Writing Worth

I think one of the biggest challenges of writing a blog post every day is finding the motivation to write it as well as examining what happened during the day that could be used for the post. Of course, this is if quite a bit of thought goes into writing a blog post rather than being a plain stream of conscious writing. I tend more towards the latter, I have noticed, especially during times when I have university work to deal with. When I was home during the break, I had a lot of time to allow my thoughts to marinate in my head. Sometimes, I actually felt like what I was writing could be of potential worth and value in the world I was putting it out in. But of course, that is quite a crisis-inducing question to ask.

I ask myself a lot of these questions these days, I cannot help myself sometimes. It is like my brain decided that there are some hard truths I need to be forced to face and that it should be the ones that come to me at the hardest times. The worst part is, I am fully conscious of my brain trying to start the question and it is like I am so depraved that I want that pain, that crisis that will push me to completely lose it. There you go, I have said it. I have started fancying pain and crisis, I have romanticised it enough. This is my brain once again making me realise the hard truths. Who wants to admit that they like to see themselves in pain, to put themselves in pain? Not me for sure, I doubt there are many others who want that.

What does it mean to put something of value out into the world? What does it mean to write anything at all? How am I supposed to know that whatever I am writing, why, take for example, this blog post itself, how am I supposed to know that this post was meant to be written at all? That there is something worthy of being written and read in these words? I am pretty sure that there is going to be at least one person who could read what I am writing and wonder what made me write it in the first place. I wonder that enough about myself that it is not completely foreign for me to put myself in some unknown imaginary reader’s shoes. Well, I guess it is quite moot point right now to wonder, especially when I have already written 430 words. So there I go, wondering again, life has never been this confusing has it?

And that’s my memory for the day.

Ponderings on Womanhood

As my summer break draws to an end, as the day of my departure looms threateningly on the horizon, my brain is progressively turning to mush and disintegrating. I am panicking about my packing, about university, about this new crush (honestly, why now? Why couldn’t I have had a crush-free existence?) and so many other things. My brain evidently works overtime sometimes and I spend a few nights not being able to sleep as easily as I used to. Part of the reason is also probably my period hormones which have left me feeling really dumb and bloated and a thousand other feelings that I am extremely annoyed by. I wish this were a thing that every human went through, because honestly, why is there so much inequality at a biological level? I don’t think anyone would willingly choose the painful life of having periods or undergoing childbirth if they could have it otherwise.

The Bible says quite clearly that this pain is given to a woman because Eve sinned and so ta-da, welcome to a world of pain, all daughters of Eve. And I am not even Christian, though I must agree this is a very convenient argument. But in my very limited experience, I have absolutely never ever seen any mention of why women are the ones to undergo all these painful biological processes. Of course, there are mentions of sons and children, but no word of what brought them out into the world. Sex is mentioned, the child’s life is mentioned, but the bare minimum is mentioned about childbirth. Which is probably not surprising because, for the longest time, the men weren’t present near their wives during childbirth. So the men who wrote their stories (because they did write the majority of stories we find today), didn’t even understand what had happened, except that a prince was born, or a princess.

In fact, in India, to this date, I believe the father is generally not present inside the delivery room. My father wasn’t inside the room for my brother’s delivery, I haven’t seen it anywhere. All I have seen, even in movies, is a husband who leaves his wife in her mother’s house a couple of months before the due date, or a husband who waits outside the delivery room. It is only quite recently that I have seen a couple of movies where the husband is present in the room with his wife. Of course, there is still a long way to go before I might get to see a man in the delivery room (which is what the room is called here, which is funny because a delivery room is apparently where the mail comes in other places) with his ‘partner’ and not his ‘wife’. But well, small steps, baby steps.

When I first read a childbirth scene in a novel, a rom-com, I had been shocked to find the man inside the room (as if I ‘saw’ it, but you get the idea) and not pacing outside. My brain just went kaboom at this new information and my first thought was that “now men shall know what it takes for a woman to give birth, they shall respect her properly”). It is quite funny, because we still seek validation and respect from men, even in a world where empowerment and feminism are much talked about (and very much needed). It is a curious paradox really, and as a woman, it is more confusing to deal with all these questions. We are told we can do anything, but we are given a menu from which we have to choose. If that is the case, are we even really empowered or free?

My brain seems to be protesting against this pondering, I am feeling sleepy by the second. My hands are actually shaking a bit because of my sleepiness, which is funny because my brain is still running from one place to another. One of my juniors from school is coming to Ashoka and I am excited to have him there. I don’t know him really well but I am hoping I get to interact with him a bit at least, which might difficult considering that he would probably be running in circles way different from mine. But I would finally like to have a good senior-junior relationship with someone, and a part of my heart wishes it were him. But if it isn’t going to be him, I would like to form a bond with at least one freshman. I need it to soothe my own ego. I also cannot wait to see if the next semester or year shall bring about some new changes that I cannot predict, but ‘good’ changes nonetheless. I can’t wait to get back to learning and the tree of knowledge. I am a daughter of Eve after all, aren’t I?

And that’s my memory for the day.

Writing Every Day and A Small School Memory

There are many problems I face with this whole everyday writing thing. Some days it feels like I end up prioritising the blog over my work for classes. Like right now, when I have so much work to do before tomorrow but here I am, sitting in the Student Commons and typing this blog post out. But it has become imperative for me to write the blog post every day. I feel compelled to write at least something, and there have been times when the blog posts were absolute shit, where I wrote either very little or very jumbled, garbled things owing to my ‘half-asleep’ness.

I think there is this kind of rosy picture that people paint about writing every day. It is this magical, mystical thing that apparently moulds your writing style and makes it better, helps you to de-stress, and let go and have fun. How the first thing happens without any kind of criticism from anyone is beyond me. But I am one to talk, I who have not shared this blog’s link with anyone except two friends (but then they don’t read all the stuff I write every day, so that’s fine I guess). As for the de-stressing part, if anything, this writing every day is a pain in my derriere. It stresses me out when I sit in my room at 12 am in the night, thinking, and I remember I haven’t written the blog post for the day. I then start thinking about what aim I started the blog with, this aim of narrating stories from my childhood (we all know that is definitely not what is happening around here). In my defence though, there is so little here that reminds me of my childhood.

Actually, on that note, I had a small trip down memory lane of something that happened in school, today in class. We were reading a short story (I think? Form escapes my mind, I don’t get it and I feel dumber because of that) that was sarcastic, witty, satirical, parodying many things, etc etc. And I was reminded of Saki and his various short stories that I have read. I have read them for school, there used to be a saki story almost every year in our textbook. He was brilliant and I was always left giggling while reading his stories.

I was reminded of a Saki story I had read in 11th standard, most likely because that was the latest Saki story I had read. I remembered that the story had an ox, a painter who painted cows, and this ox that gets stuck in the drawing room of a lady’s house and this painter being dumb enough to bring his painting kit and sit down to paint that scene without helping the lady remove the ox. We had a slightly dramatised reading of the text in class and I remember how disappointed I felt when I was not selected to read. I had always loved that part of any class, where we would get chances to read. And this was the case, especially so during English classes because quite honestly, there is only so much you can read again and again of electron pairs and their problems or of semiconductors or something like that.

I remember how a girl read her part and how much my teacher had praised her. This was especially troubling for me because in my mind I thought that I would have done a better job than her. Where all that belief in myself went after I came to college, is a mystery even to myself. But back then, I was a pretty confident kid, had brains (which helped my standing in class), could make friends reasonably easily, and was quite ‘popular’ (I hate these terms). But I remember how I went back home, sat with the story for a lot of time as I read it out loud again and again till I felt my voice go hoarse.

What is most interesting though is that in class today, I forgot the name of this story. And I googled ‘Saki stories’ and I came across this large list and I finally found my story. But by then, my brain had already thought and played back the memory, the sadness, everything. But nothing in life ever goes the way you want it to, and there are always going to be times when you would really want something and you won’t get it. Disappointment happens to everyone and maybe, it is in my interest to take it all in stride and forget such incidents. But then, writing it out does not make me forget it, but it does give me closure and I think, sometimes closure helps more than a lapse in memory. After all, we are looking for healthy coping mechanisms at the end of the day and this is not that bad, is it?

And that’s my memory for the day.

 

I Love Books, I Love Them Not

I finished the paper that was due today and naturally, I feel so liberated. This was my last assignment for the mid-term break and honestly, I cannot wait for tomorrow when I can peacefully start my to-read list. I have a wonderful list of books I cannot wait to binge read and I am so ready for the emotional rollercoasters they are going to throw me into.

I have always loved reading books simply for the world I could escape into (cliche I know but deal with it). There is so much that happens in books, so many characters to relate to and fall in love with, so many scenarios that could happen to you or that you wish to happen to you or you wish to never happen to you. Either way, whether you feel happy about it or not, reading a book takes you for a ride and you just hope and pray to god, you manage to stay seated.

I started reading pretty early. It started when as a little kid I used to open the newspaper and go “bebebebebebebebe” as I ‘read’ it out loud. I wasn’t even in kindergarten then, but I already had paper in my hands. I was destined to read, my mother says. And when I finally learnt the alphabet and then words, I was mesmerised. And then, I learnt Tamil letters and words and I was simply ecstatic. I loved to read and read I did, every single thing. From boards to vehicle registration numbers, I read everything. If I had levitation powers and neglectful parents, I would even go so far as to call myself Matilda. I don’t.

There was a library near my house, a government library that my father frequented a lot. I loved visiting there with him, there were stacks and stacks of books. When we went in, we had to sign at this register. I never was allowed to as a kid, but when I was sufficiently older, I signed it for the first time (I can still recall my joy). The pen was connected to the register by a thread and it was my fascination to see people’s signatures on that register. Remember my obsession with reading? I read all the names, the column headings, and even the word “REGISTER” on top.

I used to borrow books and we used to have a card that we had to show to borrow the books. I wanted a card of my own but again, age constraints, It was only much much later (around 6-7 years) that I finally got my own library card. But by that time, I had started reading books that weren’t available in the library. The card became a useless card, but I still kept it because it reminded me of my early days (how old that makes me feel!).

I remember how the whole house was filled with books. There used to be books strewn on my bed, on the sofas, on the table, on the desks, everywhere. We didn’t have a shelf back then, we kept the books in different cupboards and boxes. We still do that because the shelves are full and we don’t have any other space. But that does not mean that we didn’t cherish those books.

It annoys me when people make these judgemental comments about how a book reader will not keep their books anywhere. I love all my books, I love all the stories they hold. I remember most of the stories behind how I got each of those books. I grew up with them and I love and cherish them all. I have space constraints and I sometimes keep my books messily arranged or in various places. But that doesn’t mean I respect them any less. And I just wish people would stop judging me for that. Just because you found them strewn about on my bed doesn’t mean I love them any less, does it?

And that’s my memory for the day.