We had received several gifts at the family gathering. All the gifts were wrapped up in glittering and colourful wrappers, and we looked forward to unwrapping them!
As I began unwrapping one of the boxes, the note on top of the wrapper caught my attention. It was the prettiest little label I had seen and wondered why someone would squander money on just a label. As I took it out, I noticed the back of the card.
I examined it closely. There were pencil lines at the back of the note. I looked closer, and there was a little slit on one of the edges. The overlapping paper had an uneven edge.
‘It’s hand-made!’ I screamed with joy.
I do not remember the colour of the wrapping paper, or even the gift inside. But I loved the name tag, and kept it along with all of my other treasures.
It could have easily been something bought from a stationary shop, but it wasn’t. It could have been just another label. But it wasn’t. I loved how someone had taken the pains to make something, and that is why it qualifies as a masterpiece! Wishes with Love!
‘What? But aren’t they too old for that kind of stuff? They’re going to make a fool of themselves!’
That was my reaction to a programme being organised at a local club – a fancy-dress competition for senior citizens.
‘What’s wrong with that? Not everyone would have taken part in such competitions as children. They’re putting in a lot of effort for this.’
There wasn’t much I could say to that. And so we decided to attend the programme. Although, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t embarrassed.
A red carpet had been rolled out at the entrance, leading up the room where the competition was being held. There were few people outside – the guards, cleaners, and an old woman with a begging bowl. I wondered how she managed to enter the gates, but I didn’t bother looking her way, as she noisily shook her bowl for alms.
The programme had already begun when we entered the hall. The audience was a fairly large one, and we made our way to the last row.
Three anchors took turns to speak to the audience. The chief guest was introduced, the traditional lamp was lit, and then a book, written by one of the members of the organisation, was launched.
Eventually, the competition began, and the first participant was called to the stage.
“We have a surprise participant today. He is ninety five years… young! Oh I beg your pardon – ninety six. Ladies and gentlemen, ninety six!” The audience began murmuring, and there was excitement in the air, as the old man slowly made his way inside, his frail body supported by a young girl, his face covered with a veil. And then he shook a bowl, full of loose change.
I was shocked.
Only a few minutes earlier I had seen him at the entrance, and given ‘her’ a cold snub. And there (s)he was. The oldest man in the room, dressed as a beggar woman! He could barely move, but he sure had a great sense of humour. I only hope I wasn’t the only one to be fooled.
The rest of the show tried to keep up with this exciting start, with ladies and gentlemen dressed up in colourful regional attire, and some interesting and hilarious dialogues. Everyone was cheerful and there was good humour all around.
But of course the evening belonged to the youngster.
And I came home wondering, who was the old one there?
Some time back, I stumbled upon a video. And I liked it so much, I watched it again, and now I’m sharing it with you (for those who’re impatient, its at the bottom of the post!)
Elizabeth Gilbert, author of ‘Eat Pray Love’, talks about creativity as an external ‘genie’, and how creativity comes to an artist, instead of creativity coming from within an artist.
This video made me realise how many times an idea or thought came to me. My genie came in the form of little bursts of inspiration. And when she came, she gave me sleepless nights. At times I’ve woken up at unearthly hours* , unable to sleep, till I have written down something. And even afterwards, I have felt uneasy at not having published it. Sometimes I’m just too tired to listen to her, and I tell her to come another time. And of course she doesn’t.
This creati-genie has inspired quite a few posts on this blog. And clearly, right now, my genie is on vacation. Or perhaps I’m the one who isn’t sensing her.
Maybe she’s somewhere around me, reading this post. Maybe she’s screaming something, desperately trying to grab my attention. Or maybe she’s just smirking, enjoying the fact that I miss her.
Off late, as I haven’t been blogging, I’ve felt frustrated. Or perhaps my frustration is making me lose connection with my genie.
I’ve had to work hard on this post. It doesn’t help that I actually drove my genie away. But I shall try to answer the question The Daily Post asked bloggers.
Why do I blog?
There may not be just one single answer. And it is most likely a combination of several answers.
Perhaps it is the want of attention, the emotional high of being heard.
Perhaps it is to share our world with others.
Perhaps it is a journal, a memory bank, should we need to refresh our own memories.
Perhaps it is to vent out the frustration within.
Perhaps it is to discover a few things about our own selves.
Or perhaps it is to allow the genies sitting on the window-sill next to us, to take the spotlight for a while.
And maybe, just maybe, it is to sleep more peacefully at night.
I’d hoped to celebrate my 100th post with my genie. But, I suppose she deserves a little break!
I hope you like this TED Talk as much as I did. Is your genie with you? How has your genie helped/troubled you? Let me know in comments…
* unearthly hours here refers to what I term as unearthly – which is not necessarily beyond midnight, but likely at the hour when you are busy relishing your dinner!
I was walking on a footpath next to a busy road when I saw her. On a bed of yellow dried leaves, she lay motionless.
Her black velvety skin, and bright blue spots were in sharp contrast to her surroundings. I went close to her. I expected her to spread her wings and fly. But she didn’t. I gently nudged her with my toe. There was no response. I bent down to get a closer look. Slowly, and carefully, I picked her up, and held her in my palms.
She was beautiful.
Her wings were closed. Her feelers stiff. It was clear that her soul had left her body. But was she really lifeless?
I took a step forward, and she moved.
I stopped. And her movements stopped as well.
Perhaps the wind was as fascinated by her, as I was. But something about the way she moved made me wonder. Was it the wind trying to take her away, or was she trying fly? For the next three hours, I held on to her. She tried her best to escape. And I did my best to restrict her movements. Twice she slipped from my cupped hands, and even broke her feelers. But I was determined to keep her.
I brought her home with me. I placed her on top of a cupboard and went to have some tea. When I returned, she was gone. I tried searching for her. But my efforts were in vain.
I was mistaken about her. True, her body had lost its ability to fly. But that didn’t stop her from flying.
It has been long since I crossed ninety.
Even though time flies, my age seems to stand still.
There is not much in my kitty,
For the void which I am desperate to fill.
I toss and turn in my sack.
Voices all around me scream, shout and yell,
None as loud as the one within.
But amid those painful sounds of hell,
One little voice assures, calms and soothes,
All will be well,
You must fight back.
Its January, and its cold. The sun hasn’t shown up for work in a long time. The fog is intense, and it is hard to see anything beyond fifty feet. With great effort, I leave the comfort of my blanket.
I keep water on the stove. My fingers go numb, as I wash a piece of ginger. I quickly pound it, and toss it into the water. I let my hands soften over the warm air on top of the stove. It feels familiar. As I wait for my tea to boil, I remember the tea I used to buy from the road-side chai-wallah.
He sat on a foot path behind a prominent building. Arguably, the most popular chai-wallah. I used to enjoy the tea he made, and was a regular customer. His helpers would recognize me, and even before I would reach, a cup of tea would be ordered on my behalf!
Tea wasn’t the only thing he had in store. Cream rolls, plain salted rolls, mathris and buns were stacked up all around him. I generally had my tea with mathri.
Once, while I was waiting for my tea, I saw one of the helpers prepare a simple snack for a customer. Before I knew it, the helper sliced the fruit bun, applied butter, toasted it on open flame, cut it in four parts, and served it hot. I watched with delight as the bun developed a life of its own – the skin burnt, just the right amount, the melted butter making it glow… On a chilly winter day, it was enough to make my mouth water. I made a mental note of it, and a few days later, I decided to buy one for myself.
More than the taste, I looked forward to the butter melting. I didn’t have to wait long. The helper reached out for the big box where blocks of butter had been stored. Each block must have been two inches thick. He picked one up, and promptly applied the whole block!
I was shocked. I forgot all about the open fire, and the glowing bun.
It took me a while to regain my composure. And for a little while I just stared wide-eyed at my meal.
Eventually, I did sink my teeth into it. It tasted wonderful, of course. It had to be! Though beyond that… I’d rather not think about it!
For the next few months, I was quite content with just tea!
Translation : Gods reside in those places where women are worshipped.
* * *
This post began as a slightly longish rant, fuelled by immense rage. I let it rest for a couple of days. Today, I decided to cut out the harsh bits. I leave you, dear reader, to interpret the meaning, and context in which I write this post.
This year has been quite a roller coaster. A year filled with lots of firsts. I attempted the Weekly Photo Challenges, Writing Challenges, and even the Daily Prompts. Truth be told, I got lucky with some of the topics. Perhaps some one at The Daily Post sneaked in to my head, and posted appropriate challenges (including this one)!!
The Broken Tree
Bird – Attempted Madhubani Style
Two Realisations
At the end of the previous year, I had one follower. (I’m not counting my friends and family members – who were forced to visit my blog after my constant nagging). This year, I have discovered, and learnt a lot from other bloggers. Thanks to the aforementioned lucky coincidences, I have more readers, and I kick myself for not participating in challenges often.
I cannot have my cake and it too. While I love to participate in all the challenges, and I do have things to say, real life also needs priority – hence, my posts will always come at irregular intervals.
Three unfinished works
I have two sketches, and an acrylic painting that are waiting for me to complete them. I am not including the sketch from last year, and the oil painting I started many many years ago! I would have shown them to you, but I’m just too lazy to photograph them. Also, the painting is in the art room of my institute, and I’m too cowardly to face my teacher (whom I am sure I have disappointed with this one).
Four projects
This year has been one in which I have little to show – At least not as much as I would have wished. Blogging has, to a certain extent, distracted me from my studies, and at the same time, has encouraged me to create something, with the sole intention of posting it here.
Happy Deepavali!
Tada! And the destruction is complete!
I learnt a lot this year, especially about 3D animation, and spent a major part of the year on two projects – a character, which I built from scratch, and a short film, in which I rigged a character, and oversaw other member’s work. These are quite amateurish, and hence I haven’t posted much about them. The sheer effort involved in creating a 60 second 3D animated clip, was overwhelming. I can only wonder what magic must be required to produced full length feature films in this medium.
Close Up
The Gift
My best creation to date, and one I hold close to my heart is ‘Mr Paper’. It was made in the early part of the year, and has made me a bit of a celebrity 😀
And finally, dear reader, if you found most of this article vague and has left you confused, it is probably because I am currently working on my fourth project – capping one of the busiest years of my life.
Many Memories
I’ll leave you with a small collage of stills – which visually represent what I have been up to this year – the things I’ve made, the places that I have seen… Here’s wishing the entire blogging community a very happy and prosperous New Year.
She had been uprooted from her home, decorated to highlight her appealing petals, and given away to indifferent people. In her new ‘home’, she sat quietly in a corner, waiting to be noticed.
Her new family did not appreciate her. They had seen many more like her, and like all the others, she would be abandoned. The garbage collector would pick her up, and she would spend the rest of her short life along with plastics and other alien creatures.
She looked absolutely beautiful. And at the same time, she looked sad. We noticed her head looking towards the ground. She was tired, and disappointed. We decided to adopt her.
We peeled away the pins and wires that surrounded her, and even as I offered her water, some of her delicate petals gave way.
Free from the shackles, and getting a little care, she felt lighter. Was there a hint of a smile? She still missed her home. Nothing could replace that, but now, she hoped she could spend the rest of her days in peace.
At the beginning of the week, I thought I would try my hand at this week’s writing challenge… I’ve been wanting to write about my favourite author for such a long time. But it’s been a rather busy week… Perhaps I’ll write about that some other time. For now, I present to you… Mr Bond, Ruskin Bond.
I read short stories by Ruskin Bond as a child. A collection of such stories, was the very first book that I askedmy parents to buy for me.
Even when I was well into my adolescence, and adulthood, I continued to read, and re-read his stories. This of course makes me wonder if I’ve really grown up… But that is a different matter.
Ruskin Bond’s stories, at least the ones I have read, have often been about personal experiences. My favourite ones are those where the author writes as the main protagonist, and narrates events in first person. Filled with nostalgia, the stories portray a wide range of emotions. The author weaves such beautiful stories around everyday events.
‘The Night Train At Deoli and other stories’ is my all time favourite – which is one of the books that I exchanged with my friend. I’ve always wondered if I inadvertently write in a similar manner. But even though Ruskin Bond’s stories have left a huge impact on me, I will not dare say that I write in a similar style – no one can.
Most of what I have written, is based on my experiences. Strictly speaking, I do not write fiction, and I know that I do not write factual accounts of everything. In fact, this blog was never intended for writing! I had a few images that I wanted to post on-line – so that I could share them with people more easily. I’m not an artist or a photographer. I’m not a dedicated writer, and I have no specific topic on which I write.
As I write this post, I am left wondering what my blog is really about. Perhaps one day, I will figure out what exactly I’m trying to do. Then, perhaps the blog will be a lot more organised than it is right now.
Until then, I will continue searching for my voice.
Dear reader, if you have any thoughts regarding what it is that I write about, please help me organise this little space. What do you think this blog is all about?
Musings of an eccentric mind 