Day 1: Picture Imperfect

Beauty sometimes lies in the little imperfection of things around us. It is more of a philosophical thinking, and whenever I think of beauty and imperfection, I think of Shrek and Fiona. I think of the moon, with the craters. I think of the little blemishes that have marred my otherwise perfect life. I think of a little girl giggling, mindless that a few milk teeth are missing. I think of the wrinkles on my grandmother’s hands and face that make her so beautiful. I think of a progress report card of a genius with a few red lines indicating failed subjects.

Often, we have been programmed to believe that perfect is beautiful. Normal is nice. Aberrations are bad. We place nominal adjectives to a lot of things- Good, bad, ugly, beautiful, perfect, and imperfect. Who defines these parameters? Do they change with time and space? Is it more relative and less absolute? Is it okay to shun something because we do not believe in it, and embrace something because we believe in it? What is wrong with a few imperfections, a few failures, a few heartbreaks in life anyway?

This picture I took yesterday is testimony to the fact that beauty sometimes lies in the little imperfection of things around us. I was struggling to get some shots of flying birds from a ferry that was in motion, undulating and wobbling as it made its way along the Atlantic Ocean. The birds would fly in a group, often parallel to the ferry, and at the same speed. This would make you think that the birds were not really in motion, but were suspended mid-air. They were perhaps seagulls with a red beak, I am not so good at identifying birds. So I zoomed in against the western sky with the setting sun, trying to get some shots of the birds. If you see the picture closely, one would think that it would look perfect if a part of the left wing of the bird was not missing. I instantly fell in love with this picture. Do not miss the golden glow at the tip of the right wing.

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My Art Project

I love taking pictures, as much as I love writing. Perhaps many of you are not that familiar with the pictures I take. Inspired from Humans of New York and Project 365, this is my endeavor to make meaning out of pictures using text, and make meaning of text using pictures. If art inspires you, do spread the word around, or better still, start your own art project.

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Honey, you heard of HONY?

I absolutely love art projects. I love little excerpts of real stories from the lives of people. There is something very endearing about pictures of common people, with their common dreams and common lives. They do not come with the boredom of seeing something that is staged or artificial. Humans of New York (HONY) is all of them.

Last year this time, I was all into Postsecret, an online community where anonymous people sent in creative postcards with their secrets. I had read almost all the books published by Postsecret. Somehow, things mellowed for me. Once in a while I still love a weekly secret for all its boldness, spunk, and honesty. But overall, things mellowed.

HONY is different. I look forward to seeing the pictures everyday and more than that, reading little excerpts that seem so apt. HONY is an art project I absolutely love. It makes me wish for two things- first, that I lived in New York City and was featured in HONY, and second, that I started my own art project wherever I live. Come to think of it, I would love an art project like this based on people of Calcutta. A priest praying in Dakshineshwar. A couple holding hands in Millennium Park. An office commuter hurrying to take the train near Fairlie Place. A tourist looking at the Howrah Bridge and admiring it. An art connoisseur waiting for his friends in Nandan. The retail stores of Burrabazar. The glitz of Camac Street. Puppy love blooming in front of schools. Thousands of stories unfolding right in front on our eyes, stories of common people, their common lives, and the extraordinarily beautiful tales that weaves out of it.

For once, I will not be upset if someone in Calcutta, or Bombay, or New Delhi for that matter gets inspired from this and start their own project. I would love to see it all.

(Picture: Victoria Memorial, Calcutta)

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Getting on the treadmill again

Blogging, working out, doing a PhD, or anything else for that matter is an effort of regular, planned practice. The analogy I often use is that of running on an electronic treadmill. Electronic and not manual because you do not supply the power to the treadmill. Now when you step off the treadmill, the treadmill is still running. And that is what makes it hard to get back on it. You need to catch up, match up the velocity, and get going. This is what happens when you stop going to the gym abruptly. It takes so much effort to get back to routine. And that is what has happened to my blog recently. When I wrote regularly, I felt motivated to write regularly. Once the cycle was broken, it was hard to get back. Writing for me is not about a game of numbers, about how many posts I can spew monthly, and how many comments I can garner. For me, it was more of a spiritual exercise, something akin to meditating, an effort to make sense of the numerous things around me and document them. Clearly, I have moved on to different pastures. I have been busy with work, writing papers, traveling, partying, taking photographs, and doing numerous other things. It is not that I forgot about my blog. But every time I tried to write, I felt that inertia, that resistance, the same resistance you face when you try to get back on that treadmill that is already in motion. I have often come home too tired, and while earlier I would readily hop on to writing my journals, now I want to read a book or watch a movie. Anyway, this should not be a rant post. So hello everyone. Isn’t it ironic that I have to be welcomed back in my own writing space? I am back with lots of exciting stories about how wonderful life has been recently. And more than anything, I am excited to be able to start writing again.

P.S.: My lower spine has recovered well.

P.P.S.: Thank you for all those who wrote to me, and apologies to all those I did not reply back.

P.P.P.S.: I hate the new look of blogger. It takes too much effort to navigate my way around. Same thoughts when Gmail forced me to adopt the new look.

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Subtle Satire

Nothing gives me a kick as strong as satire does. Simple, short and sweet, and most importantly, to the point. This is why the Bengali movie “Bhooter Bhobishyot” (the future of the past) is my favorite movie currently. Every line is loaded with pun, satire, and double meanings based on contemporary issues. I admit that it is hard to get the reference if you do not understand the language, but try it nevertheless.

I was chatting with my friend and he said something (probably without even realizing it) that was bang on, to the point. Short, beautifully delivered, and not so nice, but dripping with truth. The conversation went like this:

T: When are you visiting me in Boston?
Me: No time. I need to graduate first, find myself a job. 
T: You sound like D (our common friend who is always thinking four years ahead).
Me: Seriously. For a change, I am thinking of applying for jobs in India as well.
T: eessshhh .... Why do you want to go abroad?

Mostly of you will probably not get why the last line touched a chord somewhere deep down. In case it makes sense, people like me who have made a life in two countries perhaps live with a mistaken sense of identity, torn between the two worlds. Has India become abroad for me? I really hope not.

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Back Calculation

I owe a big thank you to everyone who sent me wishes, emailed me, messaged me, and called me. I was expecting some flowers too, but no hard feelings, really. Nothing has changed much the last few days, but for the fact that I have turned out to be more grumpy and sour than ever. I thought of sharing a few updates with all of you.

1. The doctor asked me to rest and be on medication for the next 2 months. Physiotherapy will start after that. The dollars I will have to shell out of my pocket (even after partial insurance coverage) makes me wish I get well before physiotherapy starts. There is a reason I am not missing popping nine painkillers a day. Yes you heard me right.

2. I could finally afford to watch four movies in a row this Saturday. What else do you do when you are in bed all day? Ek main aur ek tu (thumbs down), Paan Singh Tomar (thumbs up), Midnight in Paris (thumbs down), and Agneepath (thumbs up).

3. I loved Agneepath (my roommate did not). I loved the visuals. I loved the Banyan tree. I loved Hrithik (I am not a big fan of him otherwise). And I loved the music.

4. We did a lot of roommate bonding this weekend. We went for groceries together. She drove me around, helped me with the groceries, and made sure I do not have to lift weights. We spent the entire Saturday chatting and watching movies. She got me medicines, and helped me climb the stairs. Although an illusion, I have been feeling like a princess of late.

5. I have not had to worry about cooking. My friends have visited me and given me food that will last me weeks. Paneer. Chicken. Shrimp. Rajma. Gobi. You just name it.

6. I have started to use my favorite red crutches (bought from Munich) once again. I would not exactly say that I was hoping to use it someday, but well, since all this happened, I thought I might as well get through this with style.

7. My herniated spine came with a flu and a 48 hour sneezing bout for free.

8. My advisor gave me his parking permit for the week. This means I can now drive to school and park on campus.

9. Father said I should move back to India. America is not a place to suffer alone. I have decided to avoid talking to him until my back hurts less and my sanity is restored.

10. Now that I am in bed most of the time I am home, all I do is read and make virtual travel plans. I have already decided to go visit Cambodia, Thailand, Vietnam, Greece, Spain, and Croatia this year. Such random plans help me cope with my pain.

11. I am terrified I will never be able to run around with my camera, dance, or go hiking and backpacking again. I had a long list- Peru, Bolivia, Mexico, Greece, Croatia, Venezuela, and many more.

12. With all the bed rest, I am finally beginning to get some ideas about my thesis. These ideas are nascent and far from being crystallized. However, I am realizing that the best way to get creative ideas is to lie down in bed all day and do nothing.

13. My sense of humor has gone to the dogs. Whenever I am asked, “What happened?”, I am considering coming up with innovative names for my herniated disc- Brokeback Mountain, Qamariya Lachke Re, Langda Tyagi, and so on.

14. I hope I survive the cross-country flight to Seattle in 2 weeks, given that I have been instructed not to sit at a stretch for more than 30 minutes.

15. The doctor refused to write me a doctor’s letter. She was concerned I might use that letter to my advantage and not finish my assignments on time. I am hardly surprised that she is Indian.

16. I watched Kahaani last week. I am puking out of sheer nostalgia. Oh Calcutta, how I miss thee !

17. I have never missed Zumba more. I think I might wail in pity some more and watch Agneepath again, much to the horror of my roommate.

Thank you everyone for your wishes, free food, advice on losing weight and staying fit, paneer, chicken, and shrimp curry, and for keeping me entertained through my suffering.

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Back Breaking Experience

Last week this time, my life was great. I just did not realize how great it was. I drove, walked, danced, hopped on to the bus, and sprinted down the stairs of my townhome without realizing how blessed one must be to be able to do these without experiencing any pain. Last week this time, the issues ailing me revolved around learning to use logistic versus multinomial regression model, finishing the deadlines for the semester, and planning my Canada itinerary. When my back felt a little stiff, I blamed it on my two-hour long drive to Washington D.C. In the excitement about preparing for my conference presentation, I almost ignored the pain that had started to invade parts of my lower back. That afternoon, I lifted the laundry basket multiple times and loaded and unloaded stuff from my car in a bid to finish off the pending chores before I left for the conference. Something quite did not feel right in my back, and I blamed it on a faulty sleeping position or a sagging mattress and moved on. The bed I sleep on is anything but sagging by the way.

With every passing day, my pain intensified and manifested itself in scary ways. I would go to sleep praying that things would be fine the next day, but come morning, I saw myself unable to spring into action. I would spend quite some time tossing, turning, and wincing in pain. By the time I was presenting at the conference, the pain had shifted to the right side of my body, extending all the way to the back of my knees. I noticed I had started to drag my feet. As I boarded the 7 am flight this morning, I was a mess. The pain had started to make me feverish and nauseated. I had three short flights ahead of me, which meant a lot of boarding, deplaning, lifting heavy luggage, and hurting myself more. The first thing I did after landing back was to call the doctor and make an appointment. I had suffered so much pain during those eight hours of my flight that I could no longer walk without a limp, and was about to faint.

A herniated spinal disc is what they diagnosed, something akin to a slip-disc. The vertebral column gets dislocated, causing immense pressure and pain in the adjoining nerve. I had never associated a herniated spinal disc with a thirty year old woman who between gymming, dancing, driving, and running around, had led a perfectly normal and active life. I can neither go to the gym, nor dance anymore. In fact, every time I walk, I am in so much pain that I consider using my arms and crawling on my belly instead, just like army men under cover do in war movies.

Thankfully, the doctor did not think I would need surgery. She thinks that with rest, medicines, and physiotherapy, I should be fine in a few months. Which brings me to my second worst fear of living alone in the US (the first one being death of any member of my family and me being unable to take a flight back in time to see them). I am not even getting into the student health insurance issues, and the thought of how much I have to cough for my physiotherapy deductible and co-pay alone makes me think of the wisdom someone had put in saying, “If you don’t want to get bankrupt paying medical bills in America, make sure that you are not poor and you never fall sick”. Surely it is a concern that has been plaguing and stoking my worst fears. Living in the US for the last five years has only been possible because I chose the life of an independent person. I cooked my food, did my dishes and laundry, cleaned my home, drove myself to wherever I needed to be at, and never depended on anyone to run my life for me. This mandated that my limbs and my brain functioned properly. I do not live with my parents anymore, and in the unlikely event that I injured myself, there is no one to take care of me.

The demons of your worst fears nudge you and nag you to death when you are confined to the bed, writhing in pain and unable to function well. For the first time, I can genuinely feel the panic of the endless possibilities of unpleasant consequences awaiting me if I ever hurt myself and cannot function properly. I have never craved for my old, seemingly boring but comfortably normal life more, a life where I lifted heavy grocery from Krogers, went Zumba dancing three days a week, drove 500 miles to Rochester without blinking an eyelid, climbed stairs in haste, sometimes two steps at a time, and sat through classes for six hours a day. I can no longer do these seemingly ordinary things anymore.

In a state of helplessness mixed with panic, I asked the doctor if she thought I had bone cancer or arthritis. At some point in life, I developed a deep-seated fear for these two, afraid that I might die of one of these someday. My grandmother suffered through arthritis, and I have seen so many people, some considerably young, losing their lives to cancer. The doctor assured me that it was neither. Suddenly, perspectives have changed and graying hair is not an issue for me anymore. I used to count the number of grey hairs I got first thing in the morning every day, but my spinal cord gave me a perspective that half a dozen hardly visible graying hairs could not. I don’t care if I wake up with a mop of grey hair. I just want this back breaking pain to go away.

My doctor comes with a sense of humor. She said that I will be fine and gymming soon, although, if I was thinking of making a career out of weight lifting, I should probably give up that idea now.

I write this post and dedicate it to the benefits of good health we enjoy, something which we so often overlook and take for granted. Flu and fevers do not scare me. My twisted ligament in Italy did not scare me. But my spine worries me. For this is not a fracture incident borne out of an active lifestyle of running around. It is but the heralding of the disturbing realization that the body is no better than a machine, and with age, wear, and tear, it is deteriorating, and will require more effort in maintenance and servicing than I had anticipated before. At 5:30 in the morning, as I still struggle to fall asleep due to pain, I know that I would give anything to get back to my normal, active, pain-free, and sedative-less life again.

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So now I need to talk?

As I go over my presentation slides once again, the realization of what I got myself into slowly dawns on me. I am presenting thrice, at two national conferences this year. And I am in no mood for merrymaking. I am in the second year of my doctoral program, the scintillating achievements of my seniors weighing down my shoulders heavily. Last summer when I wrote these proposals, it was more an exercise of self-assessment, to see where I stand, to find out if I can write convincingly and visit a few new places in the process. The proposals got through, and suddenly, it became serious business. I have spent a good stressful amount of the last few weeks polishing off the papers, making my presentation slides, and generally mulling over what to say in front of an audience who stare at you expectantly. I know I will fumble, race through my talk, even stammer. For public speaking is not my forte. Give me a pen and I can write you a novel. Give me a camera and I will give you a year’s worth of pictures. But the microphone makes me nervous. Standing up there, listening to my own voice, seeing all those stalwarts in the field, knowing that my adviser is tucked away somewhere in the crowd, listening to me inconspicuously, lest I become nervous. There will be questions and clarifications, there will be sighs and deep breaths, and there would be awkward silences. I have spent half a day last Saturday, picking up a formal suit in black and white that cost me three-and-a-half days worth my salary. Then there would be flights boarded, classes missed, and more work piled up as I spent the next three days at a conference. I think of all this, as I go over my slides once again, one final time, just to make sure that not even a comma or a punctuation mark is missing.

What have I got myself into?

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