Samuel Beckett and 67

 I read that '67' has been chosen as the word of the year 2025. Well, I searched for its meaning but it is nothing. Well, the word rather digits stand for nothing. It's a joke on us, I presume. Long ago a man named Samuel Beckett made the word 'absurd' quite fanciful. Well, at least it was a word and not some crazy two digits. The word 'absurd' also stood for nothing - the nothingness of life, the absurdity of existence and related ideas. His famous play, Waiting for Godot, was a play that signified nothing! Nonsense and absurdity was the tagline of the play.

Many playwrights of that era - early 20th century which was the post II World War period where disillusionment and the meaninglessness of human existence was explored and analysed. Well, it made us question our very existence and the purpose of life. If after studying the Theatre of the Absurd, one doesn't change their perspective of life then I would say that the whole English Literature is a futile exercise!

Well, reader that was the nothingness of Samuel Beckett. Now coming to 67 - at least 69 means something but that wasn't added to any dictionary but an absolutely meaningless two digit has been added. As I mentioned in the initial paragraph, the addition is a grand joke on the people. I wonder what Beckett would've thought about this; maybe he would have linked it to the Theatre of the Absurd and Martin Esslin would've  coined 'Absurd 67' - a great combo which would have at least brought some honour to the new addition.

However, you see it, I cannot accept 67 as a word! 69 is better any day. What's your take, dear reader?

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Madras Musings

A terribly cliched, title, I realise! Over the years, visiting Chennai, time to time, I have grown used to the oscillating emotional scales; The roads, smells and the sound of Tamizh being spoken - Once all these used to evoke a sense of deep melancholy within me but I now seem to have made peace with them. I now no longer gush at the flyovers and the electric trains which were strong reminders of the yellow past. I have not completely lost the sense of nostalgia as I step down from Indigo into the bustling city. I still allow myself to be moved, turn misty-minded (not eye, mind you) and gasp at how different Meenambakkam used to be and smell. Today, I was a tad apprehensive when a good friend asked me to board the Metro and meet him. I have never boarded ANY metro in my life, I quipped. "It's nothing," replied he. How would he know the trepidation. I, of course have moved past the initial moments of apprehension and have decided to be brave enough to get into the metro and experience the joy that I have often seen on Facebook posts of people who have put up pictures of their 'First Metro-ride.' As I get older, experiencing something for the first time does create a small flutter in the pit of the stomach. I try to remember when I first took the electric train - I honestly don't remember that - It was after all a long time ago, say somewhere in 1990 or was it 1992. Let that be!

I think after a point, years blur, memories fade, though not entirely gone. I guess that I have been out of Chennai for a long time now that old memories are being replaced by new ones. It is not a conscious process but something that happens but not without leaving tiny remnants in the back of the mind. On a normal (read relatively younger) day, the sight of jasmine flowers would send me into a dizzy ride which begins with, "Malli poo reminds me of . . ." but now, I just stare at the flowers - blank in the mind devoid of stars in the eyes. I still love their fragrance and texture but don't have the urge to grab them and store their presence in my hand for eternity.

I still think whether I should return and search for a job in Chennai. And then, I think of the traffic, the hard water, the irritation of the heat and stop my thoughts. I know that I cannot return. Returning seems like a sweet respite that is tinged with nostalgia, only beautiful in the crevices of the mind. I am content with dwelling in the tiny state of Goa with all its warts and minus the malli poo and khusboo idlis. Whenever in Chennai, the affection wanes after three days when I begin to get restless with insipid days. The intoxication remains only for a time after which the land of Feni beckons.

Sometimes, I wonder which is the home - where is my heart and what does it mean to be traversing to places which are considered  homes. I guess I should thankful that I have not relocated out of the country, otherwise I would constantly be in a restive state of doubt about home(s).

Image: Internet

Coming home

It has been a year since I last visited Chennai. You know how it is! When one is away from one's home (now, which one is this? I have three - the home where my mom is, my husband's home and my home in Goa) - I would call it the Chennai home, the place where I grew up, studied, loved, lost and finally left after getting married. Well, staying away from Chennai makes me yearn for it - pining would be a strong word, perhaps longing would fit - Chennai in my imagination is all mellow and soft with edges burnt with the flame of nostalgia and preserved smells like a template. I go ooh and aah and let out sighs and sounds of emotional outbursts to the great amusement and anger of my sibling who finds my gushing a bit above the prescribed limits. I don't mind those admonitions feeling only happiness and loaded sentiments.

Then the heat gets on to you - First it touches you, you brush it off; Then it spreads across, smothering you, you try to ignore it; It coerces you to say it, I suppress the words;

Finally, I spit it out - "It is so hot! Goa is not so hot!"

The entire bubble of emotions and nostalgia goes away, Woosh! Then another wave of nostalgia fills the gaping hole of the previous one - Well, this wave is the grand narrative of heat nostalgia - Of how it used to be hot those days and we did not bother but now the heat is unbearable and that we have become creatures of comfort and that we were better off without internet, blah blah and that we read and played and ate chilly-*^%$ing-mangoes! Ah! Have you experienced nostalgia fatigue - where one nostalgia replaces another and finally you wonder whether the reality that you are living is much better.

Coming home is always lovely - until your imagination wears off and you itch to get back to your regime and routine.

Assessing my states of mind sometimes I wonder what is the home that I am longing for - this is a perennially running question in my mind - whether home is a place, person, emotion or imagination and I wonder whether I will ever get an answer.

I wish it was as simple as clicking 'Home' on Facebook and watching the people on your list ranting, raving, expressing and lying.

This and that AND that and this

Existential questions strike you at in-consequent times like when you are in an auto-rickshaw and when the auto stops at a signal, a procession carrying a dead body passes by and all of a sudden you think, "What is the purpose of my life on this earth? Why am I here?" One wonders about Buddha and his similar experience of passing by a dead body. The signal changes colour and the auto moves on but the question still lingers on in your mind.

Then suddenly like a flash of lightening, a smart guy passes by the auto, peers into the auto, gives a brilliant smile and rides away. The smile is returned. Where the existential question goes, you wonder. All that remains is the smile and the twinkle of the smart guy's eyes.

The auto reaches the destination and the friends wave at you. The question as well as the smile is forgotten. When friends meet, memories are always kindled. A different set of thoughts replace the former ones. I realise that life is made up of such cycles -- thought replacing thought, emotions replacing emotions . . . everything is in a state of flux which combines the lived, the living and the going to be lived.

Even as I write this post, the actions that have been written down have become the past but the past that has been passed has been resurrected in the present and saved for the future.

Life goes on . . .

Image: Internet

The legitimacy of an ambition

What is ambition? Why do many of us bombard young minds with the highly improbable question: What do you want to be when you grow up? Are we (read slightly older individuals than the kids) trying to make idle conversation with the young one who happen to be either a friend's son/daughter, a niece or a nephew. I have seen it many times and cringe at that question. Some smart kid who has been fed well by the parents, repeats like a parakeet,

I want to become a doctor, 

I want to become a scientist, 

I want to become an Engineer,

I want to become a  . . a  . . . a (the uncle/aunty/akka/anna/cousin who asks the question is bored and the poor kid is dismissed).

Some parents are quite happy to answer the question: I always wanted to be a doctor but somehow it didn't happen and so I am determined to make my son/daughter a doctor.

What makes an ambition? Does everyone need to have an ambition? How do we determine what we will become after say, ten years. Now wait, don't get me wrong. I am not saying that one should not have any motivation for the future, but thinking of a profession when one is three or four seems ridiculous. Don't we all change from time to time? How can a young kid dream of something of which he/she does not even know. Does the child know that being a doctor involves blood, extreme patience, kindness and long working hours or the glowing Engineer has to struggle. Well, how can ambitions be formed without having an inkling of what the profession is.

I remember as a kid I was proud to say I want to become a doctor and when I saw everyone's smiles and nods, I was quite sure that I had said something which is absolutely wonderful. Well, at this given moment, I want to run a restaurant and cook delicious food, in spite of being a teacher!!

Growing up with an ambition actually restricts an individual immensely. One is closed to the other probable possibilities that would have actually suited the individual best. If not for ambition, there would be no books and sites which scream: Turn what you like doing best into your profession. The advise comes at a point when one is too lazy to switch over into something new.

Well, what if a child says, My ambition is to be.

Are you doing something which you like or are you caught in the profession of your childhood ambition but regretting it.

Image 1: Internet
Image 2: Internet