Monthly Archives: Sep 2013

Pain patterns

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I got inked in 2010
Three hours with the needle dangerously close to my ears
I tried to distract myself as my eyes welled up with tears

When we were younger it seemed like pain was involuntary.

Vaccinations and school bullies. Exams and puberty.
I was burnt, bruised and attacked by a dog. The scars are worn proudly and the horrors are now my favourite anecdotes
These incidents were innocent. Unintentional and accidental.

As we grow older, somehow, pain becomes voluntary.

Botox, liposuction and laser treatments.
Peel-off masks and piercings. Diets and high heels.
Hair which is ruthlessly straightened
Hearts which are recklessly broken
Facebook updates from shiny people on fancy holidays when in fact their life is a mess
The pressure of living a lie, the pretense, but to who do we confess?

Why do we sign-up for these? What happened to wiser with age? Are we getting sagacious or more supportive of pain?

Despite the agony previously endured, we forget.
Two tattoos and two years later I thought I was ready for a tattoo triumph
I thought I knew the drill but still…
Nothing prepares you for pain. It will hurt. Every time.

We accept pain. When I started my session I had to bite my lips and clench my fists
But after a while, ignoring my artist’s merciless style I was oddly okay.
We control. We cope.

Later I met my friends for a drink. Though I worried about the crowded bar and my exposed back
It turned out to be a fun night as I was fenced by my friends
We seek our safe place and are blessed with people who protect us
No one comes near, till we’re safe to go out again without fear.

With time, the burning gave way to a dull ache. Then it was reduced to a nagging discomfort
Finally it stopped hurting. Eventually it was erased from my mind.

Before life turns into a bore it sets new hurdles, failures, obstacles and more
So it begins, grit your teeth and bear
God knows we all have our share
As the adage says, no pain no gain
The punishment and the reward
The mermaid reminds me they’re the same

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Time travel with Tommy Girl

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Anyone who knows me remotely will know my love for perfumes
Little bottles in 50 and 100 ml
Making the days tolerable
and nights that promise.. oh well

I recently bought a perfume because it reminds me of a special person
Thinking I’ll buy it for old time’s sake
Yet, it stood unopened in my cabinet
Was I saving it for a special occasion or avoiding reminiscing about a carefree past?

I finally wore it on a Friday thinking it would lift my spirits higher
Dressed to the nines in a lipstick, a shade darker
I set-off for lunch with the ladies
Feeling fashionable much like Sarah Jessica Parker

With that weekend-is-here feeling and a skip in my step
although in high heels it quickly changes to a wince
I felt the pangs of memories
and they haven’t left me since

Images of a tiny apartment in Bombay
Chatting endlessly and watching night turn to day
With my flat mate and best friend forever
Pay cheque to pay cheque making us stronger in our endeavour

Saving for the much-needed vodka and Sprite
Despite the rising rent and bills, things were always right
Life was bright and full of colour
even if we had to rent an air conditioner to fight the summer
Pizzas and strawberry ice-cream only on a special Sunday
The humour in the survival stories of Bombay

It would be party-central on weekends
Top off-the-charts nights as the floor cushions were cleared for the dance floor
We danced and crooned much to our neighbours curiosity
We were ambitious, independent and happy

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This perfume was discovered by her, or was it me?
There was no you nor I, you see
As we both dashed to work; the fragrance would be wafting in the house
and linger in the evening making me wonder just how much did you douse?

I chanced upon our pictures
Nostalgia hitting me as I stared at the photo of our room with its curtains and fixtures
It will be your birthday soon and I want to celebrate you
Sorry I couldn’t hold your hand when you got your first tattoo

I miss you
I miss me with you
I punched your number from memory – ready to dial
Despite the melancholy that Tommy Girl has triggered, I smile

Tyranny of language

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My daily life; one day a slight variation of the other
I drown the voices around by being on the phone or listening to a song
on my train commute and trips to the grocery store
It’s often been lonesome in Hong Kong

To be isolated when others talk in Cantonese, Mandarin, Malay and Tagalog
I miss having a dialogue
No sharing of dreams, stories, the highs and lows
It saves me the time from small chat and the socializing trouble
Left to my own devices I live my life in a bubble

Lately, I’ve had this thought
What if we didn’t understand each other?
Left to our own interpretations, would the world be better?
Would we believe in the good?
Is it really important to be understood?

The white noise and angry words hurled in a train
The man begging, the litany that must speak of pain
Comments on branded bags, jewelry, social status and if you’re rich or poor
Judgments that fall on unknowing and uncaring ears is a blessing for sure

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So what if the norm was to change
No riposte nor retort exchanged
If you didn’t know what’s being told
Would it be liberating or leave you cold
All the remarks you’d miss
Perhaps ignorance is bliss

It does get frustrating at times
Often so helpless it could be a crime
But I stopped being sentimental
To escape from the anguish
I’m freed from the tyranny of language

Staying true to form

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For someone who is keen to chat and quick to write, I feel a distinct discomfort when presented with the task of filling forms (and writing on cards. My indelible writing sullying several hallmark creations over the years)
Something about BLOCK letters, limited space, blue ink requests, renders me speechless and panic-stricken. Paralyzed with fear, filled with dread, knowing as you’re telling yourself not to make a mistake, you almost always will.

Recently, I had the misfortune of filling forms. Several forms. New passport application, visa forms, tax form, loan application, credit card application etc.
Intimidating, blank little boxes looking up at me. Challenging me.

What makes this task infinitely worse is the questions they pose. I’m not referring to :
The sensitive ones – Married, Single or Other
The arguably irrelevant ones – Ethnicity
Positively embarrassing ones – Birth marks
Morbidly depressing Emergency contact

The most delicate and perhaps the most thought-provoking is that of a permanent address.
I’m embarrassed that for everything permanent, I’ve directed people, banks and institutions to my parents. Reiterating the fact that as long as they’re around I have a permanent solution.

It could be the timing of these questions that led me to this feeling of dislocation. My office had relocated and a few weeks later I was moving out of my apartment
Brushing aside this overwhelming sense of displacement I decided to give it a good thought. Existential questions crept into my mind and I’m happy to report, have lodged themselves in some corner of my brain.

Permanence is so sought after
This desirous be-all-end-all feeling of settling down
Is it overrated?
Sure it would free me of most form-filling worries but why isn’t, here-for-now enough?

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What or who offers permanence? Parents, spouse, kids?
We live in a world where memories outlive relationships. Sometimes only just.

Is it an address, an ID card, a driver’s license?
Why objectify permanence?

For me, permanence is revered and rarefied. It’s importance indisputable.
We all have a firm presence, our own place in this world

I’m partially impermanent but wholly happy
To be drifting and discovering
Advancing through trial and error
One form at a time…

Homecoming

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267972_10150230921302257_2715160_nI woke up uncharacteristically at 6.30am today
Jet-lag? I don’t think so
Excitement of being home perhaps

There is a familiar feeling of early mornings in India which I have missed in all the years I’ve been away
The sound of birds, the sweet chirping kind
The rhythmic fan whirring on what promises to be a hot summer day

We don’t have ceiling fans nor enough birds in the city of Hong Kong
Is this the life of a Non-Resident Indian?
The dichotomy and the constant comparisons
Whether leaving home was right or wrong

The tinkling of glass bangles, my mom’s up I can tell she moves in an assured way
She’ll put on a brew and make the best tea
The annoying pressure cooker whistle
Boiled potatoes for breakfast maybe
I don’t care, willful ignorance I’d say

I’m on holiday. I don’t have to wake up to the shrill of an alarm
This could be my childhood in Goa with its quiet lanes. To be roused with the rustling of the morning papers
This could be Bombay. There’s music in the cacophony if you strain to listen
This could be my parents place in Poona where I sleep the best
Feeling safe, like the world can do no harm

I’ll pretend to be asleep
Let these sounds and smells envelop me
The uniformity of being home
Wherever that might be