Intoxicated

She runs her hand lightly on the spines of the books on her towering shelves. She picks one at random, reads a few pages, puts it back, picks another, puts it back. Her mind cannot stick to the story, or the characters.  When it does, she feels even more lost and trapped. All her books seem to be about inevitable pain, and helplessness in front of fate. Even the summaries on the back of the books talk about already “doomed” protagonists. When did her books become so depressing, and cynical, and tragic? She remembers when she started reading “grown up” books; books that were not in the Young Reader’s section at the book store. She was thrilled, she felt like a grown up. When did growing up become synonymous with tragedy?

Unable to settle, she roams about the house. Her grandmother’s room looks to the east, and the rays of the sun are slipping through the crack between the two curtains, lighting up the haze of dust. She draws the curtains aside, only to be blinded by the light. She cannot comprehend the emptiness of the room, but the utter silence is somewhat comforting. After days of endless chatter of her relatives, the necessary small talk, the societal rituals of mourning, the silence feels like waking up after a long harrowing nightmare.

The landing on the first floor opens to a terrace balcony. A worn out yoga mat sits in the corner, its navy color fading. She wants to smile at her innocently good intentions. She tries to ease the wrinkles on her forehead, but that is oddly uncomfortable. Her face struggles to get back to the new normal, unable to handle the momentary release from the strain.

Memories of this terrace flicker across her eyes. She remembers sitting her in the evenings, getting her hair oiled by her grandmother, eating almonds. She remembers endless games of carom, accompanied by lemonade. She remembers the frustration and sleepless nights, when she dealt with  her exam stress by walking to and fro in the cool night air. She remembers tears of joy and relief at finally getting admission to her first choice of university. She remembers dance practices and hard work. She remembers long discussions, the aimless chatter, the unhesitating laughter. She remembers the mechanical answers as she replied to variants of Congratulations on your first job! She remembers the loneliness that slowly sneaked up on her, as she became quieter and quieter. She remembers the months of guilt as she willed herself everyday to function, to show up at work, to pick up the pieces of her life, to switch off the autopilot, to do more than simply exist. And she remembers the phone call, the dread, the cold sweat breaking over her again and again, as she begged, and prayed, and hoped, that she had heard wrong, that Naani was fine, that it was not her fault that she had not been available to talk, or to listen.

The attic smells musty. No one has come up here since ages. The place is crammed with boxes, and knick-knacks lie scattered on the floor. She sees several dinner sets that they never got around to using, each gifted to the family by someone or the other every Diwali. She sees her old bicycle, stabilizers thrown into the basket. There are four huge boxes full of old photo albums, picture stories of three generations.

She has never been intoxicated. Always the model child, she never had the urge to try out something forbidden, to experiment, to experience. She never rebelled, never sneaked out at night, never had a secret party, never even painted her nails black. She wonders if she missed out on things, but she knows, deep down, that she never would have dared. She has been raised on a diet of obedience and guilt.

And yet she often finds herself thinking of the small bottle of brandy in the medicinal cabinet nowadays, fighting a mad desire to take a couple of swigs. She wonders, almost academically, what it would feel like to be drunk. Would she really forget for a while?

She finds what she is looking for. In this corner of the attic are boxes labelled Books. Here lie the stacks of Nancy Drew, the literal mountains of innumerable series of Enid Blyton, the Judy Blumes. These are the books that made her fall in love with reading. These are the characters that are brave, and never fail, and are always the heroes of their own stories. They are never hindered by things outside their control, they never feel helpless.

She is meticulous this time, and picks up the books in order of their series number. The characters wave at her like old friends, the familiar words ease the knots in her stomach. If she concentrates very hard, she can just taste her childhood. She tells herself this is healthier; at least she’s not zoning out in front of the TV.

It is dark in the attic. Her eyes turn red with strain as she devours book after book. The characters from all the series are getting mixed up but she doesn’t want to stop. As she drags herself down to her bedroom after several hours, her eyes nearly closed, her head pounding, and her body heavy with tiredness that comes from mental exhaustion, it strikes her that the brandy may not be the only way of getting drunk.

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A Bookish Love

Photo by Alejandro Escamilla

It was a stupid decision, they said. You are wasting your grades; you could easily get a better internship! But they did not understand. They did not know the absolute need, the compulsion to be there, among all those long, towering shelves of books. It was there, amidst the musty smell of books, that he could breathe.

He had his table by the classics section. It was the best table; he could see the black penguin covers, even if he was not allowed to pick any and read it during the day time. Their being there in front of him, just existing, was such a comfort. He helped people find the books; rarely did he use his computer to locate any book; he remembered where each of them was. Tolstoy’s War and Peace next to Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment… Bronte’s Jane Eyre besides the row of Jane Austen books. His  hands lingered on the books; the touch was both familiar and exhilarating.

*

She had not been to the bookstore for four months now; an eternity. The work at the make-up aisle was mind-numbing, and hardly paid for the bills. There was no extra money for books, no extra time for perusing the different sections of the bookstore.

But she was here finally; a Tuesday when the mall was unexpectedly closed for maintenance. She felt herself in familiar territory; there was an ease in her walking now. She had a fixed routine. First, she went to the New Arrivals, reading the back covers of expensive hardbacks that she could never afford. She kept in mind the titles of the books she liked, making a mental note to buy them once they were old enough to be paperbacks or second-hands. Next, she browsed the Fiction section. Here, she opened the latest John Grisham, and read about 50 pages, standing. She would continue it from there the next time she was here. Crime and Mysteries came next, after which she walked straight past the Romance section to the one she loved best; the Classics section. Here, she walked up and down the line of shelves, reading the titles and mentally ticking off the ones she had already read. In this section, she could transport herself back to older times, tragedies of the war and the pain of betrayal. Here, she could rejoice in the “happily ever after” of Pride and Prejudice and cry at the unresolved ending of Gone with the Wind.

*

He saw her take a book in her hand and put it in a different shelf below. He stood up to prevent her from messing the shelves, but stopped. The book was A Picture of Dorian Gray, and it did belong to the lower shelf; someone must have picked it and then put it back in the most convenient spot on the higher shelf. He was surprised; she was a customer, why should it matter to her?

He slid back in his chair and watched closely. He saw her picking up book after book, reading the back covers, reading the first few pages, smiling and nodding at times. Always, she put the book back in its right place. As she browsed, she straightened the books that were not in line. It was almost an unconscious action; she displayed no exasperation on her face.

He saw her picking up yet another book now. After deliberating for a moment, she put it back. Then she picked it up again. He strained to see what book it was; Wuthering Heights.

*

She opened her purse. There were only Rs. 170 in it. The cost of the book was Rs. 160. That would leave her with just enough money to buy a bus ticket to home. There were still four days before the month end. There were still groceries to buy and bills to pay. Reluctantly, she put the book back on the shelf. She would buy it the next time. Slowly, she walked out of the bookstore.

*

He saw her returning ten minutes later. She walked with purpose now. Hurriedly, she went back to the Classics section, picked up Wuthering Heights, walked to the counter and bought it. He saw her smile once she held the book in her hands, now her own. The tension in her eyes eased gradually. With lighter steps, she walked out of the bookstore again.

He had never seen her in the bookstore before. He did not know who she was. But sitting here on his hard chair, among piles of books, he knew he had found the girl he would love.

Women’s Writing: Pride and Prejudice

I have taken a Women’s writing course this semester. I have to admit that it’s a welcome relief after the hectic, super-technical courses of the last year; I can’t get over the idea that I get to read so much as a part of a course! Plus, the idea of reading and discussing women authors is all me.

I wrote the following response to Pride and Prejudice as a part of our course. I hope you enjoy reading it. 🙂

***

Introduction

I first read Pride and Prejudice some four or five years ago. Having been a mystery-thriller reader, and not being used to the old sort of English, I quickly dismissed it as a slow, boring read. I read it again after some time, and presumably after reading great reviews about it which considered the book to be great literature. I suppose a part of me wanted to really like the book better because of the above mentioned reviews. And re-reading it definitely made me look at some of the things that I had perhaps missed the first time.

About the book

Simplistically speaking, Pride and Prejudice is a romance novel; “chick-lit” of the nineteenth century. Digging deeper, we find Austen talking about a wide range of concerns. It is a critique of the vanity of people of those times, the limitations and problems of the social and economic systems that were in place.

pnp

The characterization

The deftly etched characters are the best part of the story according to me. Each character is thoroughly described. Also, each character is flawed, which is what makes the story interesting. The protagonist is not perfect, but human, and it is great to see her introspect on her follies and prejudices. She grows throughout the course of the novel, examining her conscience and changing. The change is gradual, for Elizabeth as well as Darcy, which makes it real.

Apart from the main characters, I especially liked the character sketches of Mr. Bennet and Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

The former seeks dry humour in every situation, be it annoying his wife, or the prospect of his family being turned out of their house by Mr. Collins. Only at one point do we see him truly anxious, trying to be a guiding father to his daughter, Elizabeth, when he talks to her about the cons of marrying Mr. Darcy. The part where he says that Elizabeth should be able to respect her partner is especially touching and shows that Mr. Bennet, though pretending to be unfeeling, actually understands his daughter very well. He quickly lapses back to his old self though. When he is told about Darcy’s role in Lydia’s wedding, this is his response:

“… I shall offer to pay him [Darcy] tomorrow; he will rant and storm about his love for you, and there will be an end of the matter.”

 Mr. Bennet seems to have made peace with the chaos surrounding him in the form of his wife and his daughters. His dry humour seems to be a tool for staying sane.

Lady Catherine is the personification of the arrogance of the privileged class. She serves the purpose of depicting all that Austen mocks or despises in her society. Completely overbearing and domineering, she has always got her way. Her love for dictating the terms to everybody is hilarious; especially when she takes such an active interest in the internal affairs of Collinses (and everybody else, for that matter).

The following quote says it all:

What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is. Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my share in the conversation, if you are speaking of music. There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient…

The love stories

The love story of Elizabeth and Darcy has become a cliché now; a battle of wits. But more than that, the gradual change that happens for both, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, is beautiful to watch.

Darcy is shown to be reserved with his feelings; his pride is his only folly. In my opinion, barring his nature to speak arrogantly, there is nothing wrong with him. Meaning that, I admire that he does not engage in unnecessary pleasantries. He does not waste his time in small talk.

Bingley on the other hand, does not do justice to his independence; for a person so wealthy and educated, he is quite easily swayed by other people. He is pleasant of course, but too mellow. The same is true for Jane Bennet; although her determination to see only the good in people stems from natural goodness, not weakness of mind. Both of them are non-confrontational and would like to keep everything pleasant. Bingley and Jane Bennet’s love story therefore is not very appealing.

Sarcasm and humour

A lot has been said about Jane Austen’s sarcastic wit. I have greatly enjoyed reading the way she mocks some of the social norms while remaining part of the society. The characters of Lady Catherine and Mr. Collins are excellent examples of this.

The writing is funny and entertaining. Mr. Collins’ proposal to Elizabeth is one of the most hilarious scenes of the book. His utter lack of comprehension when Elizabeth declines his proposal is priceless. The almost immediate proposal to Charlotte Lucas afterwards also shows his fickleness.

The banter of Mr. and Mrs. Bennet is also very enjoyable.

Feminism and social standing

The novel presents many feministic ideas and criticisms of classism, albeit in a very subtle manner. Austen talks about various important matters, such as the need to marry “sensibly” (for men and women, both), the entailment of estates only to a male relation, the perceived notions of trade as a slightly less respectable profession.

Elizabeth is shown to have a mind of her own; she is not afraid to have opinions. I like that she is disappointed when Charlotte marries Mr. Collins for financial security and status. Even though her disposition is to let bygones be bygones, I think she never really regains her respect for Charlotte completely.

Let me draw attention to the highly entertaining conversation in which the qualities of an accomplished woman are discussed. Through Elizabeth, Austen says that expecting women to be perfect is unrealistic. Women should be allowed to be flawed and human; the expectation of a goddess is as bad as generalizing women as less intelligent.

Although Austen’s thoughts are in the right direction, the novel loses some of its charm for me when it comes to everyday sexism and classism. A disappointing amount of importance is given to outer appearance. For example, the Bennet sisters are shown as deserving good marriages because they are beautiful. Men are also expected to be rich, handsome and of a high social standing.

A whole lot of attention in Pride and Prejudice is given to women finding or trying to find husbands. And even in this endeavour, there is a lot to be considered apart from love. For instance, the character of Mr. Collins is caricatured in such a manner that as a reader, I cannot help being repelled by him. Austen tries to show that despite being wealthy enough and having a respectable position in the society as a clergyman, he is undeserving of Elizabeth because he is boring and insensible. But at the same time, when we come to Darcy, we also consider his wealth and rank while deciding his worth. The following quote makes this evident:

“In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she [Elizabeth] could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man’s affections…”

I wonder why Austen is so critical of her own gender at times. Of course, she considers women to be equally competent as men. She would not have written a character like Elizabeth Bennet otherwise. But she too plays into the stereotypes about women. Mrs. Bennet is shown to be foolish and ignorant. Mr. Bennet, while appreciating Elizabeth’s intelligence, remarks that she is “not like other girls”, thus generalizing that all other girls are silly. Lady Catherine de Bourgh, the only woman in the novel who is financially independent, is horribly arrogant and interfering, and takes an inappropriate amount of interest in others’ lives. This confirms to the stereotype of the problems of giving power to women.

Conclusion

Even after reading the book several times, and at different points of time, I am still unable to decide whether I like it or not. It is definitely an easy, light read. The “tragedies” are not exactly earth-shattering; one can read it in a detached manner, without becoming too involved in the story. That can be a positive or a negative point depending on the mood. The story and the characters do bring a smile on the face. The unintended, subtle sexism makes it somewhat less enjoyable. But I can make allowances for it, as the book was written two centuries ago. The book remains a beautiful satire on the hypocrisies and drama of the English gentry.

Taking Care Of Borrowed Books

As the owner of so many books, I’ve often been the person that people come to for borrowing them. That is all very well; I’m really glad that you want to read, especially something that I enjoyed too. We can discuss the story, the characters; or you can tell me that you didn’t like it at all. You’re most welcome to do all of that. But you are certainly not welcome to spoil my books. Spoiling includes wrinkled pages/cover, stains on the pages, and the like.

Someone has not been treating the book very nicely at all! Just look at Froggy. Someone has scribbled all over him with markers and crayons! (A book to teach kicks how to take care of books)

A Kindergarten lesson in taking care of books.

But I’m giving you the benefit of doubt. Perhaps you’re not sure how to take care of books? No worries then. The following is a step-by-step procedure that will ensure that the borrowed book can be returned in its original, pristine condition:

  • Keep the book in a shelf (preferably closed to avoid dust).
  • Do not keep heavier books/other items on top of the book.
  • Do not carry the book in your already overflowing bag.
  • Do not mark the pages using pen/pencil/sketch pens etc.
  • Do not fold the pages of the book in lieu of a bookmark.
  • Always, always, always use a bookmark.
  • Keep the book away from windows to save it from dust, rain, wind.
  • Do not keep the book open and turned upside down.
  • Keep the book away from drinks/food.
  • Ensure that your pet/infant does not try to read the book.

If the book lender is Akshita though, here are some additional guidelines:

  • Make keeping the book safe your biggest priority in life.
  • Take care of the book as you would take care of your child.
  • Return the book on time, i.e., within a month (More if the book is bigger).
  • Do NOT wait for Akshita to remind you three times.
  • Do NOT dare tell Akshita that you did not read the book after you return it two months late.
  • Do NOT make fun of Akshita’s book-caring mania requirements.

I hope I make myself clear.

Best Books Of 2013

It has been an interesting year as far as books are concerned. Since I began formally recording what I read only in May, I cannot give the exact number of books that I read this year. I estimate it to be around 45. This year I read the kind of books that I didn’t normally read, and that has been very gratifying. The following is a list of the best ones.

1. Chokher Bali – Rabindranath Tagore

I read Rabindranath Tagore’s works for the first time this year; Chokher Bali (A Grain of Sand in the Eye) and a collection of short stories. I have to say that I greatly enjoy his writings. All the idiosyncrasies of his time and his world are so deftly described in his stories. The characters are extremely well-etched and all their complex emotions are presented with ease.

chokher bali radha chakravarty - Google SearchComing back to Chokher Bali, Tagore addressed many issues. Adultery, a widow’s dissatisfaction with a life doomed to perpetual loneliness, the subtle ways in which Binodini manipulates Mahendra and Asha; it was all presented so poetically. It was sorrowful to see that despite being bold enough to rebel against the norms meant for widows, Binodini ultimately decides to walk away from Bihari, the person who loves her and wants to marry her. Tagore himself said that he regretted the ending. But perhaps that was the way Binodini redeemed herself; by allowing herself to have a little pride left.

Asha’s progress from a shy, young bride to a woman matured by circumstances was very beautiful to see. Her plainness made her endearing, because there were probably so many women like her. I especially loved the scene of her turning point; her distress on seeing her house in chaos without her mother-in-law. Sure, I don’t agree with many of the choices that she made, especially her decision to take back her husband after he fell in love with another woman. But I have to concede because it was a different time; the book was written more than a century ago.

Radha Chakravarty’s translation was simple and easy to read. A beautiful and sad book.

2. My Sister’s Keeper – Jodi Picoult

My Sister's Keeper

This is one of the very few books that made me cry, literally. The biggest reason that I enjoyed this book was that everyone was right from their own perspective. I especially loved Sara’s conflicts regarding motherhood and the choices that she had to make for her children. The following quote says it all.

‘You think you can lay it all out in words, black-and-white, as if it’s that easy. But you only represent one of my daughters, Mr. Alexander, and only in this courtroom. I represent both of them equally, everywhere, every place. I love both of them equally, everywhere, every place.’

So many of life’s actual situations are like that, aren’t they? Where you can’t distinguish where the lines blur.

The book wasn’t perfect though. The clichéd love story between the lawyer and the guardian ad litem could have been completely avoided. It didn’t add anything to the story. Parts involving Jesse as the typical problem child also were a bit dragged. But regardless, it is definitely a book that I would recommend.

3. Interpreter of Maladies – Jhumpa Lahiri

Cover of "Interpreter of Maladies"

I began my reading life with short story collections; fairy tales, moral stories, Aesop’s fables. I discovered novels and the short stories lost their charm for a number of years. I think it was partly because at that time, I was given certain short story collections that I did not enjoy at all. Even when the stories were good, it seemed to me that as soon as I began warming up to the characters, the story ended. I did feel somewhat like that reading Interpreter Of Maladies, but I’m glad that I finished reading it at the insistence of a blogger friend.

I’ve got relatives who are immigrants; NRIs. They come here every couple of years, stay for a month or slightly more. They want to go back to their lives after that. I can understand that. I’m sure that people get used to new places and new people after some time. This is the time of globalisation and there are people who have lived in various countries. I find that a little scary, to be honest. It’s not like I don’t want to go out and explore the world; I do. But then, I want to come back home. Is it easy to make a home in a place that’s so different from what you know?

I think every person, who is contemplating migrating should read at least one of Jhumpa Lahiri’s books. She captures the nuances of relationships between people from both the worlds so beautifully. There’s longing for home mingled with the desire to make a new life in a new country. I especially loved the last story. All the hesitations of a new marriage, coupled with the efforts to adjust to a new country; it was very touching to read.

4. The Handmaid’s Tale – Margaret Atwood

The Handmaid's Tale

Dystopian fiction always leaves you asking for something more; a proper closure of sorts. By definition, the story and the conflicts often remain unresolved. You read the entire novel yearning for a near-miracle. That was my feeling when I was reading The Handmaid’s Tale.

The story is pretty horrific, but unfortunately, that is the reality of a certain section of women in the world, though maybe not to the extent shown in the book. For every atrocity I read, I was thankful for the choices that I’m allowed to make. My only problem was that Offred was an unreliable narrator. That makes sense since she was a prisoner,  but at some points, I just didn’t want to let it go; I wanted to know. I wanted to know more about her daughter, her husband Luke, and frankly it was maddening to never know.

I enjoyed Margaret Atwood’s style of writing, and I’m looking forward to reading more of her books.

5. Gone Girl – Gillian Flynn

This was a disturbing book. It is impossible to discuss this book without spoiling it, so don’t read ahead if you’re planning to read the book.

gone girl book - Google SearchIn the first part we get to read Amy’s diary interleaved with Nick’s current reality. It was most perturbing  to read how much differently can two people think about the same relationship. It unnerved me to wonder whether that’s true for all relationships to some extent.

In the second part, we come to know that Amy’s diary was, in fact, fabricated. In reality, she was psychotic and crazy. She planned her own murder in order to frame Nick. Her original plan was to actually kill herself but she changed her mind later.

The genius of the book came into play when I thought back to all the crazy things that Amy did to frame Nick. The hidden meanings in the clues of the treasure hunt were especially chilling when re-read after knowing the reality.

It was a fast-paced book, and I would recommend it to anyone who likes reading psychological thrillers and doesn’t mind the foul language and explicit scenes.

Have you read any of these books? What was your experience?

Love Notes

Blogtember Day #10.

Monday, September 16: Write a public love letter to someone in your life. (It doesn’t necessarily need to be romantic.)

Ah, no. This prompt completely beats me. Sure, I have a lot of loved ones, but they already know it. I really don’t want to write a tear-jerking letter to my mom/grandma/daddy. Plus, Romance with a capital R, the grand Romance, isn’t really my thing. So no mush either. Instead, I’m going to interpret the prompt slightly differently and talk about a famous love letter.

I don’t read romances as a general rule. Especially new-age romance. I did, however, try. I recently read the extremely famous Love Story by Erich Segal. I’ve read The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks before. I don’t want to sound judgemental so let’s just say I prefer other genres.

However, if there’s one particular author whom I like as far as Romance goes, it’s Jane Austen. Pride and Prejudice is, of course, the ultimate romance (it is more than just romance of course; it’s a beautiful satire on eighteenth century hypocrisies and drama). Although, I don’t swoon over Mr. Darcy(nor any other men in her novels) as women apparently do, his  interactions with Elizabeth draw me to the book.

Pride and Prejudice is a highly entertaining novel, no doubt. Its fame, sometimes, overshadows her other books. Persuasion is one such book. It happens to be my favourite after Pride and Prejudice. Because, for once, the romance happens at a mature age (Anne is twenty-eight, an old maid by the standards of eighteenth century).

Coming back to today’s theme: Love letters. This is what Wentworth wrote to Anne.

I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in

F. W.

I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father’s house this evening or never.

Appreciation towards romance doesn’t come easily to me, and to be honest, the letter feels melodramatic. Perhaps that’s because I was born three centuries later. I can definitely see why it is considered to be the perfect love letter by many. This is my favourite part:

Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.

“Unjust, weak, resentful”! How honest is that! And how realistic considering their situation. He doesn’t claim to be super-human.

I’m fond of writing letters and notes to people. Even if it’s something as silly as “Please don’t lock the room, I forgot my keys.” Ask my roommate. I prefer it to be hand-written than SMSed. (Of course sometimes I have to be practical.) Also, I write letters for birthdays instead of giving Greeting cards. I’m sure people like the personal touch.

Photo via Pinterest

The point, you ask? The point is, love letters go a long way to maintain love and romance, and any relationship for that matter. Please note, I say “maintain” not “begin”. I’m sure romance can’t begin on merely a perfectly crafted letter. But writing little notes to each can strengthen bonds, even if it feels like a silly thing to do sometimes.

Written word will always remain powerful. And in some cases, maybe even more powerful than spoken word.

Or maybe I’m being too girlish for once… 🙂

I’m here. Now.

Hello! You must be aware that I’m participating in Blogtember blogging challenge hosted by Story of my life blog. Today is Day #2.

Wednesday, September 4: If you could take three months off from your current life and do anything in the world, what would you do?

Hmm…difficult question. There’s a lot I would like to do and try and learn in life. Oooh! I already have visions of myself travelling around the world, meeting new people, sitting in a cafe somewhere drinking some exotic tea and writing in my notebook.

As I’ve mentioned before, I get travel-sick(the opposite of home-sick) pretty soon.

 I could be scuba diving somewhere…

Photo via Florida Memory (Flickr)

Or, I could be floating up in some balloon. (Wishful sigh!)

Photo via Pics Visit (Pinterest)

Or (and this is the most likely), I could be curled up with a good book on some beautiful beach.

Beach book

Photo via Pinterest

Sounds like a perfect picture, doesn’t it?

But I wonder why so many people have these dreams of taking time off their lives. You hear it so often.

“If only my job/school/life wasn’t so busy, I would do this.” Or

 “If only I could just leave everything for a while I would…”

Or some other version of  “If only…”

What is it about our current lives that makes us want to run away. Sure, everyone needs a break. Everyone needs a holiday sometimes. But specifically, what is it about our present that makes us want to live in the past, the future or a parallel world. Why does “if only…” play such a major role?

I would be the first one to admit that I’ve spent a considerable amount of time dwelling over the past or in most cases, daydreaming about the future. There have been a number of days where life feels stagnant and unmoving, and I wait eagerly for something to happen. Or sometimes it sweeps by so fast that I have to catch my breath and hope for life to slow down. There’s always the anticipation for something good happening, tomorrow.

And, waiting for tomorrow with eagerness is perfectly fine. The trouble arises when Tomorrow starts overshadowing Today.

If only (and this is a different kind of “if only”) we could stop wanting to wait for something to happen. If only we could be in the Now completely. How good it would be if we were to immerse ourselves in the current moment and enjoy it with all our hearts.

Yes, I do enjoy holidays. Yes, I want to try a hundred different things while I’m at it. But when I’m here, in my present life, I want to welcome each day as it comes. I want to be able to savour each little event. I want to be able to enjoy every single cup of tea that I have. I want to be up to my neck in work and enjoy every moment of it. I want to listen to every song as if I’m hearing it for the first time.

present

I’m here. Today. Right now. And it’s a perfectly wonderful moment to be in.