Sumita – Page 5 – Sumita Chakrabarty

Meeting George Clooney in another life

My next life is all planned out. Right down to the last detail and there’s no room for surprises, good or otherwise. It will be a life filled with breathless excitement where every moment will be stretched tight with no creases. I see myself gliding gracefully through events, happenings, the odd disappointments…without a stutter. And of course I will be perfect in looks, intellect, wit, body shape, achievements, talent, confidence, ability to deflect jealousy and animosity….you get the idea. In short, there will not be a imperfect molecule in my body. So George Clooney, here I come! That perfect wife of yours will pale in comparison!

Let’s get one thing out of the way. I’m okay with my imperfections in this life. But in the interests of evolution I figured that there should be a leap forward, not a step, but a leap towards perfection while planning my next life. After all, didn’t someone mention that only if there’s something substantial to look forward to can one talk of another life. Oh wait, I think I said that once just after I had polished off a third glass of wine which literally was one too many. But that’s a topic for another rainy day. Unlike a friend who shall remain unnamed , I have no desire to be reborn as a fruit fly or a tempestuous praying mantis or even as a lurid coloured cockatoo. I want to be reborn as someone so perfect that I would, without asking for it, be granted a date with George Clooney which I will accept with a bored shrug of my delicately perfect shoulders.

As you can tell by my Freudian choice of words, perfection is big on my list. It is. Because perfection is life’s way of giving one a head start. So that when the race begins the perfect will glide forward effortlessly to the finish line while the ordinary will have to struggle through wondering whether the finish line is real or just a mirage.

The million dollar question however is, how come George Clooney continues to be George Clooney in my next life. Well, since it’s my next life and I’m arranging it down to the last detail that’s the way it works. Some things should never change however many lives one goes through.

The Wall

Every morning when I looked at it the wall frowned back at me. Occasionally it would look glum or even pleasant depending of course on how low your standards of pleasant are, but at me it always frowned. The frowning, in my opinion, was totally uncalled for because I couldn’t think of a single time when I had been rude or…. no wait….. I think there had been a time when I scribbled the word F&*K YOU over and over again. It was the time when I was railing against the world for making me so singularly stupid that I couldn’t score beyond a C+ however hard I tried. I mean, seriously, did I have any brain space, or even any brains?

That was one time. But ever since I can remember the wall had this brooding, moody look about it. Like, as if it was holding secrets deep within itself. Secrets, that if spilled would bring an end to many relationships. But no dark thoughts today. The clouds were ringlets shot through with sunlight, the breeze was cool and the flowers were laughing back at me. I was not going to let the wall deflate my happiness.

As far as walls go, this one was nondescript. It was old, peeling though it did have a dirt and grime soaked dignity about it. In some places it had gouged out holes giving it a leering, drunken look. But there were patches where it had a starched, well-preserved look. And the shadows that it threw were always, dark and mysterious. I could’ve sworn that I once saw the shadow of a man in a beret smoking a pipe even though when I looked around there was no one who fit that description. If only it could speak!

This morning someone had thrown a cup of coffee at the wall. The cup spun in the air for a few seconds and then it was gone, broken into pieces leaving a dark coffee stain behind. Perhaps it was a sign of passion gone wrong. Or maybe, just maybe, it was someone getting back at the wall for frowning at it. There was an air of sad resignation as it absorbed the coffee and the anger with calm forbearance. I almost felt sorry for it. The least I could do was scribble something in sympathy. So I wrote PEOPLE SUCK! The marker I was using ran out of ink somewhere between LE and S. My vehemence appeared muted.

Tomorrow there will be men with tools to break the wall. It is going to be rebuilt. Made higher. And stronger. And repainted. All this was said in a gush by the neighbour who seemed delighted by this change in the wall’s fortunes. I’m always amazed at people’s enthusiasm for newness as if it signifies a change in their fortunes. The tone of voice is always tightly ringed with hope and pleasure. I suppose that’s a good thing. The fact that the wall is undergoing a significant face-lift. Maybe now it will smile back at me.

Don’t let that hiccup get away!

That’s what an old aunt used to say. Actually I think she was more of a grand aunt, but I’ve never really figured out which branch of the family tree she hangs from.

My hiccups have an eerie habit of popping up just when I’ve taken a few gulps of water. They’re very polite, however. They wait till I’ve swallowed down the mouthful of water and then …hic….hic… out it comes. In a staccato. I discovered the trick to stopping them, entirely by chance. I found that if I didn’t let the last one escape and held it tight in my mouth it would stop resisting and then finally give in and ultimately stop.

In all fairness to them they’ve never embarrassed me in public, except for the time when Derek, the debate champion stood up in front of a crowd and pointing to me said, ‘there’s a ray of sunshine’, for no apparent reason. I was so dumbfounded that all I could do was give a loud hiccup of surprise. But then Derek was considered embarrassingly impulsive by those who have known him from the time he wore pink socks to kindergarten. It was rumoured that it was because he came of ‘strange’ stock and had reddish brown hair when he should’ve had black.

“Look at his parents. And their parents. Any sign of red in the hair?” Momi asked me stridently. I had to admit that there was no red at all. But the fact that it would lead to the conclusion of ‘strange stock’, seemed a little unfair. But then again, what did that really mean except for the fact that the tone of voice was generally lowered when it was mentioned, which could only mean it was unsavoury. Twirls of assumptions within larger twirls made the whole thing complicated and to be honest, exhausting.

I’ve often wondered how long I can hold on to the last hiccup and not let it escape. These days it is getting increasingly agitated and restive. Some would even say, rattled. But every time I clamp my mouth shut and hope that it doesn’t tunnel its way into my belly, I wonder if there’s a way of catching it as it leaps out. Because it’s always a good idea in life to have a plan B.

The mathematics of self-confidence

For someone who has consistently skirted on the edges of any form of mathematics without even dipping a toe in the pool it’s strange that I should propose a mathematical formula to an abstract concept. Some people would even refer to this as ironical. I, however, bravely plough on, so hear me out.

I’ve often referred to my abysmal levels of self-confidence as a muscular/organ dysfunction. No disrespect whatsoever to many people out there who suffer from such disorders. But that’s the way I see it. How else can one explain how some people have no difficulty in staring down a scary situation they have never dealt with before. I, on the other hand, find that I become a wobbly mess with very little to say.

So where’s the math you say?

It is this, take the full measure of your childhood experiences and add them to how you perceive the world. For instance, some people perceive the world through a smog of gray and darkness, while others see it as their own private playground. If you belong to the former category then the math will be something like 2+2 = -22, since the childhood experiences could not have been outstanding. For the others the math is 2+2 = 222.

So which math would you choose? A no-brainer, right?

So why self-confidence? Why not beauty? Or talent? Or intelligence?

Because self-confidence trumps all. It’s like the Kohinoor in the crown. There may be rubies and emeralds around it, but the eye is drawn to the Kohinoor winking insolently at you while you gape slack-jawed. It is like a prime number, not capable of being divided into smaller numbers. It is that sharp edged sword that can cut through any situation/problem, clean. No blood. No wounds. Just a clean cut!

There is an advantage however for the -22ers. Self-confidence can be studied, practiced and imbibed, almost like that swaying walk that they teach at those disgustingly expensive finishing schools.

“Put that stack of books on your head.

Now walk forward. Slowly. Gently. Leave your body loose and feel the flow of energy coursing down to your fingers and toes”.

I tried that walk many times. In my locked bedroom, hidden from prying eyes. The pile of books always topped over, till one day… My self-confidence, came to life that day. The needle had swung to approximately +22.

Simply put, this translated to speaking up and staying my ground during unpleasant discussions. Developing the capacity to laugh at myself. Accepting a gift without feeling sucked into a maelstrom of obligation. Not being taken for granted, and plenty more.

Does it make me like myself? Absolutely!

Do I laugh more and feel comfortable in my own skin? Most certainly.

Can I handle unflattering, personal comments? Not yet. Working on it. Hey, I’m still at +22. Have ways to go.

Do I prefer my own company? A 100%. You nailed it, baby!

And that was when I realized that there is another element to the self-confidence equation. It is called, fearlessness. And the mathematics for it? Let’s keep that aside for a separate discussion.

QED

The problem with wandering dreams

My dreams have an annoying habit. They wait till I’m asleep and then decide to go for a walk around the house. When I complained about it to my doctor she said that such a phenomenon is not completely unheard of. Apparently dreams need to wander about otherwise they end up having a bad posture. But aren’t they supposed to have bad posture? Why else would people call them twisted? Or tortured? Have you ever heard anyone refer to a dream as straight-backed, or having even shoulders? I mean, c’mon…get serious.

Bad posture or not my dreams sure are in a hurry to go places. One night I interrupted one of them just as it was about to jump over to the neighbour’s window ledge. It’s a good thing that I managed to stop it otherwise it would’ve tripped over the cat that lay there like a grumpy bundle. I forget which dream it was. I think it was the one I often have of the time I went cycling to the top of the mountain to gather rainbows. I know for sure that it’s a dream because I don’t know how to cycle. I pointed that out to my doctor and she said looking at me with twinkling eyes, of course it’s a dream my dear. How else would you know if the rainbows you gathered were real or made of plastic. I hadn’t thought of that. What a truly insightful remark. I smiled gratefully at her.

The other problem with wandering dreams is the fact that I find that they move around so much that I don’t have time to fill in the colours within the lines. The colours stick out like angry spikes and I really hate that because it makes them look like they’re going to snap at something. The red spikes are the worst. The yellow and purple ones I’m okay with. But anyway, as I was saying, if only they would stay still for a few moments. The other day I caught one of them just as it was about to slip into the washing machine. I had barely managed to fill in the colours when I woke up. I think it managed to escape into the washing machine because I heard a strange cliketty-claketty sound when I was doing a load of whites. I really must stop leaving the door of the washing machine open. They’re dream trappers, those wily, whiny things.

My doctor suggested that if I was so annoyed by the wandering dreams I should draw a hexagon in the air before I fall asleep so that they are trapped in them and cannot escape. It gives me enough time to count them and then put them away safely in moth balls. I think I’ll try that though I’m not sure if the hexagon should have pointed ends or blunt ones. Either way at least I can fill in the colours.

I think the neighbour’s lazy cat found the dream which was hanging out on the ledge. I saw a red spike sticking out from its mouth. Didn’t look normal to me.

One gram of fear

One of my favourite theories is that we’re all born with the same quantities of fear and courage, the capacity to stay happy, resilience, tensile strength of emotions, love, patience, sanity…among other things. For the purposes of keeping it simple let’s say that it is one gram of each quality. So then, how does one gram of fear contained among all these other emotions become over-poweringly big in some people.

To explain that I have another theory. The minute you allow fear to creep into a corner of your mind, inadvertently, it takes over and very soon it dictates your decisions and the way you deal with life. It’s like a parasite that feeds into every healthy cell and membrane of your brain leaving behind a trail of blackened, charred cells that are impervious to anything bright and happy. It starts out easy, like fear of dark corners, of the neighbour’s dog, the shadow on the wall, the sound of footsteps following you on a lonely stretch of road, circus clowns, speaking up in front of the boss to say that you don’t agree, changing old habits, defying the neighbourhood bully….the list is endless. And before you know it the invasion has begun and you’re paralyzed and terrified. The scientific explanation talks about the amygdala (an almond shaped organ in the centre of the brain) that sends signals to the nervous system, but how does one define the gradual decline of mind and body that happens when fear has completely taken over all the senses?

It has often been said that the older you get the more irrational your fears are and the more they settle into your psyche. To that I say, doesn’t it make more sense for you to be able to recognize what’s happening? You’re older and wiser. Surely the one gram of patience and sanity have outgrown the one gram of fear and yet, clearly not in many cases. Somehow the corrosive nature of fear beats all the positive emotions, hands down.

Someday when I write my book ‘Conversations with Me’ I will begin each chapter with – There’s no place for fear, here. Because, while I’ve worked hard to keep my one gram of fear at one gram the truth is that it has ballooned to about ten times that size. But then something strange happened. It hit a wall, the one that I referred to as the wall of stubbornness and then it couldn’t grow any more. So yes, it’s there but it’s not growing. Instead it is wrinkling a bit and dying, in small pieces. There are times when I still give in to it but then I have a ‘Conversation with Me’ and tell myself that this was something that was meant to be just one gram. Let it stay just one gram. And that immediately increases my one gram of courage!

The reflection

Film opens with a blank screen.

SOUND: Low humming in a woman’s voice interspersed with gentle laughter

INTERIOR – STUDIO APARTMENT

It is late at night. A middle-aged woman is walking around in her small, neatly furnished living room. Dressed casually in shorts and a T-shirt she’s talking to someone on the phone. One moment she’s smiling and the next moment it looks like she is arguing with the person at the other end

WOMAN

I told you that’s how it’s going to sound…and now… look

The voice at the other end doesn’t seem to be giving in at all

WOMAN

No…just listen to me….your way of….no hear me out!

She’s pacing and moving her hands excitedly. She stops by the window. The light is shining on her. She looks out of the window casually and her expression freezes.

SOUND: The humming sound comes on again in the background.

INTERIOR – LIVING ROOM OF STUDIO APARTMENT

Reflected on the glass window is a young woman. She is wearing a dress, casual sandals and walking forward with slow, deliberate steps.

WOMAN, staring at the reflection in the glass window face white with fear turns around slowly to look over her shoulder.

INTERIOR – LIVING ROOM

The room is empty. A few floor cushions are scattered around. In the corner is an old fashioned turn-table. A few books in a shelf and a vase with a few wilting flowers in it. In the corner is a rocking chair. Everything looks the same. And then she notices that the rocking chair is moving slowly. Almost indiscernibly.

She picks up the phone –

WOMAN (hoarsely)

I’ll call you back later.

SOUND: This time, there’s gentle laughter with the humming sound gradually.

INTERIOR – FAR CORNER OF THE LIVING ROOM

The woman in shorts and T-shirt has a hunted look on her face. Clearly she’s scared and with jerky movements she’s turning over cushions and looking under the furniture.

She is muttering under her breath – Don’t be silly. Get a grip. Just your imagination…..

SOUND: The humming sound follows her around as if it is leading the search, and then suddenly it rises to a crescendo.

INTERIOR OF LIVING ROOM

The woman is standing in the middle of the room. Her cell phone is ringing with a loud jangly sound which converges with the humming sound. She is staring at it. Terrified.

She picks up the phone with a quick, jerky movement.

WOMAN: Hello?

Her body relaxes slightly. It is obvious that the voice at the other end is a known one.

WOMAN: Oh really? No, I didn’t see a missed call from you. At 5? Oh, I must’ve been driving…you know stuck in traffic…

She laughs nervously.

She continues talking on the phone. Pacing the floor. You can tell that she’s avoiding going up to the window.

SOUND: Gentle, soothing piano music in the background.

She turns around while speaking to glance at the rocking chair in the corner. It’s still. A look of relief crosses her face. Her smile becomes wider. She laughs aloud a couple of times.

WOMAN: Sure, let’s do that. Next Saturday? That works. 7 in the evening? At the corner of 10^th and Main? Alright….I’ll be there.

SOUND: The humming sound is back. It leads the viewer’s attention as it goes up a few octaves and then down again.

The woman’s back is to the camera. She’s looking for something. She finds it. It’s the TV remote.

SOUND: The humming is definitely stronger. There is an edge to it. As if it is trying to tell the viewer that something’s up.

The woman settles down on the couch, remote in hand. She’s flipping channels. The camera takes a leisurely look around the living room. The rocking chair is quiet. So is the turn-table. The camera lingers on the book-shelf. One of the books quietly falls over. Silently.

BACKGROUND: TV news sounds.

The audience is taking in the details of the apartment as the camera moves along.

SOUND: The humming sound is following the camera movement along with the audience.

The woman is laughing now. There’s a sitcom going on.

SOUND: Suddenly in the midst of it the humming stops. Canned laughter from the sitcom plays in the background.

WOMAN: Chuckling…

Her cell phone rings. Glancing away from the TV she casually picks it up and looks at the screen to see who is calling. On the screen is a picture of the same woman whose reflection she had seen on the glass pane of the window.

THE END

130 hours in Jordan

The first thing that you feel in Jordan once you land is, goose bumps. Not just the tiny ones on your arm because of the cold air whistling through your nostrils, ears and other orifices but the type that makes your senses go bump with awe as you look out on to the gentle contours of the sand coloured landscape. Please note that when I say gentle it doesn’t denote flatness or plain-ness. What it means is that there is a calm exterior that hides within itself years of holy wars, events of biblical consequences, aggressive conversations between warring tribes when metal met metal and rivers of blood flowed through the canyons etched out of the surrounding granite hills. Driving towards our hotel with the calmness wrapped around me I could feel also feel the ebb and flow of history all around. Civilizations had left their mark in this country of a few million.

Amman is a chatter-box of a city. Constantly hustling, selling, talking, eating, drinking, arguing, laughing, shouting out in excitement, joking… its myriad moods give it an infectious joie de vivre. So we took the easy road, we laughed along with them. The chill in the air (it was December when we were there) brought out the sheeshas in the cafes and a certain thrill of being alive and happy. It’s an ambiance that automatically puts a smile on the lips and a song in the heart. The sun was not out….so what! It was drizzly and cold ….so what! The day was short and grey….so what! You get the picture? That’s what a song in the heart does.

We travelled on the road to Petra the next day through some truly jaw-dropping vistas. The place where Moses stood and looked out on to the Holy Land. The hills of Jericho. The undulating, unending landscape of sand and stone through which the Jordan river snaked its way. The spot where Christ was baptized. There was so much history all around that we could almost reach out and touch it.

After the clammy saltiness of the Dead Sea it was time for Petra, that magnificent outpost of civilization carved into stone. The road to Petra prepares you for this revelation. Giant sandstone rocks carved through the centuries with wind and water looked down at us haughtily. Their colours changed with the intensity of the sunlight. All around there was a sense of vastness and wonder about the many civilizations that this Biblical land had been home to. The walk through the Siq makes one feel utterly inconsequential in the face of such incredible beauty, and then…. the Treasury reveals itself. All you can do is stare at it in wonder and take it all in with all your senses. The camel guy and the young boy trying to lure you to take a donkey ride and the annoying trinket seller all fade into the background. What remains is the thought, have we really evolved or did evolution stop centuries ago?

The sandy dunes of Wadi Rum were ringed by spectacular sandstone and granite mountains as old as time itself. They looked down at us with deeply furrowed majesty their expression light and dark in turns depending on which way the sun shone. That nature could continue to surprise us so relentlessly was surprising. The stark landscape seemed so extraterrestrial and as we settled into our Bedouin tent for the night the silence all around lit up by the blazing stars. I felt like a million bucks!

Grated at the edges

He was sitting all huddled up in what seemed like an old blanket pretending to be a not-so-old shawl. All I could see was heavy lidded red-rimmed eyes, sallow cheeks and cracked lips peeking from under a robust, hearty mustache. Faint traces of sunlight turned the rocks around into molten gold. This was early morning in Petra and tourists like me were going around staring in slack-jawed wonder at the sheer majesty of it. There was a charcoal stove in his little tea store which first attracted my attention and then I saw that he had an assistant who was brewing mint tea. On that cold morning it was a sight that warmed me to the core. And so I wound up sitting beside him sipping tea and listening to him.

I will never forget that voice. It emerged from somewhere deep within, crusty and grated at the edges with a vibrant resonance at the center. I could have grated cheese with that voice! He barely opened his mouth to speak yet every word was clearly enunciated. We talked about Indian movie stars, life in Petra, tourists, the state of affairs in the world, the merits of taking a donkey ride up to the top to see the famed Monastery, the attractive complexion of Indian women…. I let him do most of the talking while I just listened. His voice seemed to take in some of the smoke from the charcoal fire at times and occasionally it felt like the words would break into brittle little pieces and float away into the mist. Even now, a week later, I can recall the smoky, tangy flavor of his voice with its serrated edges.

Sometimes all it takes is a voice to turn a great vacation into a memorable one.

My lazy other half

If someone was to take a cake knife and slice through me in exactly two halves, lengthwise she would see an obvious difference. A hardworking right half and a lazy left half. No it’s true. My left half is incredibly lazy, so much so that I’m right brained. Every cell in the right side does more than its fair share of work. The muscles work, the brain works hard enough so that I can earn a living but my left half just coasts along. Imagine this scenario, I’m trying to get something down from the kitchen shelf. It’s quite a stretch and things could be done beautifully with my left hand but no, somewhere along the way it just refuses to cooperate and the ever-dependent right hand comes to the rescue.

I mentioned this to a friend one evening over stale peanuts and tepid beer. The conversation went like this –

Me – this beer sucks

Friend – why? Seems okay to me. Oh you mean, it’s warm that’s why?

Me (with little interest in continuing the conversation) – why is my left hand not holding this glass?

Friend – seriously? You don’t know?

Me – no really. My left hand refuses to take any responsibility. If I use it to hold this glass after sometime it forces me to switch to the right side.

Friend (looking at me strangely) – is that just beer you’re having? Have the peanuts become radioactive?

Me (continuing as if there was no interruption) – and then if I want it to do other stuff then it just gives up mid-point. These days I force it to hold the grocery shopping bags even though it hates to…

Friend – you know what, I just realized that I’m supposed to meet someone. Have to run. See you later. We must talk more about …

These days I spend my time trying to coax my left hand to take more responsibility. It’s a steady, uphill climb. Not sure if I’ll get there. Occasionally just when I think of giving up my right hand rebels with a spasm and then I don’t.