Here is a swarm of schoolchildren coming out from school, discussing the exam they had just taken.
I took many pictures and in some the crowd was considerably larger to qualify as a swarm but the background was better in this one.
Assignment for Photography 101: Swarm
“My salad days. When I was green in judgement: cold in blood.” Said Cleopatra, the words put in her mouth by the bard Shakespeare.
In language, the phrase denotes a time of youthfulness, inexperience and innocence, enthusiasm or even idealism.
So, I thought hard about my own salad days. When was it all? Youth, ages ago, for sure. But as they say, age is just a number and you are as old as you think. I decide to think and act young at all times. Change Facebook status frequently. Upload selfies…
Wait a minute! I am an idealist even now. I believe in equality across socioeconomic backgrounds. I believe in gender equality. I believe in education for all. I believe in…sufficient to say I still believe in lofty ideals and work towards doing my bit. The only difference from my twenties would be a better awareness of reality and of life’s problems.
Enthusiasm, yes! Four months back, I discovered WordPress and was absolutely struck by the ease of creating a platform online. It had been a decade since I had actively done anything related to hardware or software. I was surprised that I did not have to know HTML or write code to create a presence. Leaning how to put up a blog was a Great learning experience that has been an incredible high. Now that I feel settled down in WordPress, I am thirsting for newer challenges.
My inexperience in many many spheres of life make these my best salad days. ‘Green in judgement’, of course I am. I even get the weather talk wrong. Just this morning, I chatted idly with my jumper-knitting, shawl-wrapped neighbour (oldish, in other words, which I am not!) And remarked how the cold weather had been late in arriving this year. To which I was served with a sermon on a dry spell vs rains; the importance of having an early snow and how the local forecast had been calling it the severest winter in a decade.
Innocence! I am nothing if not innocent. Who else would put in a picture of a salad platter in a post for salad days!
Posted in response to the Daily Prompt.
Just a few days back, it seems (maybe a month and a half), I was jubilant at getting followers. I promised my friend a huge party when I got 10 followers.
I started my blog because I wanted to write; because I wanted to share. Sure, once you start, you find what things you are good at and what things are better left unwritten (for now). So, I had started because I wanted to write lots and lots of book reviews (only a very very few got done). And also because writing, just writing gives me an unparalleled level of pleasure (there, I have put in this lofty sounding phrase).
As WordPress says, most of us begin blogging just for the love of it. Getting followers is like icing on the cake. It is a different kind of high when we realize we have people who read us regularly. A question nags at the back of my mind.. Do they really? Do our followers really read us that regularly? Many of them really do care. They not only encourage us but also act as radars for our writing, directing us towards better pastures.
Others, I am not so sure of. I think some follow because they want you to follow them back. There is no word from them, either at the beginning or ever after that. Plain silence. Many want us to check them out; for they are sure they have a product or a service that can help us.
I am quite clear about the different categories of followers. All are welcome and I am grateful to every one of them for even stopping by and taking a look. Even if just once.
The only real surprise I got the other day was when I saw the name of my latest follower. Plutonium Spray Paint!! Now, how on earth… what did they think? I hope dear Spray Paint likes all the photo assignments I am doing for Photography 101.
Waiting for other inanimate things to follow me now. BMWs are welcome!
The red wisps are pieces of fabric, stuck in the jagged edges of a newly cut bush. The full blown bush stood at the side of the public stairs, cut out of rock and used by the locals as a quicker route to our neighborhood.
“Now, now, be careful,” I said, trying to sound mild. It still came out as a disapproving mom, whose every (or every other) sentence is an injunction to her children. “Don’t spill my coffee”, as if it mattered. The coffee was not hot enough and was a watered down version of the strong brew I liked at home.
She smiled sweetly, but not appeasingly, I noted. Ah, the confidence of youth. I was not much older myself; just a decade separating us but in wisdom, I had reams to tell her.
“I think you would appreciate the fact that we could meet over coffee, so as to talk about the things you could expect to happen in life over the next ten years.” The younger me took a small bite of the pasta daintily. Her table manners were good.
“See, the thing you have to guard against the most is your melancholia. Try to get your moodiness under control. Think in a stable manner. You are very logical, I know and reason does win hands down as opposed to emotional outbursts, yet take care that you do not overburden your thinking mechanism. Otherwise, you have a full blown depression coming along”, I said dramatically.
My younger self jerked up her head, a few wisps of hair waving about in her still black head. I fingered my greying mane surreptitiously. She was surprised; her eyes widened. She gulped down her fancy milk shake a little too quickly.
“Now that the worst thing about your future is out of the way we can talk about more cheerful things.” I felt relaxed and realised that I liked meeting a younger self of myself over coffee. Not only to impart some wisdom but to be reminded in flesh and blood what I had been like, ten years before.
“There would be many rewards for your hard work”, I smiled, thinking I sounded like a mysterious fortune teller. “For one”, I plunged in, “you would be the entrepreneur you have always wanted to be and worked towards.” She looked SO taken-aback. I felt a surge of love for her. “In fact”, I continued, “you would be a serial entrepreneur. Lots of challenges, stretching myself, umm.. yourself every day and sleeping content at night.”
“Wow”, my younger self breathed. I felt positively happy. How I had wanted so much for someone to tell me at that point of time about how things would turn out.
“You know how much I loved pasta at your age”, I said, changing tacks. Her smile was lovely. “Yes, I know”, she said. “After all, you were me at this age. And you know, with all due respect, for you are much experienced, I must say..”, she hesitated. Then it came out in a torrent but with a lot of love and concern. “Stay true to your passions, take care of yourself, do not let yourself go. Cherish yourself.”
My eyes grew misty. Here she was, taking care of older me just when I thought I had to do all the caring for others-spouse, growing children, ageing parents, the community-because I had an obligation to give back to my society. Yes, I mattered, not only to the younger version of me, but to myself also. I glanced at our reflection in the coffee shop glass; opening to a street vista. Here we were, apart and alike. There were so many colours of us just the same but with different hues.
“I think I would like to taste the pasta you ordered”, I said. “Mmm”. “And now for the fun part. Life is a series of fun events and fun times. You would enjoy getting married, having kids, forging new friendships and unlikely relationships. You would have fun travelling all you wanted and some more and collect souvenirs from all the places you visit. The more delicate ones should be kept out of reach of the little ones”, I added thoughtfully.
The younger me laughed. And I joined in, in sheer relief. This was also fun, meeting across the chasm of time. “We must do coffee more often”, we chimed at almost the same time.
This piece about an older me meeting a ten years younger me over coffee was written in response to the Daily Prompt at the WordPress Daily Post.
Today, I sat in the sun and peeled carrots, chopped vegetables and cleaned some fenugreek leaves for lunch.
Yesterday, I made a trip to the local wool shop to buy knitting needles and some wool. An overwhelming urge to knit something had overtaken me.
I like sitting with my spouse and talking of nothing.
I admire people with greying hair. I turn around to catch another glimpse of elderly carrying themselves with dignity.
I like to ask people older than me of their life’s wisdom.
I want to write my memoir. I feel I have done what I wanted to and now it is time to record for my future generations.
I like my routine, my cup of coffee.
I like to eat meals at regular times.
I feel wellness programs are better than dieting.
Am I getting old?
My dear friend and I like to take walks in the neighbourhood. She sighs sometimes when she sees elderly couples sitting on benches, basking in the sun. “Ah! Our future!”, she says with much pleasure. I wonder sometimes and ask her what is it about old age that likes. She says, “An appreciation of companionship, of simple pleasures of life, feeling a sense of contentment at having fulfilled one’s duties and responsibilities, having lots of free time to finally pursue what one wants to…”. Her eyes glinting, she adds,”Peace”.
Many years ago, when I was in my mid twenties, I was asked by a friend if I thought Motherhood was highly over rated? I could not even reply to this one, although in the past we had shared an easy banter; a camaderie. I mumbled something and looked away, out of the window of the tiny white car she was driving.
I was confused, so I could not answer. I thought of it as a non-question. Could you choose motherhood? Wasn’t that something that happened or did not happen, as per God’s will? Did we, mere mortals have the right to interfere in nature’s scheme?
Later, when I married and it was time to have kids, we did. I never gave it a second thought. Sure, it was difficult, at first. The tiny ‘bundle of joy’, always crying, never sleeping, not gaining enough weight, requiring vaccinations, medications, countless visits to the paediatricians… most of the time; I felt helpless, even resentful. I was at a loss. How to take care of another life, so entirely dependent on me when I had not even figured out what I myself wanted out of life?
Things got worse before they got better. But the second time was easier. I knew the tribulations enough to even expect them, I was more prepared and I enjoyed the process a little better. Both children are now at a stage when I do not have to constantly tend to their physiological needs. Emotional needs, I know would continue throughout my lifetime
Coming back to my friend; I think of her often these days. She was trying to analyze something that for me was and always will be the wonder of creation. The other day, I was fed up and my mother called. I poured out my frustrations and ineptness and the pointlessness of it all, of meeting the endless demands. And she answered that I am actually participating in the creation and sustenance of life. That is what keeps me going. Indeed, it fills me with joy and a sense of purpose.
This post was written in response to Daily Prompt, a free writing exercise.
This is what I see everyday from my balcony. The hills are bathed in bright sunlight during the day. At dusk, however, the vista looks very different. I captured this picture when the sun had just disappeared behind the hills.
I feel warm, happy, content for I feel the hills are mine, now and forever.
“Writing about a writer’s block is better than not writing at all”
Charles Bukowski
I am a writer, though not the highly revered published author, but one that writes nevertheless. I like writing because I love to, because it is a form of self expression and because I feel that every person has a right to express himself/herself. The days I go with whatever life brings me, reacting and defending, are the days I feel I have lost touch with myself.
I used to read about writer’s block and laugh secretly, thinking a lot of fuss was being made about short periods of unproductivity. What was the big deal-I thought, after all, people in all professions burn out. Take a break and rejuvenate, simple, is it not? And writers being writers, custodians of words, twisters of sentences, inventors of ideas; we are the ones who defined writer’s block, glorified it and made a monster out of it.
Till I started my blog, I was a prolific writer-in my journal. I would write as and when I felt like and would feel pleased after a finished piece of work. When I started my blog, I was pretty confident about being a productive blogger. Just a matter of sitting down and writing. I was cruising along fairly well and then it struck me! I was down with Writer’s Block!
Hmm..I was important, after all. The most talked about malaise in the writer’s fraternity had hit me. I walked about with a smile on my face for a couple of days. The third day I sat down to write something. The words wouldn’t come. I was not worried. After all, I had just ended a very productive period when I wrote at all times of the day. Another day passed. I sat down to write. That day I managed to scrunch up a few sheets of paper and throw them around. The floor looked pretty. I must have a home office soon, for I am a bona fide writer now-I made a mental note to myself.
The real worry started a few days later or was it a few hours? If I do not produce something soon, my followers are going to desert me. My blog would wrap up. I would be back to zilch-cooking and cleaning and taking care of kids. I would not be able to look down upon people mentally and repeat the magic word ‘blogger’ when I made the introductions. Anxiety came in waves. And the waves got bigger each passing hour.
I did some research on the dreaded block. It said that writers must know how to generate ideas and explore their own thoughts so as to retain creativity and stay inspired. Okay, I filled up pages with prompts. I examined my thought processes. Zilch! I was scared of writing something that would not be good. I was afraid I would put out something not worthy of me. I knew people were reading me and that frightened the wits out of me. My nerveless fingers dropped the pencil…umm..OK..I can avoid the dramatisation.
I tried to relax. To nurture myself, mind, body and soul. I did not drown myself in decadent activities like TV or parties. I walked, I spent time with myself, I ate good food, I listened to good music, I read my favourite authors and I made myself feel loved.
And magic happened…
Relax. Put pen to paper. Smile. You are now going to produce a masterpiece. Or a terrible first draft that might have to be published as it is. In any case, I love free writing exercises. Either way, I am writing and I am a writer again.
I touch God in my song
as the hill touches the far-away sea
with its waterfall.
Rabindranath Tagore(1861-1941)
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