A cold breeze instantly chills me as I walk inside from the harsh afternoon humidity. My eyes take a few second to adjust to the dim interior though it is only a response to the sun's glare. I feel soothed, as if I am sipping a refreshing cool drink although there is no food or drink allowed inside the library. Its the sight of books that calms me, rejuvenates me and recreates in my mind the endless days of my childhood where I read everything I could lay my hands on.
There were no public libraries in Mumbai where I grew up. But I always had access to books. I read everything in the modest school library, borrowed shamelessly from friends whose homes were virtual treasure troves of books, secretly read Harold Robbins that lay around my grandparents home, probably being read by an aunt. While there were no official-looking libraries, there was the local store which traded old newspapers and magazines and lent paperbacks for next to nothing. The store had entire collections of Nancy Drew, Famous Fives and all the staple English books, many of them authored by Enid Blyton in the era preceding Harry Potter. My brothers and I fought over who got to read the Tintin or Asterix comics first. We narrated the funny bits to each other and to our mother as she cooked dinner for us. We then traded up to Sidney Sheldon and Jeffrey Archer. As I gravitated towards Mills and Boon and Danielle Steel, I veered away from the reading tastes that I had until then shared with my brothers. Reading habits marked my age, ability and personality. It tracked not just my tastes, but my maturity. It held my hand and illuminated the coming of age wonder years. Books were my friend, my guiding light and solace. And continue to be today.
No wonder then that one of the greatest source of joy for me in Singapore has been the ability to access the wonderful public libraries here. The one closest to home is located in the mall at the metro station and has a limited selection. The better one is the regional library which is 4 floors of book heaven. One level has audiovisual materials available while another focuses only on children. The rows of books are neatly arranged, precisely labeled and accurately identified in the online catalog. Magazines can also be rented. Along the long glass windows lining the walls, there are desks and chairs with outlets to plug in your laptop. A separately enclosed "quiet reading area" is furnished with comfortable sofas where you can safely browse or drowse.
I spent a productive afternoon there last week. Most of my fellow-library users were youngsters, school or college kids with their gadgets and devices. With a laptop open, I saw them fiddling with iPads or phones, texting or listening with earphones. I wonder if they got any homework done! I finished reading the last few pages of a book and then opened my laptop to write in that strange quiet of shared solitude in a public place. It felt wonderful. The words flowed as though I was afloat in a stream of imagination with words as my oars to navigate the streams of thought. I had been feeling adrift in this new country with no friends to hang out with, to vent or to venture. But the library felt like home, the books like old classmates that I had missed while we had both been busy doing other things. Now I have them within reach. Like the ones closest to you, these books will support me, watch out for me and be there to provide their infinite wisdom when I reach out to them.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Yellow watermelon
I tried something new today. I ate a yellow watermelon. Once I overcame my distrust for a familiar fruit that seemed to be in disguise, I found it to be delicious. It had the same texture, sweetness and soothing juicy bite. The black seeds looked particularly attractive against the bright yellow flesh. The outside was the same familiar green stripes that all watermelons sport. But it was a shock to see the yellow interior upon cutting through. I recoiled at first sight. Slowly I got over my resistance and cut through the wedges to cut bite-sized pieces. And finally put one piece in my mouth. The teeth crunched against the slice and erupted in a burst of sweetness in my mouth. Yummmmmy!!!
Like so many things in life, the older we get, the more judgmental we become. Whether it is an inevitable outcome of aging or a reluctance to try anything new or a desire to be proved right, over time we tend to get overly suspicious of novelty. At a recent get together, I observed a toddler taking a bite from the items on her mother's plate. It was amazing to see her reaction to all the new foods she tried that evening. A veritable culinary adventure for her taste buds with no knowledge of whether the next bite would be sweet or salty or downright spicy. She was game to try every single thing laid out in front of her. None of the previous reactions stopped her from trying out the next one. She was truly open to all the tastes and textures that touched her tongue. And she did it so joyously and effortlessly. While I loved watching from the sidelines, I knew that this bold kid might soon turn into a picky eater with limited preferences and those would be defined by the memories of previous experiences and a wish to assert her right to choose, to define her likes and dislikes and therefore define her personality.
Moving to a new country tests you. It is as different from a short holiday to an exotic destination as is watching a 30 second video clip of a person and then meeting them live. As travelers, we go for the novelty, for the exciting architecture, the interesting geography, the different weather. We rejoice, for a while, in the newness of things that stimulates our jaded minds. But living in another country challenges you. It changes your way of not just looking around but the way you respond to your surroundings. So you compare. And complain. And curiously venture deeper. And for all your apprehensions, sometimes you are truly surprised, pleasantly.
"It tastes yellow", exclaimed Aparna. Does yellow have a taste? Really? But I know what she meant. Its the same, but different. Is it the watermelon that is different? But the yellow watermelon doesn't know it is different. Our surroundings in a new country were always what they were, we are the new additions to the landscape.
As R.L. Stevenson aptly said, “There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.”
Like so many things in life, the older we get, the more judgmental we become. Whether it is an inevitable outcome of aging or a reluctance to try anything new or a desire to be proved right, over time we tend to get overly suspicious of novelty. At a recent get together, I observed a toddler taking a bite from the items on her mother's plate. It was amazing to see her reaction to all the new foods she tried that evening. A veritable culinary adventure for her taste buds with no knowledge of whether the next bite would be sweet or salty or downright spicy. She was game to try every single thing laid out in front of her. None of the previous reactions stopped her from trying out the next one. She was truly open to all the tastes and textures that touched her tongue. And she did it so joyously and effortlessly. While I loved watching from the sidelines, I knew that this bold kid might soon turn into a picky eater with limited preferences and those would be defined by the memories of previous experiences and a wish to assert her right to choose, to define her likes and dislikes and therefore define her personality.
Moving to a new country tests you. It is as different from a short holiday to an exotic destination as is watching a 30 second video clip of a person and then meeting them live. As travelers, we go for the novelty, for the exciting architecture, the interesting geography, the different weather. We rejoice, for a while, in the newness of things that stimulates our jaded minds. But living in another country challenges you. It changes your way of not just looking around but the way you respond to your surroundings. So you compare. And complain. And curiously venture deeper. And for all your apprehensions, sometimes you are truly surprised, pleasantly.
"It tastes yellow", exclaimed Aparna. Does yellow have a taste? Really? But I know what she meant. Its the same, but different. Is it the watermelon that is different? But the yellow watermelon doesn't know it is different. Our surroundings in a new country were always what they were, we are the new additions to the landscape.
As R.L. Stevenson aptly said, “There are no foreign lands. It is the traveler only who is foreign.”
Friendship
There was cantaloupe on the table today for breakfast. Along with guavas, apple and jackfruit. But the sight of the ripe pieces of melon that was introduced to me so many decades ago in another country brought back memories. And I smiled.
Poonam and I shared an apartment that summer in Delaware. We were at a summer job, a requirement of the Ph.D. program in which we worked side by side in the lab. We needed a place close to the company location and finalized a quaint house near the university. The old couple that lived there went fishing to Maine (or was it New Hampshire?) each summer, renting out their home for a few weeks. It rooms were cluttered with antique furniture, knick-knacks, books, clocks and curios. The common theme underlying their possessions was - birds. While they seemed to own bird-shaped, or bird-like items in every room (even the kitchen towels has bird prints), they seemed to have a preference for owls. And so we found ourselves being followed around the house by large eyes, whether it was the bird feeder in the yard or the mounted owl in the dining room. The rooms were dark and dusty. So we limited ourselves to the bedrooms and the kitchen area when we returned each evening from a long day "at the office".
It was a time of great adventure for me. I was being paid a decent salary for the first time in my life at what looked like a regular job (not counting the student stipend that the university paid). I reported to a great boss who mentored me and built my confidence. It was the first time I stayed with a room-mate. Poonam and I would drive from Baltimore to Delaware on Monday mornings and return on Friday evenings. We ate cereal or toasted English muffins and fresh fruit for breakfast - juicy summer berries, watermelon, bananas and one day Poonam picked up cantaloupe. I loved the soft texture and sweetness of each bite of this exotic fruit. And so we consumed large quantities of cantaloupe and had a great time that summer. We went to Atlantic City one weekend, to the famous Jersey shore on another. We shopped at the malls and visited some of the famous Dupont family museums.
I learnt other things from Poonam and about Poonam. We tried cooking with new ingredients and came up with recipes for mushroom curry and broccoli masala. I heard stories of Poonam's pen pals and her pet dog. All this came to me in a rush, propelled by the sight of a fruit. Something so simple has the capacity to evoke tastes, experiences and a stream of memories, like a magician looking into his hat for a coin and pulling out a long colorful ribbon. Friendship is a not just a special feeling of affection but an experience that forever brands you, with its own mark.
In Singapore, I find so many new things to compare to my days in the US and to my more recent years in India. But each place carries memories of people I met, friendships made and cemented with shared experiences. I am new here. No one yet to label as "friend". But I know that soon I will have another stash of experiences to recount at a later point and then the events won't simply be a narration but a story, one that includes friends.
Poonam and I shared an apartment that summer in Delaware. We were at a summer job, a requirement of the Ph.D. program in which we worked side by side in the lab. We needed a place close to the company location and finalized a quaint house near the university. The old couple that lived there went fishing to Maine (or was it New Hampshire?) each summer, renting out their home for a few weeks. It rooms were cluttered with antique furniture, knick-knacks, books, clocks and curios. The common theme underlying their possessions was - birds. While they seemed to own bird-shaped, or bird-like items in every room (even the kitchen towels has bird prints), they seemed to have a preference for owls. And so we found ourselves being followed around the house by large eyes, whether it was the bird feeder in the yard or the mounted owl in the dining room. The rooms were dark and dusty. So we limited ourselves to the bedrooms and the kitchen area when we returned each evening from a long day "at the office".
It was a time of great adventure for me. I was being paid a decent salary for the first time in my life at what looked like a regular job (not counting the student stipend that the university paid). I reported to a great boss who mentored me and built my confidence. It was the first time I stayed with a room-mate. Poonam and I would drive from Baltimore to Delaware on Monday mornings and return on Friday evenings. We ate cereal or toasted English muffins and fresh fruit for breakfast - juicy summer berries, watermelon, bananas and one day Poonam picked up cantaloupe. I loved the soft texture and sweetness of each bite of this exotic fruit. And so we consumed large quantities of cantaloupe and had a great time that summer. We went to Atlantic City one weekend, to the famous Jersey shore on another. We shopped at the malls and visited some of the famous Dupont family museums.
I learnt other things from Poonam and about Poonam. We tried cooking with new ingredients and came up with recipes for mushroom curry and broccoli masala. I heard stories of Poonam's pen pals and her pet dog. All this came to me in a rush, propelled by the sight of a fruit. Something so simple has the capacity to evoke tastes, experiences and a stream of memories, like a magician looking into his hat for a coin and pulling out a long colorful ribbon. Friendship is a not just a special feeling of affection but an experience that forever brands you, with its own mark.
In Singapore, I find so many new things to compare to my days in the US and to my more recent years in India. But each place carries memories of people I met, friendships made and cemented with shared experiences. I am new here. No one yet to label as "friend". But I know that soon I will have another stash of experiences to recount at a later point and then the events won't simply be a narration but a story, one that includes friends.
Friday, January 17, 2014
When did I get so lazy?
It’s a rainy Monday morning. The children have left for the day, so has my husband. The clouds hang low across the trees on the hill in the distance, caressing the uninterrupted greenery on the horizon. I sit with the newspaper on my lap. My maid hands me a hot cup of tea to start my day. Bird calls surround me while a cool breeze blows in through the kitchen window. I look out the balcony and see the clouds caressing the treetops, moving aimlessly together, and then apart, unsure of the plan for the day ahead. Like me.
“It’s mid-January oready” – as the locals say. Three months since I moved to Singapore – this multicultural oasis that is now home. It has been a time of transition for the family and not just in the “we just moved here from India” sense. My husband and I, through our decision to marry, are in the process of building our blended family. We each had a daughter through our previous marriage and now we are four in a new place, a new job for him, new schools for the girls and of course, a new family of our own.
It feels a little strange, not being a single parent any more. There is once again, a spouse, another adult under the same roof to share the days’ details – like the leaking sink or plans for the weekend. It is reassuring to not have to worry about paying the rent or running out to a full-time job to keep the home fires burning. It feels wonderful to have full-time help at home to take care of the mundane chores that form the bane of every housewife. For the first time in a long time, I am free to pursue my dreams, with time on my hands and no impending worries about the future. I have the support that I have craved – physical, material and emotional. I have in front of me days of unstructured time when the girls are in school, with no other distractions, time in which I can do exactly as I please. In short, this is the life I have always dreamt of. An environment that is totally conducive to writing. But I find myself stumped.
I go to the library every week. Sometimes I borrow books. Other times I just browse. I came across a book last week titled “When did I get so busy?” – a typical self-help book for those whose lives and chores have taken over their days. The book was meant to help such people carve out time for meaningful tasks in order to make the most of their life. There was a time I would have picked up this book and surely have used at least a few tips to simplify my life. Those were the days when I held a full-time job and every day was filled with to-do lists. I hastily put the book back. That life seems so remote from the one I lead now.
Why am I not writing regularly any more? Is it writer’s block? I don’t think so. I have plenty of ideas about topics to write about and hardly anything else to do. But each day comes in marching hopefully and goes out limping and I have nothing to show for it. And this has repeated for 100 days now. What message from the universe am I waiting for to begin my writing project?
“Procrastiparna!” – that is what Aparna’s status on Whatsapp says today. I love this newly coined term that aptly describes her, the typical narcissistic teenager that she is, this older daughter of mine. I smiled when I saw that. And then stopped short.
I think the message I had been waiting for was not to be found on a banner flown in the sky but has been channeled through a closer source, not just closer to home, but from within the home. Thanks, Aparna – for the wake up call. Let me not waste another perfectly beautiful day of freedom. I am back doing what I love, reading and writing. This one is for you.
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