A Date/Dinner with a Wordsmith

"No peeping eyes, no prying gaze," I oft declare. 

And then, in my ninth year and now, 

at twenty-nine, 

I trespassed into the realms of poets and writers, where 

tales unfurl, both intimate and grand,

words linger, in lives forever spanned, and everything echoing through time, like a timeless art, sublime and prime.

In the quest to embrace and exalt my intrusion, I oft declare 

"Her existence mirrors mine, and I am but a perfect reflection of her essence."

Nop! Every tale weaves its own tapestry, yet 

in the intricate dance of narratives, shared threads gracefully entwine.

To know that, you'd have to go on a date to Mexico with Octavio Paz and share a reading of 'Life with the Wave' together. A blend of Surrealism and existentialism might greet you.

Yet, is it the biography of your mother or mine? "No," I say, "she isn't that undulating wave."

Yet every wave, alas, harbors water within its embrace.

Oh, Paz wasn't the first wordsmith I went on a date with.

I've been on multiple dates, but believe me, one-night stands have never been in the picture. 

she, he, them, that, x, and xx,

from Nairobi's glow to Massachusetts's snow. 

Seventeen to seventy, 

Many known, and others unknown.

Some light, pale white and many olive, moderate brown,

echoing French whispers and Yiddish tales.

Alas! my neighbor may cast judgment with a bitter pitch,

Label me a "slut" or "bitch," in their narrow niche.

For I've courted myriad souls, and slept off, often, in their poetic terrain.

Dating Vikram Seth was a test, a poetic test, as verses from "All You Who Sleep Tonight" graced the air. 

Amidst "Lithuania: Question and Answer," a tale unfolded - of a woman in Kovno who was raped by Germans, and was branded on her arm as a "whore for Hitler's troops."

Tears eclipsed the joy of sausage-laden pizza and steaming cappuccino that adorned our melancholic night.

Amidst 'conversations about home' with Dalia Elhassan and Warsan Shire,

our multiple dates made me a wanderer in woe, when warsan' recited her poem,

"truckload of men who look like my father, pulling out my teeth and nails, or fourteen men between my legs, or a gun, or a promise, or a lie, or his name, or his manhood in my mouth."

In hushed contemplation, I

held my words and tears, trying to follow contemporary etiquettes.

In the tender company of Sylvia Plath, my longtime muse,

I yearned to ask her,

why she chose to bake her head within the oven.

Yet, within the verses of her 'Lady Lazarus', the answer unfolded in poetic prose.

Tonight, I may have a fling with Maya Angelou, and 

may get the chance to listen her reciting 'Still I Rise.'

Weary from poetic dates, I

yearn to ask her how did she rise

"Out of the huts of history's shame" and "up from a past that's rooted in pain."

Oh my neighbour, refrain from labeling me a slut or strumpet, 

For I've courted myriad souls, and slept off, often, in their poetic terrain.

Verses of Transformation: Rereading Emily Dickinson

~  When I was 26, and as I approach 29.

I used to read Emily Dickinson particularly finding fascination in her poem "I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody too?." Reciting the verses became a ritual, each time exploring varied meanings. I even entertained the notion of embracing the identity of a nobody, romantically weaving thoughts of not being a somebody. Yet, I couldn't help but wonder if such musings were born from the complexities of our modern existence, perhaps even hinting at a state of introspective contemplation akin to a schizophrenic episode. A schizophrenic state of being that modernity has offered? In the pages of my diary, I penned down these reflections (when I was 26), a dance between the allure of being a nobody and the complexities of our contemporary world.

"No grandeur required, no extravagant facade

No need to stand out in a crowded crowd

No need to be odd

To be nobody or not to be somebody,

a timeless art you see."

As I approach my 29th birthday, my perspective has evolved. The concept of being a "nobody," detached from various aspects, prompts contemplation. It raises the question of who can afford the luxury of being a nobody, devoid of many concerns. Living as a nobody seems to demand a certain privilege and capital, highlighting the complexities of being anonymous. This raises questions about the inherent socio-economic factors that influence one's ability to lead a life unconstrained by external pressures. The ease of being a nobody is intricately tied to the resources and opportunities one possesses, shedding light on the complex interplay between identity, privilege, and societal expectations.

Let me rephrase Now.

I’m Somebody! Who are you?

Are you – Somebody – too?

Be sensitive

Opening up about depression can be challenging. I began grappling with persistent depressive disorder at 22, that is since 2017, post my master's degree. Along with the struggles, this experience has been enlightening. It taught me to be a compassionate listener, attuned to others' emotions, and to avoid romanticizing aspects of life. 

'Encouraging' someone grappling with clinical depression to overcome their insecurities, or read books or stay outside, or grasp/understand their self-identity, or confess their sin, or act normal or....................can be a complex task, as normalcy is highly subjective. Tell me, How can an individual with a quivering heart, struggling to rise from their bed, find the strength to read or venture outside?  Tell me, what is normal?? (I dont want to be philosophical at this juncture)  It's important to recognize the impact words can have, understanding that such suggestions might inadvertently lead to a whirlwind of emotions and bring them back to square one.

This post brings happiness if it helps someone alter their perspectives. Years of medication and therapy, coupled with substantial unlearning, have shaped my daily survival. I am doing it beautifully. Yet, a single word from you can easily set a person into a loop. I  recognize that not everyone has the privilege to unlearn societal conditioning. My awareness quite obviously stems from the luxuries and privileges, and social and cultural capital I possess, and I understand that such exposure isn't accessible to everyone.

But, try to be sensitive. Please be mindful of each other's feelings and emotions, recognizing the impact your words can have on someone. Opening up and being vulnerable requires considerable energy and isn't an easy process.

Just posting a poem that I scribbled years back🙂

The sun shines above my head,

Shivering and shaking, I feel cold.

The rain lashes down,

Sweating like a pig, I feel hot.

The boss gives a loud laugh,

The chest tightens, I feel afraid.

The phone rings,

Anxiety surges up, I feel nervous.

The world sleeps at night,

Looking at the sky, I am awake.

Wearing blue glass,

Tears flow, I feel blue.

Standing in the middle of a crowd,

Faking a smile, I feel lonely.

Sitting in the virtual world, A marketplace of ideas, I feel empty.

Then, you ask me, "What's up?"

"I am fine! And how about you?"

Titles: Unlocking the unseen power

 An acquaintance, facing spatial  marginalization bereft of social and cultural capital, once shared, "I deliberately address most in academic circles by their names, even avoiding titles like chechi, as it ensures seamless conversations." In my interactions with a master's student from two years ago, who I had only taught (shared not taught) a single Dutch history class with, there was a consistent use of my name, and our exchanges that continued even after the lecture were marked by a sense of dignity.Others, burdened by the title 'chechie' seemed to carry the weight of social hierarchy and invisible power. The subtle power dynamics at play can be invisible or its internal force is not revealed,  yet potent, so it can subjugate us, thus underscoring the need for continuous resistance and dissent.

In Foucault's examination of Jeremy Bentham's Panopticon, a architectural construct featuring a central tower facilitating observation of every enclosed cell, the paradox of visibility unfolds. While each individual is subject to scrutiny, communication between occupants and overseers, as well as among prisoners themselves, is rendered imperceptible—creating a condition of invisibility. The collective entity dissipates, as the Panopticon instills a pervasive awareness of constant visibility, thereby sustaining the efficacy of power. Bentham, prescribing that power should manifest as visible yet elusive, orchestrates a scenario wherein the prisoner, perpetually observable, remains uncertain about the source of surveillance, epitomizing the synthesis of seen and unseen dynamics.

Thus, doing dissent/ engaging in dissent is crucial. Must we continue to be prisoners of societal constructs?

PS: The write-up stems from the conversations that took place with Athira K Chandrababu  the other day in Room No. 47 of Poorna Hostel at Sree Sankaracharya University.

Cultural Cloak

 ~ Who is including whom?

The conceptual framework of inclusion, as opposed to equity, necessities a nuanced understanding as an ideological construct. In practical implementation, it runs the risk of inadvertently perpetuating systemic subjugation of marginalized factions within societal structures or fabric. Despite its apparent simplicity, the application of inclusion, comparable to the metaphorical Emperor's new clothes (something is widely accepted or praised despite being nonexistent or deceptive/turning a blind eye) requires scrutiny when the

inclusion of 'others' is contingent upon the benevolence and convenience of a select few.

'New' Alchemy - Expansionist philosophy of 'improvement'

'New' Caledonia, 'New' Zealand, 'New' England: Colonialist and capitalist vocabulary

The semantic nuances of the terminology 'new' and its pragmatic connotations, whether in the context of new order, new approach, new world, new day or new methodology has to be reread. Frequently associated with expansive aspirations of utilization, proliferation, augmentation, clearance, and reclamation, this usage necessitates a discerning scrutiny of the colonial and capitalist ethos underpinning notions of progress/development/improvement/perfection. 

I consistently harbor polemical and skeptical sentiments towards the notion of prospective positivity or potential possibility it purports to impart, akin to turning a blind eye. 

By examining world map (have a look at it), one can observe a commonality in places prefixed with 'new' – a pattern reflecting the outright erasure of indigenous livelihoods and histories, replaced by a notion of something deemed 'new.' 

How do you perceive the colonial concept of "new" in the context of New Zealand or New england per se? 'Resources' were something to be utilized and enhanced? Unaltered land was considered wild and waste if not used or cultivated? Outright erasure of eco-system to bring in something 'new'? Analogous to the fascist practice of renaming, or reminiscent of colonial paternalism aimed at civilizing the 'other'? Or is the perception that nature is inherently inert, subject to human control, and exploitable for the betterment of human well-being? A colonial endeavor aimed to elucidate the natural history of the colonies as a means to resurrect the purportedly diminished resource potential of the Earth, attributed to the primal sin of Adam? (This final question is derived from a paper authored by Pranav M). 

When 'newness' itself is an illution or a maya, what viable alternatives exist for existence if not through the pursuit of 'new'?

Adding a poem by Lord Tennyson

"To shape and use. Arise and fly

         The reeling Faun, the sensual feast;

         Move upward, working out the beast,

And let the ape and tiger die."

PS: I was reading Amitav Gosh.

The many traumas of historical research

 History may save us. But, can history save students of history?

Is it an appropriate designation for me to be acknowledged as a student of history? In the course of my research, specifically delving into colonial encounters in Asia, I frequently find myself engrossed in a sphere of imagination wherein a dynamic interplay unfolds between imaginative frameworks and historical sources. This historical imagination enables me to intricately reconstruct vivid images, ideas, and concepts intricately linked to the occurrences and prevalent ideologies of the past (Refer to Collingwood to read about historical imagination) 

While engrossed in a book by Amitav Ghosh, I consistently find myself drawn into this imaginative space. While visualising the moment when a lamp fell on an April night in 1621 (Chapter 1) and picturing Dutch colonial officials ruthlessly slaughtering the indigenous Bandanese elders for doing dissent (chapter 2), I could almost hear the echoes of their plea, "Sirs, have you no mercy then?" to Callenbacker before beheading 44 Bandanese elders and later throwing them into a nearby well.

Hence, I pose these questions. Do historians grapple with substantial emotional traumas stemming from the inherent nature of their research? Do they carry a weight of trauma associated with delving into the profound depths of historical inquiry?