Spin a Yarn

“Please stop. Please stop now. Yes. Yes. Oh!” He gazes at me, and sighs. This is not fair at all. This is not supposed to happen. He looks around, at the excited eyes, fixated on his hand. He gives me another lecherous look, and spins again. And I realize how much I hate Spin-the-Bottle.

HIMYF!!

It was my best friend’s bachelorette party. Champagne, chocolates, lingerie. And the hottest stripper ever. Satin black shirt. Musky cologne. Broad shoulders. Sexy hips. Women drooled all over him. His eyes flirted with mine. He took my hand. And held me close. And that kids, is How I Really Met Your Father.

Someone I really admire

"Human nature will not flourish, any more than a potato, if it be planted and replanted, for too long a series of generations, in the same worn out soil. My children have had other birthplaces, and, so far as their fortunes may be within my control, shall strike their roots into unaccustomed earth."

These words, from the epigraph of 'Unaccustomed Earth', have always made me wonder the same thing. Did my parents read these lines? Is that why they uprooted me time and again, expecting me to start afresh from scratch, and not just grow but flower? Strangely though, I have never complained, rather I have welcomed these moves. My nature has, indeed flourished, thanks to all the transplantation.

The only regrets, if any, has been the inability to truly start afresh, with a clean slate, even when I have had an opportunity and the fact that there isn't a single place on earth that I could truly call home. Nowhere that the roots go in so deep that could belong there. But then I digress. This post wasn't about that. This is what Jhumpa Lahiri does to me.

Interpreter of Maladies, The Namesake and Unaccustomed Earth. Every story has the same fluidity and an underlying sense of nostalgia, yet the emotions they speak of and the reactions they evoke are different. And I have loved each of these stories. There is something about the way she writes. There is a flow in her narration, like it isn't her writing the story, its the characters following their own heartbeat. Her characters speak to me. They tell me their story, in their language, at their pace. They tell me some of the fact and leave a lot to interpretation. And thats exactly how I like it. It gives the bookworm in me the space to immerse myself into their lives and empathise with them.

In fact, I can see some of her protagonists amongst the people around me. I can feel, often pre-empt, their thought process. The contemporary settings of her stories make them real. The strongest connection, though, is probably the inherent Bong-ness of it all. And in the world that she spins around me, Bongs come in all forms. Kolkatans, Probashis, NRIs, Conservative, Liberated, Confused. Whatever their state of mind, they are essentially Bengali.

The strangest thing though, is how much I can identify with some of the people and their stories. Like the daughter in 'Unaccustomed Earth' who was trying very hard to hold on to her Bengali roots and pass them to her kids the way her mother did with her. Like the sister in 'Only Goodness', I have often wondered whether I have been a good influenc on my siblings or have I spoilt them by being the shield between them and my parents. Like Sangita in 'Nobody's Business' I have kept looking for love with all the wrong guys, never noticing the guys falling for me and well, breaking hearts. I have felt the agony that the wife goes through in her marriage in 'A Temporary Matter' and have actually played the game of one-upmanship and who-can-make-the-other-feel-worse with my boyfriend. Somebody I wished I was though is Hema and have that one all-consuming, mind-numbing, cant-live-without-you foreign affair, even if I have to move on from there wondering whether I should have expected more.

I did not realise how long I had been rambling. I have always wanted to write like her. I have written tons of stories and had people tell me that they are good. Guess I could post some of them here sometime.

The Beginning of the End ??

Here I am.. At the start of yet another blog.. At yet another crossroad in life.. Its the same stuff, all over again.. The phoenix-shall-rise-from-the-ashes syndrome..

All I had ever wanted is out of my reach and honestly, today I dont want it anymore.. I dont 'want' anything anymore.. I am striving to become truly Spartan - detached, aloof, unemotional.. I have discovered virtue in selfishness, decided that pursuit of happiness, of one's own happiness is not a crime..

I know this resolve may not and probably, will not last long. There is a soft spot in my nature, a strain of weakness, a sensitivity that would never harden. But try I will. To suppress the sensitivity, kill the niceness, grow out of the naivete.. And if I cant become that woman, I would put on a mask.. Develop an exterior so tough that no one would know of the weakness within.. The walls have already gone up.. The lines have been drawn.. I am this side.. Everyone and everything on the other side..

First posts are usually about the why.. Why am I here? Because its my space.. Its mine, all mine.. Here, I need not pretend.. I need not say things the way others want to hear.. Here, my words speak for me.. My words are my identity..

As I watch the raindrops hit the window panes and trickle down, I wish this blog frees me of my ghosts.. Writing has always been my liberation.. I wish it does its magic.. Again..