosynthesising begonias from the neighbour’s balcony. It tricles my ears, whispering morning hope as I close my eye lids to embrace it. It kisses my eyelashes, teasing me to fall back, to grab a pillow pressing my face against its cool surface.

Breathing in deep, I open my eyes. For to fall back asleep would be to waste away the glory of day rise I had experienced. I drown my tea and reach for my towel. Turning away from the window where the sun steps out from under his covers, I head for a shower, a rhythm in my head.

Ah, June, how I adore thee.

Made to order, made in order

When it comes to putting things in order, even the most chaotic person would first think of food, and food stalls stacked with treats and piled with sugar. Ask me though, and I’d think of momos instead. Dumplings in some cultures, the traditional Tibetan momos are stuffed, steamed delicacies. And ever since a friend handmade them for a bunch of us, I’ve fallen in love with the floury, cabbage-filled, caramelised oniony, goodness. And the best part is—aside from the flavoured heat that escapes into your mouth when you bite into it—that it’s always served in fancy shapes and patterns.

momos made to order

To parents

Parenting is hard, and I know this because I have great parents. I’ve seen my parents manage to have meat on the table despite struggling to make ends meet. I’ve seen them toil each day just to make my day. I’ve seen them wage battles between them and yet hide them all behind a smile when I enter the room. I’ve seen them go out of their way to keep me comfortable, to provide my needs, to ensure I have my wants, too—even if it put them in an awkward place. I’ve seen them debate over what’s good for me, what’s bad for me, what I should study, where and how I should go to school, how much allowance I’m allowed, how to deal with my adolescent questions, when to have the “alcohol is bad for you” talk. I’ve seen them dabbling in confusion about parenting, and I’ve seen them figure it out. I have great parents.

But they’ve made mistakes, too. It’s easy for me to point out how they should have raised me instead of how they did, but as a child, I’m biased. I’m always going to say that they should’ve let me stay out until 11 PM and let it go if I get home drunk. Not that I’m a “going-out” kind of person, but all children have their own ideas about parenting.

One of the things my mother didn’t do well, is handling my liberties. She forbade certain movies that, when I watched later in life, seemed like nothing to even bother about. She was always over conscious, over protective, over worried that violence in movies would poison my mind. Sometimes it made me hate her—sometimes, I’d wonder why she never trusted me to make the right choices, why she wouldn’t accept that I needed exposure to grow in society.

She always wanted to keep me away from danger—away from the evils of society, to protect me from harassment in public busses, to save me from being mugged in local trains, to help escape cheating boyfriends, to get me through life unscathed and unworried.

She is a great mother.

But I still worry that she’s made me too soft — meek and scared of the great wide world. If I don’t learn the harshness of life, how would I ever face life?

It’s something I think a lot about, something I never stop thinking about.

That’s why I could relate to this poem about parenting. I’m no parent, but as a child I agree with Frank O’Hara. And I think you would, too. Even if you don’t, give this poem a read—it’s got imagery worth your time.

Ave Maria

Just a moment

Some moments in life, though fleeting, last a lifetime as memories. The first ray of light that breaks through the darkness, walking out like her majesty from behind a veil, to cast her arms of sunshine on the world anticipating her gaze; the fleeting, half-hidden moment before she reveals herself to us—that’s a memory that would sit forever in my mind. Like a longer-lasting flash, the sun rose from the depths of the night to the heights of the day—all in a matter of minutes. On the Kangchenjunga mountain, we waited from 4 am for the sun to show up. Because no two sunrises are the same and no two seconds during the rise are alike. If that’s not evanescent, what else is?

Sunrise in Kanchenjunga