Tag: postaday

The Tale of a Boy at Sea

Yesterday, I read a unique book that chilled me to the bone. It wasn’t the curious case of an unsolvable mystery, it wasn’t a multi-murder crime thriller, and it wasn’t a sweet romantic proposal story. It was the tale of a young boy stranded at sea for ten days.

It’s not Life of Pi, but I wouldn’t blame you if you had thought so. That book is ever more popular after its movie counterpart. However, the book I just read is “The Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor,” and the author is Gabriel García Márquez.

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It surprised me too. I had never heard of Márquez writing such a book. But I was curious. It was a small book, just about 100 pages. And yet as I held the book in my hands contemplating whether to buy it, all my sense of reality told me I should opt for an ebook, instead, because it would take far less physical space. I asked a friend to help me decide, and he warned me that Amazon would have the same book, for a lower price.

And so when I was almost convinced I shouldn’t buy the book, I flipped the book over and read the epilogue. That’s when I realised: this was Márquez’s first book. That piqued my interest. Besides, the cover was gripping, and it even had a review from The Times that called the narrative, “A gripping tale of survival.” And at that moment, I took a chance. I lost all sense of common sense and decided to go for it. After all, I had nothing to lose.

I’m glad I made the decision. I know I shouldn’t have gone by just the cover of the book, but this is one of those times when the gut and the cover got it right. It’s a simple story, in the first person point of view. A boy in a ship leaves for Colombia after being in port for six months. He set out homewards, to his family and soil he could call his own. In the middle of the sea, however, disaster strikes and all of his shipmates go down. He holds on to a raft and survives the sea—amidst sharks, hallucinations, hunger, and thirst—for ten days. He then makes it to land and becomes a national hero.

It’s typical and predictable in all aspects. But the best part of it is that the author narrates all the typicality and the commonness of it in such a matter-of-fact way, that you can’t help but keep turning the pages. You’d want to know what’s coming, even though your sixth sense tells you it’s nothing great for the hero.

The story reeks of emotion. You feel for the hero. When he stretches his neck looking for land, you stretch with him. When he plunges his hand into the sea trying to catch some fish, you gasp knowing that the sharks are waiting around the corner. When he wonders how shoes taste like, you’ll find yourself imagining the taste on your tongue. And as he tries to pry out the soles of his shoes, you wish you could pry it with him.

It’s an ordinary story, but it gives you an extraordinary experience. I now know why Gabriel García Márquez got a Nobel prize for literature.

All Will Be Well

When you’re so unsure of yourself, when you know nothing’s going your way, when all around you there’s nothing but thorns and roadblocks, you should take a walk.

And that’s what I did one Sunday afternoon. I walked around the Vandalur national park looking for a sign from the trees and fresh air around me, something to help clear my head.

I saw a bunch of dried branches, all piled together and jutting out in odd corners. And all of a sudden, I felt calm.

I stood staring at it for a moment before realising that sometimes even the earth falls into chaos. That doesn’t mean all is lost, though. It’s a sign; from chaos comes composure and reassurance that all will be well.

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The Start of an Era

“No matter what happened, this would be a historic day,” Kevin thought to himself as he adjusted his tie for the fourth time that morning. Everything had to be as perfect as planned. His had his suit custom-made so that not a stitch would be out of line. It was an important day.

A few blocks down the street, Mary was examining her long dress in the mirror. She wanted to make sure nothing had gone amiss. If anyone noticed even a small flaw in her dress, it would become her nightmare. Her parents would be disappointed and her brother even more so. She couldn’t afford anything going wrong. It was an important day.

All the hard work of the last few months had led to this day. For far too long now, they had both given up their personal lives, working through long days and longer nights. And as they both looked at the unmistakable dark circles under their eyes, they thought, with a tinge of regret, of the barrels of coffee they had drowned. It had led them to this. It was an important day.

They left their buildings at the same time. He in his Hyundai Sonata with his best friend at the wheel, and she in her Chevrolet Cruze cruising down the street towards the same towering white building.

It was an important day. Over a year of campaigning and cheering and jeering had resulted in the whole world talking about the election. And yet, no one knew that the lead staff of both candidates were just about to get married.

“No matter what happened, this would be a historic day,” the pastor began.

To Visit or Not to Visit

I love my parents. Well, who doesn’t? They raised me all these years, taught me what’s good and what’s not good, tried to teach me to make my own bed, and even instilled in me some values of cleanliness. They are the best parents I could’ve ever asked for, and I even considered giving my dad a “World’s best Dad” mug for his sixtieth birthday—which is all so normal and obvious.

That’s what parents are like; sweet, caring, nurturing, and deserving of our affection and compassion. Nothing wrong with any of those things.

All these aside, though, I still have second thoughts about visiting my parents. I can’t stand the thought of them looking up and down at me with crinkled eyebrows, and commenting I’ve lost far too much weight. I cringe to think of spending two days trying to endure their manipulating talks about saving up to build a house, gaining weight so I look my age, and not cutting my hair any shorter. Home for me is just a weekend of torture.

Is it just me, I often wonder.

And I realise it’s not just me. Most of my friends are like me: Dreading visiting parents. But then I spoke to another colleague. She loves to visit her parents. She plans her weekends in advance and allocates time for everyone that matter to her. She’d set up a movie date with her mother, a dinner with her schoolmate, and a tiny lunch party with the entire family. And when she comes back from home, she’d be downcast for a couple of days in the least.

It was a wonder to me.

And then I realised I don’t hate my parents. Despite being reluctant to visit them, I still care for my parents. So much so that I’d call them up to ensure they take their medication on time. I love spending time with them. I love the little chats my mother and I share while we make a mid-day meal. I cherish holding my dad’s hand while we walk to the grocery store. I crave for those moments when I catch up with their stories, smile at their weak attempts at making jokes, and even when I help them navigate the technology I have trouble with myself. I value those little hours we spend for each other. Nevertheless, every time I enter the house, I also look forward to leaving.

People talk so much about parenting, the rules, and best practices of being a good parent. But not enough people realise the challenges of being a daughter, a child. It pains me to yell at my mother who calls me at work because she’s bored at home. How would I tell her to do something for herself, something she’d enjoy doing (other than talking to me)? That is, alas, a question no one can answer. Good “daughtering” is all about finding the sweet spot between spending too much time and too little time with your parents. And I’m still looking for it. Any advice? Please shoot.

Striving for Simplicity

Heard of the phrase, “Easy reading is damn hard writing”? It’s too familiar to miss. But here’s something (and different altogether) that you may have missed: Simple living is expensive.

Before you think Gandhi, think of the last time you browsed online for a pair of flip-flops. I last did it last night. A solid black rubber flip-flop costs INR 700 ($10) while a fancy, multicoloured, studded pair of women’s footwear costs INR 300 ($4).

True story.

Maybe it’s just footwear I thought, moving onto tee shirts. Again, the plain ones cost more than the printed, designed, and layered ones.

I didn’t understand the difference in pricing. But it’s a fact: Being simple is expensive. And the weird thing is, it shouldn’t be this expensive at all. Look at Gandhi, for instance. That man symbolised simplicity, and it doesn’t look like it cost him much. Except, perhaps, the initial cost of the spinning wheel. Nevertheless, he taught the world that minimalism is simplicity and less is more. And yet, despite all the history and the lessons, it still costs me double to buy simple clothes than it does to buy flashy clothes— or even footwear. Less is more, except in pricing.

I blame Gandhi. He made simplicity the new cool. It’s the trend, the hip, the new classy. Nowadays more and more people prefer classy over glossy. Everyone wants to look minimal. Everyone runs towards a “simpler lifestyle.” And to wear something flashy in the presence of the “minimalists” is uncool and unacceptable. And if the cost of being accepted is a few extra notes, people will pay.

So because the modern lifestyle is the simple lifestyle, brands seize their opportunity. They make simple-looking products, give it a clean finish, and put a hefty price on it. And because simplicity is now synonymous with classy, and classy is synonymous with expensive, anything flashy becomes trashy and cheap. And all this I realised when I saw that cheap-looking footwear had a pricier tag than sleek-looking footwear.

As for Gandhi’s simplicity, it’s a goner, just like the advocate. Simple, now, means expensive brands, single-coloured clothing, and fancy converse. The more expensive your attire, the more casual you appear, and the more casual you look, the classier you feel. Actual casual is now a casualty.