Ma, where do I go next?

"Where are you from?” That’s the question I have been facing ever since I left home on a sultry July morning two decades back. And yet they say “You will never discover new lands unless you leave the shore.” I left home to search for life outside the boundaries of my home. To find new homes in new lands. Yes, it has been twenty long years. And I have not got another home in all these years even as I am chasing life in neon-lit streets of different cities. Warm friendships. Houses full of books, masks, paintings and an occasional smell of mustard oil emanates from my kitchen. Yet in the middle of the night, I long for home. For that sense of belongingness, for that sense of completeness. And above all, a place where I don’t have to cater to the question ‘Where are you from?’
As much as I say I am an Oriya, it’s not the geography that really allures me. It’s not the familiar landscape that calls me. Yes, I miss the lashing rains and the dark clouds playing hide and seek with the mild late afternoon lazy sun. But in the end, home is more of an intimate idea for me. It’s like a love affair. It’s a sense of fulfillment. It’s the image of my mother serving a delicious meal and me never even wanting to eat outside whenever I am at Bhubaneswar. It’s me sleeping most comfortably and peacefully under a mosquito net (a ritual I have not followed in any of the places I have lived).
I live today for I think of that tomorrow’s journey where the arrival signage in Biju Patanaik domestic airport would welcome me. And even before the conveyor belt starts moving, I can see my sister standing on the other side. And the intimacy of home creates a rush of happiness.
Home is like an album. Every page you turn, you discover something new. Even though you are turning it for the hundredth time. Home is like reliving every moment that has touched you some time and gone far away. Home is your Ma waiting for you even though you had told her that you will be having your lunch with a friend. Home is not about French windows, meadows or even lush green fields. Home could be in the middle of a desert or a forest. It has to have that sense of warmth and love.
There are times on mellowed evenings, I look out of my office window and I see hundreds of people rushing ‘home’. I see Jain monks walking barefoot with no ‘home’ to return to. Yet walking with a deep sense of purpose. I think of the Baul musicians who are taught that they should never live under the same tree for more than three days. And then the thought comes across to me : what exactly am I looking for? The home I left is never the home I will return to. The colours have added a new smooth sparkling feeling to the walls. But it’s not the same. Twenty years is fairly a long time. Too many changes have crept into my life, my parents’ and my sisters’. All of us are battling our own battles in life. Each of us have diffeent issues to settle. Each one’s aspirations and desires are different. Yet even in the midst of all that, I still call that duplex building in Bhubaneswar as my own home. Even though it does not have the paintings that have become a part of my life for last so many years. Or for that matter the so very me romantic soft yellow lights. But still then a strange sense of familiarity, completeness overpowers me when I step into the gate of my home. I become comatose on reaching home. The world outside seems totally irrelevant to me. Even my own mobile phone looks like a stranger to me. And I am happy switching it off for most part of my vacation! That’s home for me when the essential me is nicely and happily curled up within me with little physical or metaphysical needs.
It’s actually a strange story. It’s a story of two tickets. The ticket from Ahmedabad to Bhubaneswar gives me an unexplainable joy.One look at the ticket, I feel a sense of joy. Suddenly, the dates on the calendar resume a new meaning. Anticipation of happiness tickles my tastebuds and adds a sense of ‘life’ to my life. And the ticket from Bhubaneswarto Ahmedabad always have a different story. An aching story. A story of leaving a part of you behind. Migrants, immigrants all over the world have the same story. Of their intense desire to have a home of their own in a whole new world. It might be strange but two years ago, my younger niece Simrita had come from Atlanta to Bhubaneswar. For her, “India is fun, lots of fun, gifts and mausis to love and pamper her.” In her mind, she has also weaved a unique way to have the best of both the worlds. So she says, “From Monday to Friday, she will be in Atlanta as her school is simply great and the weekends she will spend in India.” And while she was going back to her ‘red house’ in Atlanta, she was weeping inconsolably in the aircraft and when the air hostess asked her what’s the matter, like a true American child she said, “Just leave me alone… Don’t you know I am leaving home?” Home is a strange emotion. Even for a five year child. It’s intriguing. And for adults, many times it’s a clash with the economics of life.
But I must say, Ahmedabad is the place where I have felt closest to being home. Even though I face the question, “Where are you from?” here quite frequently, but I still feel a strange sense of kinship with this dusty, unromantic city. Or may be I am wrong, sometimes even there’s a tale of romance in the dust. I am an Oriya trying to carve a life for myself in this wonderful land of entrepreneurship. And at the of the day, I swipe my card and say to my colleagues, “Bye, I am going home.”
And amidst all these, my brother-in-law asks me “Why are you there? What are you doing there in Ahmedabad? Come back home. Life will be better.” I tell my younger sister “Why are you there in the United States? What’s there in that country other than dollars? Come back home.” And we have been telling each other the same thing for years. And now even our own questions sound repetitive to us. Many plans have been made. I have made ‘need based’ changes to my CV thinking that I would look for a job back home. But beyond that I have not done anything. In the meanwhile, my parents have aged. My charming elder sister also has some grey hair now. And I still continue to be away from home. Much like my younger sister.

Living life single-handedly

“How did you manage to it?” That’s the question I have been dealing with for last six months. It can be quite tiring after a while. More so, when I have to explain all the medical details, it can be physically exhausting. This is about my fractured left hand. This happened on June 6. I was getting ready to go to office and then I fell down in my house. Immediately, I knew it was a fracture. But the seriousness of it all hit me hard when I went to the hospital and the orthopedician after looking at my X ray told me with a grim face “It’s serious and complicates fracture.” You have to go for a surgery and we will put metal wires in your wrist.” I stayed in the hospital for four days and I came out of the hospital with a plastered hand. Medical insurance took care of my expenses. Fractures are not new to me. I had my leg fractured when I was studying in Delhi. Today years after, I can’t really remember whether it’s my left leg or right leg. That time I was confined to bed for almost 2 months and in those days of pre-liberalisation, I had to take a flight from Delhi to Bhubaneswar. With that ticket money (India then had not heard of Captain Gopinathan who would eventually change the face of aviation), I can now easily buy a Kolkata Bangkok ticket. Staying at home was not that difficult. There were my sisters and parents who gave me the much-desired care and company. And there was a highly entertaining theatrical lady (who worked as a domestic help in the neighbourhood). She was the window to my world outside. She could give competition to anybody in high decibel vocal power. She knew everybody’s secrets and every now and then, according to her mood, she threatened to spill out the secrets. She was the showstopper and an entertainer par excellence who added much colour to my drab immobile days. But this time it was different. After a week, I joined back in office though it was not an easy ride. For every small things I had to depend on people. Opening a water bottle, lock, a casserole ---- looked so very remote, distant to me. I could not even open a medicine strap. Putting tooth-paste on my brush became a Herculean task. I had to ask for help. The last time when I had fractured my leg, I had my family to look after me and cater to my small needs. This time, luckily I could move around. But I was brushing against the world outside. On many occasions, I had to find my way through the crowds. Suddenly wearing jeans became an impossible task. A sling became my fashion accessory. Ninety per cent of wardrobe gave me wide grin as I could only look at them and not wear. Everything that I took for granted suddenly became larger than life image for me. And yes, I became an expert in typing with one hand. Every night, I used to hit the bed at exactly 9.30 pm and then started my process of tossing and turning. It was a struggle to have uninterrupted sleep. It seemed a luxury which I just couldn’t afford. In my wildest dream.After seven weeks, just a night before my birthday my plaster was removed. I hated looking at my hand. It didn’t seem to me it belonged to me. It was a stranger’s hand. The pain was unbearable that night (the pain killer injections did not work). My friend told me to switch off my mobile so that I won’t be disturbed by those midnight bday wishes. But then I was wide awake throughout the night writhing in pain. After 10 days, I started my physiotherapy sessions. Well, the pain of the fracture pales in front of the physiotherapy. The clock never seemed so slow as the one ticking away in the physio room seemed to me. Every now and then, I felt like getting up and running away to a land untouched by pain. But then when you see 75 year old Mrs Banerjee dressed elegantly in a crisp cotton sari doing her exercises after a fracture (to top it to her woes, she suffers from Parkinson disease) or a forever smiling Mrs Nair giving those tender “this shall pass” looks, it motivates you, gives courage to put a brave front, smile a bit and then do the exercise. Aah, those unforgettable moments of pain when you actually think that your heart is in your hand. But then the clock ticks away and you are done for the day. What a relief! The tasks sometimes were simple (or so the world thinks so) like tearing a piece of paper, picking up mobile or sunglasses with my left hand but at that time, it all seemed so difficult. Sometimes I failed, some-times I could just manage with great difficulty. And I screamed in joy the day I could open the tap in the bathroom. The fall taught me not to take life for granted (sorry folks, if it sounds like a line from those innumerable self-help books dotting the landscape of bookshops across the country). The world outside is quite harsh for physically challenged people in India. You might not realise it unless you go through the grind. Not many have the courtesy of opening a door or giving way to somebody who’s not able. There’s a pathetic attitude which needs to be changed. No wonder then many leading universities, corporate offices and places of worship (in a country which swears by religion) don’t have ramp facilities. There are some who laughed when I told them my fracture. For them, it all seemed as a great piece of joke. We love to push people who are not like us to corners. We don’t want to see them amongst us. So we don’t create facilities for them to be with us, enjoy a bit of laughter and sunshine. Today, things are little different. On most mornings I get up with great pain. I miss wearing the watch and the bangles on my left hand. I might have to live with that for the rest of life. The winter has added to my woes. But life is not all that bad. I am back to my jeans after months of de-nial. I can open the lock on my front door and the same story goes for a water bottle too. On the whole, it has been a great learning experience. I am back in my kitchen, trying out new recipes, I can now open the bottles of spices neatly arranged on my kitchen shelf. I take great pride in doing what the world dismisses as mundane. I am waiting for the full recovery. It might happen in another few months. May be the summer months will take away the stiffness. I have now learnt to revel in today. And I have decided to put an end to my bad habit of postponing holiday plans to next summer, next autumn and winter. Few weeks back, I went to Mumbai to celebrate my close friend’s birthday and together we went to Pune which we have been plan-ning for quite some time now. For a change, I didn’t postpone the holiday. All thanks to the fall. I look back and thank all those generous friends who took me restaurants (with my sling and plaster cast hand intact), for the screening of that wonderful film ‘Turtles can fly’ as part of the Ahmedabad International film festival and for a hair cut. And an artist friend who sat for hours and painted my plaster in brilliant hues of red, green and blue. My doctor couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the colourful cast. I have clicked a picture for posterity. And I am hoping the pain will go away someday. For today, I have learnt to live with it. And most importantly, I have be-come more sensitive to other people’s pain.

Faded photographs and a blast....

I was in high school (in small town Orissa) when Aseema, my eldest sister went to Hyderabad to do her masters in political science. The admissions to JNU was restricted that year due to some student unrest. So she went to Central University, Hyderabad to do her masters. It was a new university... Theirs was the second batch of students. So if it was a new beginning for my sister's batch, it was also a new beginning for the university trying to find a foothold in the high brow world of academics. In many ways, my sister's going to Hyderabad opened new windows for me. Through her, I experienced a whole new world---- different from the soporific world in which I was growing up. Their campus in the city was called Golden Threshold --- which was named after a poem by Sarojini Naidu, India's nightingale. So, suddenly GT in Nampally Station Road became a reference point in conversations with my sister. We used to always eagerly wait for her semester break in both winter and summer. She not only brought lots of goodies for us from Hyderabad, she also brought back a suitcase full of stories for us. She was the first one to go to a hostel. So, we all looked forward to listen to her experience, her rendezvous with the exciting outside world, her tryst in a big city. Through her stories, she slowly brought in a whole lot of new faces into our young world. She brought us photographs of her friends ----- Rajyashree, Venkat, Satya, Kamal, Jaba, John, Gayatri, Sabita and regaled us with her stories about them. Suddenly they were not just her friends. They became familiar faces. When we wrote to her, we asked about them though we did not meet them. Then as the months passed, some friendships grew deeper. Outside the comforts of home, some of them became her new family as they studied together, laughed together, ate together and of course fought on some occasions. She told us how they bullied Venkat into doing things they wanted him to do. How he never hurt them but sometimes he didn't talk to them for some days together. But then they were too close to stop talking for a long period. So the fights were buried too soon to start another new chapter in their friendship. Venkat and my sister became close friends. And she used to talk about his fascination for playing table tennis, his helping nature and his humble family and more. From Hyderabad, my sister moved to Delhi. So also Venkat and some of her other friends like Satya, Gayatri and Sabita. She did her M Phil and moved back to Orissa to take up a job. And then following her footsteps, I moved to Delhi for my studies. And there I met some of her friends who were still in the campus Suddenly they came into life from the pages of album. They were there in front of me in flesh, blood. I could see them laugh, argue and have endless cups of tea in Ganga Dhaba. I no longer saw them through the lens of a camera. But through my own eyes. And I must say almost all of them were really nice to me because I was Aseema's sister. I understood the thread of their friendship, I understood the language of that delicate bond called relationship.Then as they say life took its own turn and twists. They all got jobs and moved out of the red brick campus of JNU to fight their own battle in that war zone called life. Occasionally during my annual visits to Orissa, my sister and me talked about her old friends over a cup of tea. She talked about Rajyashree getting married to her old boyfriend, she talked about gentle-at-heart Venkat making to the Indian Foreign Service. When she came to Delhi, she went to Gayatri Didi's house for dinner to talk about old friends, new acquaintances, aging teachers, new passions for buying saris. The rigours of life brought in new challenges. Even as we chased new goals, most of these faces again went back to that album of life called memory. They were there ----- but one did not take out the album from the cupboard everyday to see their faces. But somehow, you always had this secure feeling that they will be there --- safe and sound. Nothing can harm them.... at best they can just gather dust. And then you can wipe off the dust with your soft hand and they will all again smile and look at you with the same tenderness. But destiny willed it otherwise. On 7th July, I got a call from sister in the night. She's the one who switches off her mobile at 9 in the night (and we have quite a lot of fights on this issue). It was almost 10 O' clock, so I asked her "Hello, what's the breaking news? You are calling up at this hour and your mobile in not switched off." She said, "Oh, you know Venkat died in the Kabul Blast.(He was the diplomat who died in the suicide attack in the Indian embassy in Kabul). Sabita just confirmed the news." Suddenly, words became too meaningless as my mind went back to all those years when she used to tell a hundred stories about Venkat, their close friendship and their carefree years in Hyderabad and Delhi.And ironically, 7th July is my sister's birthday. Who will bring life to that photograph in the album which has yellowed a bit, torn a bit on the backside but still very much there?

21 LOVE and Money

I started my first job with a Delhi based research organisation and my first project was 'Juvenile Delinquency and impact of mass media.' And as part of the project, I alongwith my colleagues went to a Remand Home and met a number of juvenile delinquents. But my purpose here is somethingelse... i am not writing about jobs here actually I am going to write about those days of when getting the first salary was equivalent to having a feeling of freedom. It's sweet taste that lingered in the mouth. And i still remember the thrill of depositing the cheque and subsequently taking a bus and going to Connaught Place. I bought my Kodak Korma for Rs 1500 from Studio India. The handsome elderly gentleman said to me loveingly “May you have years of exciting journey with this one.” Thirteen years have passed on and I still have that camera.Though I must add that my husband has changed more than six cameras in last three years. With the remaining money, I bought casettes of Scorpion (those days everybody sang 'Winds of Change').
More than a decade long, money was never much . And even when I changed my job to the country's leading agency, the money was not at all impressive from any point of view. We used to call ourselves 'Moongphali patrakar.' Moreover, finding a flat in South Delhi was not an easy task with limited money. But somehow we sailed through... a part of it goes to sheer luck also. But looking back, I think qualitatively my life was better. I am not the one who romanticises poverty. I personally feel poverty is the greatest curse on earth. Not being able to buy the medicine you wanted to buy for your loved one can be soul destroying. It can hurt you, it can shatter you, it can traumatise you forever.
But looking back, I feel that those days I alongwith my friends had no concept of saving. Anybody who had a little more than Rs 5000 in the bank (in our friend circle) was envied!!! And when I had saved Rs 10,000 in the bank, I happily booked a second class ticket in Tamil Nadu express and travelled all alone from Delhi to Kanya Kumari. In 1995, credit cards were not popular. So, I had taken my money in Travellor's cheque and I must say that I had my share of savings. The pleasure money gave those days were pure, unadultered. When we had less, we lived for the moment. When we have more, we live for tomorrow. And sometimes tomorrow extends to day after tomorrow, a month and a year.
The 21 love ice-cream or the Manhatten Mania at Nirula's were relished with the joy of a child having a cardbury chocolate. And when we felt rich we used to go to Golden Dragon in Panchsheel Park for its Golden Dragon special Fried rice, and chilly chicken.If money was little more, emporiums were the place we went for shopping.
It's a different story now. Money has different connotations. Now it means mutual funds, savings certificates and fixed deposits. And it has also meant long dark hours in the office. And need I say I miss my 21 love and Manhatten Mania of Nirula's. More so when I am in Ahmedabad---!!!!!
PS: I read somewhere that when gypises curse a person they say that “MAY YOU WIN A LOTTERY.“

Musings of an Oriya Amdavadi

It was one of the most difficult decisions of my life. It was not easy to leave Bangalore, India's silicon Valley and move to dry Ahmedabad. Friends and colleagues thought I was crazy to even think of moving to a city which had just witnessed an earthquake measuring 7.4 richter scale. But then sometime in life, you throw all 'sane advice' to winds and do as your heart dictates. So I decided to say goodbye to Namma Bangaluru and take a flight to Ahmedabad. It's six years since I am here in Apnu Amdavad.... a city which never figured in my dreams even as I was chasing many a dreams and some impossible relationships during those heady reckless years in Delhi. But then as I believe in life some you choose and some life chooses. My first brush with Ahmedabad came through a long distance phone call I made from Delhi to a young guy whom I later married.
March, 2001 As I came out of the IA flight late in the evening, hot air welcomed me. Well, the days of cool Bangalore are over, I said to myself. But then I was also coming to a city which still had apartments almost hanging in the air. The dust had not settled. The pictures of horrors of 2001 earthquake were still making to front pages of newspapers. Amidst death and destruction, I started my journey on a note which at that time seemed quite incomprehensible. Nevertheless exciting.
Kem chho, majaa ma
That's what I learnt first within days of arriving here in Ahmedabad. Over the last five years, it has become a part of my day-to-day vocabulary. My neighbour greets me this way, I greet my domestic help this way. The chain continues irrespective of life's turns and twists. Well, that's how this city revolves on a wheel of merry-go-round, or should I say Majaa Ma. Internal turmoils, pains, questions, traumas after all don't find a place in the hisaab kitab of life. Who cares for all these?

From Deepika to DeepikaBen
For the receptionists in my earlier offices, I was Deepika Madam. For friends, outsiders I was plain Deepika. Now, suddenly I became Deepikaben after coming to Ahmedabad which was too hard for me digest. I kept on insisting over the phone that "I am only Deepika..." Interestingly, the other voice always kept on forcefully calling me "Deepikaben". All letters from local people addressed me as Deepikaben Sahu. And those who knew my husband's name addressed me as Deepikaben Murlibhai Sahu... (Oh God!) (how I dreaded those letters not for the content but for this never-ending name only). Interestingly, there are some who still ask me "How's Mr Sahu?" And when I say "No, he's Mr Menon", they find it hard to digest. When I was applying for my passport, I went through hell cause I have still retained my maiden name. To top it all, I get many invitation cards which say "Deepalben Shah." But after six years things have changed. I have mellowed down. Today, I happily pick up the phone and say with a smile, "Yes, Deepikaben speaking." That's the biggest transformation for an Oriya, I must say.
Tame Kaun This is absolutely crazy. My sisters can't understand this... they think I am lying. In the middle of the night when my phone starts ringing, I start imagining all possible bad news in this world. With great fear in my mind as I go to my study to pick up the phone, a dominant voice from the other side asks me, "Tame Kaun (Who are you)?" In the beginning, my mild east-Indian sensibilities didn't allow me to say anything. But now, I have become wiser... so with all the patience in the world I put question "Who called up this number, me or you? So you better know whom you are calling up in the middle of the night." Or if I am in a naughty mood, I say, "Karanj police station ma thi boluchhu (I am speaking from Karanj police station)." No offence meant to our men in khaki.

Sau Taka/ 100 rupees
Ahmedabad worships money. It earns money and it also saves money. I was never taught the art of savings. My father always encouraged me to spend money on books, travel, music and of course good food. It's only after coming to Ahmedabad, I realised there's something called savings in life. Thank you, Ahmedabad. Money speaks everywhere in this city. So ask your plumber "Will you come tomorrow to repair the leaking tap?" If he says, "Sau taka (100 rupees)," be sure that he will come. If you are wondering what sau taka has to do with his promise to do his job, then just close your eyes and think that like many other Amdavadis, the guy (in true spirit of the city) has learnt no other way to express himself or his commitment.

Pure Veg---- Punjabi, chense and continental
I have nothing against vegetarianism. Both my parents have become vegetarians now. I am married to a vegan (somebody who doesn't take any animal products in his diet). But I am simply tired of this board in front of restaurants here.... "That's Pure Veg: Punjabi, chenese and continental." So all that you get is baked macroni, veg manchurian and some orange coloured paneer butter masala. I can't distinguish one dish from another. They all look like mismash of something red, white and brown. And not to talk of items like chenise bhel... (I have never seen so many variations in the spelling of the word 'Chinese' anywhereelse in the country).

Oh, those lovely rains!
Rice, fish curry, mashed potato with a dash of mustard oil and pouring rains — that's early childhood memories. Sitting for hours near a window and seeing the rains lashing against the lamp post back at home in Orissa always came naturally to me. Rains bring back smells of wet earth of a land I left years back. They bring back memories which come and kiss on the cheeks but then gently go back again to the never-ending paddy fields of a verdant earth. Rains falling on the roof of my house lulled me into sleep in those carefree days. They were not just falling rain drops they were like God singing lullaby in the middle of an otherwise silent night. Rains bring back images of Ma waiting with a towel in the veranda as I returned from school all drenched. Rains bring back memories of me and my younger sister dancing away to glory in the garden just as the clouds became darker and darker. I miss that lashing rains in Ahmedabad. Give me wet clothes, umbrellas, soaked walls but give me Orissa's almost magical monsoon. And I am longing for that sentence to hear --- "There's a low pressure today."

Some of the things I love about Ahmedabad:
* The uninterrupted power supply (I grew up in Orissa where we could hardly see the nail-biting moments of a one day cricket match because the electricity would always play hide and seek with us)
* I love the fact that I can take an auto-rickshaw in Ahmedabad at 11 in the night and reach home (I have never done it in Orissa and I know it's difficult to do so in Orissa). I love it when I see 60-year-old women riding scooters and roaming on the streets of Ahmedabad. They are not relegated to the background.
* I love it when Gujarat families (all well-dressed) visit their loved ones to wish Saal Mubarak on Bestu Varas (Gujarati New Year). I love the way Navratri is being celebrated here. Even a dry dusty city like Ahmedabad looks so very inviting and elegant during those nine nights.
* I love it when Gujaratis serve a traditional meal of dhokla, undhiyu and khatti mithi dal when they invite guests. Only when we celebrate regional cusine at home, the world outside will raise a toast to it. .

Nothing intelligent about this post!!!!

Some days ago I was chatting with one of my friends. As predictible it might sound but the coversation veered towards women (He being HE). I asked him 'What do you look for in a woman?'
His reply on the Gmail chat reads something like this: ‘Somebody who has a decent knowledge of sports and a decent knowledge of international affairs. And somebody with whom I can carry an intelligent conversation for long hours.’
I bet, if he can tell me who’s Karen Hughs then I will resign from my job. Forget about international affairs, his knowledge of national affairs is quite pathetic. I mean, I am tired of listening to people talking about their love for being with someone who can engage in intelligent conversations.
I studied in JNU where everybody thought they can be world leaders in carrying out ‘intelligent conversations.’ Cups of tea were consumed in Ganga dhaba even as youngsters in cotton kurtas and kolhapuri chappals spent nights in animated intelligent conversations. Some even thought that they have a patent right to intelligence.
I have experienced intellectuals dissecting human emotions in most critical ways over glasses of whisky and laughter. But they never felt what it was to feel feelings. It was devastating as a 20-year-old to learn that the sentence ‘I love you... is a plain simple contextual one devoid of any feelings’ from a man who only believed in intelligent conversations. Anyway, times have changed. The same person now regrets about that particular phase of his life in which he was obsessed with everything that was remotely ‘intelligent’ and in the process lost out on one of the most beautiful things in life called ‘Feelings.’
I have nothing against intellectualism... I love intellectuals for whatever they are.. For all their pretensions, for all their arrogance, for their ability to bask in absolute nothingness. I love sharing a drink with them cause they are so self obsessed. But then why do people have so much of shame in admitting that they too enjoy unintellegent conversation? If they love intelligence why can’t they sit and finish Simone De Beauvoir’s Second Sex at one go?
As you grow old and experience the richness of varied relationships, coversations laced with intelligence just do not matter. When I laugh and play Ping Pong-Ting Tong (that’s a game in which one of us becomes a cat after eating some magic cookies) with my five year old niece Simrita then those moments of unadulterated joy simply overwhelms me. No logic, no rationality, no theory works in this case. Three years ago, I spent most of waking hours in a hospital holding hands and taking care of my terminally ill sister-in-law. There was no scope for carrying out a conversation (She died of head and neck cancer). But it was silence and love that eventually brought us closer in those trying monents. Not intelligent conversations.
There’s something fresh about unintelligent converstaions. There’s something very pure about it. There’s something about it which just allows to be yourself. When I meet my friend Indira in Delhi, outsiders might think that we are crazy. Cause we spend all our waking hours in conversations without any trace of intellectualism. But the image of three of us (her sister included) dancing in the middle of the night while lying on the bed and singing Hindi film songs always brings a smile.
And I strongly believe only if you are really intelligent then only you can carry on an unintelligent converstaion. Otherwise, throughout your life you will just keep on telling people that "Oh, I love women who can carry on intelligent conversation for hours." Man, try reading a book on Kafka. You can get your quota of intelligence provided that you can go beyond a few pages. ...