While the pale skin fades,
the voice wheezes, the frame wilts,
his soul stays ablaze.
Tag: people
An Unforgettable Ride. One I’d Rather Forget.
On a normal day, there’s not much to say about a two-hour bus ride. Unless you’re already late and have less than twenty hours to explore a city of French croissant, Italian pasta, soulful coffee, and sinful chocolate.
In that case, a two-hour bus journey is one hell of a ride.
When it comes to planning and preparing an itinerary, everyone’s an expert. We aren’t any different, my friend and I. We’d planned to leave at 7.30 am, and I even chipped in saying we could leave earlier, too, if we could manage to. By the time we reached the bus stop at 8 am, we’d already missed a few buses that would’ve gotten us to our destination on time. When we, at last, boarded the bus towards Pondicherry, we took a deep breath. It seemed like we had crossed one great barrier: waking up early when the chilly December fog still pressed onto our bedroom windows.
And then came the next barrier: The great Indian problem of over-population and the people’s urge to travel. Squishing ourselves in between giant arms and travelling bags, we got tickets to what we knew would be the final stop of the bus. We had a long way to go and the crowds seemed unwilling to thin out. We stood for a while, jumping up and down to the speed breakers on the road, and dancing to and fro as the bus swerved to avoid potholes.
About a half hour into the ride, we found a seat. Being gracious and accommodating, I offered it to my friend, preferring to stand myself. Most people disapprove when I stand and hold on to a seat handle, but I had always felt comfortable standing. After all, when you’re five feet tall and sitting on a seat that’s your eye-level, you get to see a lot of stuff that you’d rather not. I love staring out the windows, but on an aisle seat, all I see is big butts. And I cannot lie that I don’t mind.
And so, I stood, jerking this way and that and looking at the watch whenever I could risk taking my hand away from the pole that I clung to. The first time I checked, it had been only an hour since we had climbed on. We had another hour and a half to look forward to, and I was looking forward to it less and less.
Meanwhile, my friend sat hugging her and my bags, looking as miserable as I felt. As we lumbered on, the crowd in the bus thinned and thickened from time to time. The scenery, however, grew greener; we were riding deep into villages.
But the more paddy fields we saw, the more skeptical my friend became. Perhaps, she doubted, the driver had taken a detour into all the tiny villages, dropping off and picking up villagers, and would take longer than Google’s fastest route. She checked the map, and sure enough, we were headed into a small unknown area that took us further from our destination. Estimated time was over another hour and a half.
She panicked. I was frustrated. So much so, that I couldn’t even bring myself to swear at the driver. I found a vacant seat by the window, grabbed it, and set to finish reading 1984.
My friend stood up from her seat, a valiant look in her eyes. She had decided to talk to the conductor. A minute later, she came back, a weird look on her face. She opened up Google Maps and checked the route again. We were just 20 minutes away. That was much sooner than we had expected in the first place.
She explained: Our driver had taken a route less travelled, a route that didn’t show on Google Maps. Technology still has a long way to go.
All of a sudden, the journey wasn’t tiring anymore. The roads had become smooth, a few grand old buildings whizzed by, a couple on the bus smiled at me, and soon, a woman showed us where to get off.
We had arrived. On time.
The Real World
Over the past few weeks, every colleague stopping by my desk would take a look at the book next to me and remark that it was such a classic story. I smiled when it happened for the first time. I had known that, of course.
And yet, as more people said the same thing over and over again, I began to get annoyed. I felt like an idiot because I hadn’t read the book for so long. It was 1984, after all.
The book, and not the year — in case you were wondering.
Now, however, I’m done. I’ve finished reading the book and I feel like kicking myself for not reading it sooner. Nevertheless, the book left me astounded, wondering if there was anything in my life that I think is true is indeed true.
It left me with a deep sense of insecurity and self-doubt. I do realise that it’s fiction, but it oozes reality in so many levels.
I’m a minimalist, but I would never apply the same minimal logic to words and human expression. When it comes to speaking and voicing thoughts, the more ways to say it, the better it is. But here’s what scared me: I agree that we should get rid of stuff that mean no meaning anymore. In that sense, when the concept of freedom itself is no more, it makes sense, in certain sense, to eliminate the word altogether — or forget that we even had such a word. But even to think, for a moment, that we don’t need freedom is a messed-up way of life.
And that’s what the book did to me. It messed me up. It messed with my head, and my ability to cope with the reality of the world. It’s possible that our world would become the next Oceania. The Party is, of course, just a bunch of power-hungry people craving to keep the masses out of their way and the working class in their wake. It’s the reality of every nation in the world. There’s just a tiny tipping point between a real party and the Party. Every day, we hear news of people gone missing, of people rebelling, of the rebels who died in battle, of torture and murder, even suppressed free thought. It’s all happening, each day all around us, right in front of us.
And yet, we call 1984 a fiction. It’s not. It’s our lives. Only, we love the Party too much to realise the truth and think for ourselves. In a world that still penalises people of other beliefs, advocates singularity, and abhors variety in even skin tones and vocal chords, it’s only a matter of time before two plus two become five.
Coping with Thanksgiving
“In light of recent world events (the election of Donald Trump), many Americans are facing a particularly daunting Thanksgiving dinner with relatives who voted differently on Election Day, and may be in need of a lighthearted activity to reach across the aisle. Here are some art projects to help you and your family work through your feelings and heal political divisions — if only for an hour or two.” Source
It’s weird that the world has come to this. Thanksgiving was always a fun holiday, but it was also always a nightmare for folks who don’t get along with their folks. And that’s a lot of people.
In the same way, the US election has had the world — and the US, of course — divided beyond recognition. With red and blue flags waving all around, some people standing with her, yet some others vouching to make America great again, I’m pretty sure Thanksgiving isn’t the most anticipated holiday right now. And it’s understandable too. After all, I wouldn’t want to talk about politics with my family. Or talk about anything at all, if I could.
But times are blue and red has taken over. So how would you deal with a whole day locked up in a room with people you don’t like, stuffing yourself with stuffed turkey? Alanna Martinez from the Observer (quoted above) says you should do some craftwork together. It builds teamwork and can keep you from raging into a political debate, she says.
I agree. Crafting is a nice activity and it would make the day all the more bearable. But here’s what I don’t understand: why have we come to a situation where we need art to keep our mouths shut?
Sure, art soothes your soul, calms your nerves, and helps you dial down your tone when speaking to the uncle, twice removed. But as a humanities student myself, I can say that the Arts are a way of life, and not something you do when you can’t find an alternative coping mechanism.
In this piece, the author explains a few specific “Thanksgivingy” crafts which, I think, are all great. What I can’t agree, though, is that we need a reason—president-elect Trump in this case— to make these crafts. People should turn to art because they like creating art and not just because their therapist told them to. Proud though I am that therapists recommend art, it’s still an insult to us who’ve been insulted our whole lives just because we spend our lives on arts.
I’d share this article with my friends, I’d tell them it’s all true and that making these crafts together with their families would make Thanksgiving more like giving thanks than giving sparks. However, I still believe that by limiting arts and crafts to such petty issues, we limit the potential of art itself. We don’t need art as a temporary stress buster. Art for the sake of art — that’s what we need more of.
I’ve signed up for the Incredible Blogger Marathon Challenge. It’s a ten-task-challenge that can span up to fifteen days. This post is my response to the seventh day: The News and Paper Challenge. The challenge is to discuss my views on a news article.
Search
They pulled into the driveway just as the sun began to settle in the West. Janet got down from the Porsche to admire the now pink horizon and the lake beyond the rickety picket fence. As far as her eye could see there was nothing more than clear water and the occasional ripple. She turned to her fiancé. While Janet had been memorising the view, Jean had parked their vehicle and was now walking towards her.
Janet’s eyes sparkled. This would be their last trip as two single women. They had waited long enough, enduring more than enough. And if their parents couldn’t handle it, then so be it. Jean stopped next to her and smiling, slid her hand into Janet’s. They stood looking at the sun, as it sunk into the depths of November’s icy lake.
“Let’s go in.” Jean cajoled Janet into her ancestral wood house. They had decided to pay a pre-wedding visit to the place they’d make their home later. As she walked inside, a wave of warmth spread over Janet. The house wasn’t too big but it emitted an aura of comfort.
On her right was a window overlooking the now darkening sky and the silhouette of the lake. On the left was the kitchen and in front of her, leading away from the hall, was the master bedroom that opened up to life-size windows and views worth of a lifetime.
“Chill out, I’ll whip up some dinner.” Jean pecked Janet on the cheek and went into the kitchen to make, Janet knew, her speciality pasta with fresh cream and marinara sauce. While Jean rummaged in the kitchen, Janet went over to the window, looking out at the lake. It was almost dark now, the pink had morphed into a navy and the moon tried to walk out from behind the clouds.
Trrriiiing…trrriiiing. Trrriiiing…trrriiiing…
Janet jumped before realising that it was just the telephone. She hadn’t noticed it earlier, but now she saw that the sound came from a small table that lay beside a giant radio. “I’ll get it, J” she called out to Jean and went over to answer. “Hello?” she spoke into the receiver.
“In,
search of skin,
color no matter,
brighter or darker,
tell no one,
I will take someone,
Ssssshhhhh!
– ghost, me!”
And with that, the line died. Janet gulped and clenched the receiver harder. The voice — she couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman for it was a mere whisper— had sent bouts of shivers down her spine.
Sat down on the sofa hugging herself. All of a sudden, the room felt as much colder than it had been when they entered it. Jean’s rummaging in the kitchen had also stopped. “Jean?” She called out without leaving the sofa. She didn’t understand why her brow was sweating or why she shivered so much. And when Jean neither replied nor came out of the kitchen, Janet became scared. That’s when she identified the source of the cold: the front door stood ajar, letting in the chilly night air.
Frowning, Janet remembered shutting the door behind them. How did it open, then? In small cautious steps, she approached the doorway.
Janet screamed. And then breathed a sigh of relief. Jean stood in the doorway. “You scared me!” Janet reproached her. “Why did you go out in the cold?” She added a little concerned. Jean looked white and her smile looked strained.
Jean only shook her head in reply, walking right past Janet. Shrugging to herself, Janet shut the door with a snap. Jean jumped at the snap. “Are you all right?” Janet approached her extending a hand to her cheek. Jean stepped away from her nodding with a vigour that surprised Janet. She stood staring at Jean, her hand still stretched out.
“Jean?” Janet spoke with a firm voice that could convince no one. “Why were you outside?”
“In… search…” Jean started with a whisper and stopped.
“Of what?” Janet asked her voice reaching the near-shriek point.
“In… search…” Jean repeated in the same whispering tone. She sounded coarse. “of… milk.”
And then she smiled. Her warm smile was back, and the colour returned to her face. “Hey, J” she threw her head back and laughed at Janet. “Relax. I went to get some milk. That’s all.”
And then as if someone had flipped a switch, the room felt warm again, and Janet saw that Jean was back to her usual self. They had had a rough ride. Janet smiled too. Her mind must’ve been playing tricks on her. There’s no way Jean would cringe away from her. “I’m tired. Let’s go to bed?”
Jean nodded and hand-in-hand, they walked into the room. Jean smiled. The search had ended.
I’ve signed up for the Incredible Blogger Marathon Challenge. It’s a ten-task-challenge that can span up to fifteen days. This post is my response to the sixth day: The Mass Media Challenge. The challenge is to combine the image, the poem, and the word “telephone” in a single post.
