no longer home

 I am home. For the first time in a couple of years, I have had the time to wander the town, to reacquaint myself with it. And as expected of a returner, I find everything hopelessly changed. Cochin is no longer my city, nor Tripunithura my town. I wonder at it, at the change and at the nature of it, and my reaction to it all. For it is not merely physical; the change is in my relation to these things of my childhood.

There are physical changes, obviously. Ten, fifteen years ago, I knew everybody within a five mile radius of my house. Not only the people, knew all the animals, the trees (mango and tamarind especially, though we climbed all without discrimination), the earth (the dusty brown summer earth, the moist fragrant red monsoon earth, dark hard caked winter earth), the houses and their ponds. In their place, now there are palaces of concrete and monstrosities of glass and steel (forgive me, Howard Roark) - apartment buildings built or being built, shops, malls. People have settled here, and are still pouring in, whom I know nothing of. Those I walked and played and swam with are all gone, building their lives elsewhere, much like me.

More than this physical change, I feel it in the (for lack of an appropriate word) culture. The small town I grew up in was really a small town. Our connections began and ended within its boundaries. Any city that wasn't Cochin was the object of round-eyed contemplation, anything with its roots outside of its purview was strange and big. Not even that, really. All of that was outside our scope of contemplation; it neither touched nor affected our lives. Our only real connection to worlds outside was the people we knew, elder ones who had migrated, cousins and other relatives who came visiting. Perhaps that makes our lives narrow? Perhaps they were narrow, but that is not to say they were not happy. The happinesses and sadnesses we felt here were the same as I see in those other cities. Causes, factors, justifications - these differ, certainly, in scale and volume, but the essence is the same.

I can't say it any other way, but my town has become big. Too big for me to recognise, too big for the child in me to reconcile with.

I do recognise that these changes are necessary. Nor do I wish for my town to remain stagnant, as it was when I was ten. That would be presumptuous and unwise. Only this: that I no longer have roots here, and this is no longer my home but for my parents' presence. My friends, my school, the things I did when I was here - all of that is gone. A sadness there, certainly. But then again, my little town is in my head - glorified and romanticised beyond sorrow, and I can ask for nothing else.

Rant

The world is moving too fast. No, I don't mean how fast the technology is growing, or the new fast-paced world and living, or this increasing tendency towards immediate fulfilment of wishes. I mean simply that time is going just too fast.

For example, Titanic released fifteen years ago. Fifteen. Man, that makes me feel so old. Lion King was sixteen years ago, and I watched that in the theatre. My cousin, who was crawling on the ground looking for pebbles to chew when I'd begun school all starry-eyed, is now contemplating a career in experimental physics.

It doesn't end there, either. Does it ever occur to you that a day (all twenty four hours of it) ends way too quickly? You don't even realise it's gone, and it is, and before you know it, another day is over, and then another, and then another. Three years of law school have gone by this way. 

Now, this rapid passing of days is all okay, but only if we think we've utilised that time efficiently and effectively. And that's where I strike a snag, generally. Time is just not my slave: more like a fairy slyly dancing just out of reach, giggling and taunting and stepping clear of grasp all the time. I was once told that time is like a candle burning in the midst of a terrific seastorm (relevance being that it could go out at any point), and therefore, underscoring the paramount importance of managing all that precious time. You know, all that jazz about living each day as if it were your last. For example, you don't want to spend your last day... sleeping, do you? You should be climbing the Seven Peaks, or making a movie, or traipsing an unknown forest path (and fighting those bears while you're at it), or cracking a secret enemy code, or locating extraterrestrial intelligence, or talking to your dog, or  settling on a comfortable chair with a book you've never read. Learning something new. Always that, and nothing else.

Bugger boredom. And laziness. And all that (ejusdem generis).

what's the big deal about technology?

In the early days of the motorcycle trip, Pirsig describes John and Sylvia as the 'hiding' kind of people - they need technology; their lives are made desirably and necessarily comfortable by it. But they cannot and do not try to understand technology, because all forms of it is alien to them - from a water tap to a motorcycle to a computer chip. Now, Pirsig doesn't understand how it is possible for people to be like that, but it is.

Here I am, toiling over trying to understand encryption and hosting and legal jurisdiction over ISPs, ICPs and other telecom providers, and I would be perfectly happy not knowing. So long as I can listen to my music, and download (albeit with a pirate's patch over mine eyes) my movies/TV shows and books, why does it matter how, where and why the hosting is done?

Actually, it does matter, and Napster, Blackberry, Limewire, Yahoo! and tons of others would tell you that. It does matter, because our rights to free speech, privacy, autonomy, access to and freedom to impart information are all affected directly. Only... complicated, y'know?

Rant done.

Random

I must confess: I do not understand the vagaries of the human mind.

It's amazing how you know when you should stop doing something and start studying, or stop obsessing about chocolate and move on to jalebis, or stop staring at the screen and start typing, but... don't. The human mind must be masochist, really. What else would warrant and justify obsession, blues (and greys) and non-activity?

I suppose sometimes, the difference is that you must stop wanting something and start working on it. Or something else. Else you'll just stay where you are - just another rusted cog in that big rusty wheel. And rust isn't a nice thing to have or be.

Hm.

Blues

It's a cynical day today.

So cynical I can't even write.

that rotten g-word

Is what a trashy Marcia Willet novel called it, and an equally trashy Sophie Kinsella one as well. What tosh, I thought.

Apparently not. It's a debilitating thing, guilt. Keeps alive the past, shuts out the future, clouds the present. And the only way to obliterate it is to either let go, or rearrange the past.

Oh well.

Exams

And if you still cannot understand
That precious is studying beforehand,
A price so great you'll have to pay -
You'll look like a zombie on a decaying day.

if you find it, share it with the rest of us*

So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another
Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and silence.

What of eternity then, and permanence,
Of happiness and a bliss in every action?

*Grant Lee Buffalo: Happiness
(from Mighty Joe Moon)

Sugar, Spice and Everything Nice: Did You Say?

Put man in a cage
And he'll show you claws that you
never knew he had.

(Yes, still in haiku mood. Though what I should be in is exam-study-mood.)

Elections are such nasty things.

Naivete or not, I can't help thinking that there is a nice, non-nasty way of doing these things. Surely we can all exist without pointing out flaws in other people (that may or may not exist) in hateful terms?

Maybe you'll say I should wake up to the real world. Well, I'll tell you now: Alarms will wake me when I'm needed, and I'll butt in and butt out asap.

Learning

Once upon a time, long, long ago, this little one in a small class of very inspiring people heard someone say: "Change is the only changeless law." And: "Everything passes away."

The little one didn't quite recognise those deep pearls of wisdom. Now, that is one milestone of learning.

The next one is coming to terms with the first one.

Summer

This seems to be the season for remembrance.

Gulmohars are blooming; those bright, alive, orange bursts of colour are a sight for sore eyes. They remind me, and others here, of how we used to invent vampire nails and fangs out of the gulmohar petals and run madly around the house announcing the descent of Countess Dracula (No, that wasn't me! I was Pirate Snaggletooth. Rawr.) in red cloaks fashioned of Amma's saris.

And then there were mangoes. This, back home, is that glorious season when all mango trees (and every house in the neighbourhood had at least one) erupt into fruits and perfumy blooms. Daily schedules were invariably characterised by forays into neighbours' orchards, armed with stones and conspicuous long sticks, and down would come some two dozen mangoes. The next few seconds would be spent in frantically gathering the mangoes and rushing out, almost always chased by irate 'ungles' and their 'aalsashian' Tommys. And breakfast, lunch and dinner always, always had mangoes - mangakoottaan, mango pickles, manga pachadi, fruit salad... You name it; we had it. Dad's favourite summer refrain was: "There is always space for one more mango."

There were always sudden, unexpected showers too, as though Earth herself felt too hot to not want some cooling off. Always towards the end of the day, and always on the hottest days, we were caught unawares in raggedy outfits while out on on ruffianly cycling trips. The rain always cheered us up extra, and made us living horrors for Amma to deal with.

***

This is very much a nostalgic post. I really do miss those days. Not because "they will never be back again", but because those great, comforting grandfathers of trees are gone now. There're huge buildings of yuppies looking to move to the suburbs now - the orchards and the traditional ponds are long gone. And so, it seems, are the rains. They're never predictably unexpected anymore. They just come and go, like postmen on the street, leaving traces of their presence, but never coming in.

Those are the things that aren't going to come back - those trees and the open field and the green, unchoked rain and the smell of the wet, red earth.

I mourn their passing. And laugh about the fun we had then.