My sister-in-law's sister is getting married soon. So she has to go to Sugarland, to her parents home, very often lately to help with the wedding arrangements. But, they're not as close as one would imagine inspite of living in the same city, inspite of the age difference just a couple years. Not really sibling rivalrly, just a basic 'unclickedness'. Anyway, this reduces their contact to just a couple phonecalls a month, and meeting at common parties. So, of course, meeting a little too often lately is not the best way my s-i-l wants to spend her weekends.
There's disagreements, there's arguements, there's mainly the 'putting-down'ness. I want to point out how different this is from me and my sister--there's fights, there's screaming, there's the slamming of doors.
So, an entire week of my s-i-l is ruined because of a random comment. And she wonders if she should be honest and 'talk it out'. I wonder too, if it would help.
See, formal relationships are not based on honesty. That is why they're formal. That is why it's 'nice to meet you'. And that is why they're not so often.
I have cousins and cousins-in-law that annoy the (bad word) out of me. All my energy goes in breathing in and out deeply so I don't lose my temper or get into a heated debate. Because, it is 'nice to meet' them. Because, we greet each other with a loose hug, cheek-to-cheek, kiss in the air. 'Wow. You look so nice today'.
On the other hand, I have cousins and cousins-in-law that annoy the (bad word) out of me. And we yell, and scream, and cry and slam doors. Because, I don't need a reason to drop in ever. Because, we greet with a nice tight hug, and comment on how fat the other one has gotten. I can tell them the yellow dress is ugly.
Formal relationships are not based on honesty. And honest relationships are not based on formality. There's an inherent closeness that comes, an added level of comfort, from being able to be truthful with one another.
I have a quiet, always well-dressed, graceful family and I am grateful for it. And I have a loud, dysfunctional family that I couldn't go one day without.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
Tell me something good...
I went apartment hunting last month and came across this shabby but cheap complex. This place was perfect for me costwise. So economic, it even included free electricity--just what I needed for the summer. 714 sq feet pretty spacious for that price too. I wanted to move in there so much that I even decided to ignore the fact that it didn't include washer/dryer in the apartment which was first on my must-have list. Anyway, so I go there to take a look at it last Saturday afternoon.
(Again, if you're eating, stop. Or get a bucket.)
Roaches. Cock-roaches. I feel obligated to say the whole word because of the size. Well, to be fair, there were all sizes. Oh, let me also add all types-dead and alive. She kicked one roach and was satisfied it was dead. And then she proudly said "We saturated this place with pesticide. They're all dead." We walk into another room. Another roach on its back, so big that from the entrance I could see its legs move--and I have astigmatism. If I was a vet, I could probably have told the gender too from that far. She kicked it again, it flipped gratefully. "Oops, I lied. They're alive." I hope she was sheepish.
I STILL wanted to move in there. I kept repeating to myself, 'This won't happen in my apartment. I will keep it clean. I will spray insecticide every hour.' We go to the laundry room and I asked how often they cleaned the machines. "We don't," she said, "unless there's a need. Like if someone leaves a crayola in there." I take a deep breath and ask again because I wanted another answer.
"So, you....don't clean the washers at all?"
"No."
"Oh." And now I imagine my old days on campus. Blue detergent spilled all over, white powder on the sides. Hair. And not just head-hair if you know what I mean.
I asked her three times if they cleaned the laundry room. All three times, no, with an explanation. 'Dammit. Now I can't move in here.'
On a later phone conversation with a friend, I admitted to her, "I wish they would have lied to me." It's true. I wanted to move in there so bad, I wanted the advertisement even though it would be fake, and I would lose my head later on.
The same goes for creams, lotions, gels. If the bullshit at the back of the label is not long and complicated enough, I most often don't buy it. I want them to tell me 'there will be results' vaguely but clearly. Then, who defines what 'results' means and how much quantitative good comes from the product--I do.
So, I know Pantene is not going to make my hair strong as a climbers rope, but I want them to tell me that anyway. I know fairness creams don't work in 14 days, but I want to be lied to. And, please please tell me those stretch marks will disappear, and that I can gulp down massive amounts of Saffola oil sans risking cholesterol. Please be confident with your money-back guarantee (it works because we're so lazy to mail back the product.) Tell me I'll be skinny in a month's time.
I need hope, because science doesn't allow miracles.
(Again, if you're eating, stop. Or get a bucket.)
Roaches. Cock-roaches. I feel obligated to say the whole word because of the size. Well, to be fair, there were all sizes. Oh, let me also add all types-dead and alive. She kicked one roach and was satisfied it was dead. And then she proudly said "We saturated this place with pesticide. They're all dead." We walk into another room. Another roach on its back, so big that from the entrance I could see its legs move--and I have astigmatism. If I was a vet, I could probably have told the gender too from that far. She kicked it again, it flipped gratefully. "Oops, I lied. They're alive." I hope she was sheepish.
I STILL wanted to move in there. I kept repeating to myself, 'This won't happen in my apartment. I will keep it clean. I will spray insecticide every hour.' We go to the laundry room and I asked how often they cleaned the machines. "We don't," she said, "unless there's a need. Like if someone leaves a crayola in there." I take a deep breath and ask again because I wanted another answer.
"So, you....don't clean the washers at all?"
"No."
"Oh." And now I imagine my old days on campus. Blue detergent spilled all over, white powder on the sides. Hair. And not just head-hair if you know what I mean.
I asked her three times if they cleaned the laundry room. All three times, no, with an explanation. 'Dammit. Now I can't move in here.'
On a later phone conversation with a friend, I admitted to her, "I wish they would have lied to me." It's true. I wanted to move in there so bad, I wanted the advertisement even though it would be fake, and I would lose my head later on.
The same goes for creams, lotions, gels. If the bullshit at the back of the label is not long and complicated enough, I most often don't buy it. I want them to tell me 'there will be results' vaguely but clearly. Then, who defines what 'results' means and how much quantitative good comes from the product--I do.
So, I know Pantene is not going to make my hair strong as a climbers rope, but I want them to tell me that anyway. I know fairness creams don't work in 14 days, but I want to be lied to. And, please please tell me those stretch marks will disappear, and that I can gulp down massive amounts of Saffola oil sans risking cholesterol. Please be confident with your money-back guarantee (it works because we're so lazy to mail back the product.) Tell me I'll be skinny in a month's time.
I need hope, because science doesn't allow miracles.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
'Shame'
A few years ago, travelling by the western railway in Mumbai was routine. Singing and dancing beggar children, bold and demanding eunuchs, blindmen and their beggar wives, fisherwomen, mothers-in-law, daughters, wailing children, men with itchy crotches were a part of everyday travel.
(Warning: If you are eating you might want to not read the rest of this post.)
One day, during rush hour, me and a friend climbed onto the train and stood by the door waiting for seats to empty. On the next station, a naked women entered the compartment. Thin and frail, she was so tiny. Her breasts were nonexistent, I could count her ribs from afar. It even took me a moment to realize it was a woman and not a teenaged boy. We are so used to seeing poverty in the trains of Mumbai, not many people cast a second glance. Many people did look away however, for fear of losing their appetite for lunch that day.
She sat alone on the floor near the open doorway of the train. As the train stopped from station to station, men from the platform across would look at the skinny, naked woman and look away. This woman had an infection in her genitals. She was trying to see what it was. Very unabashedly, she looked down at her vagina and touched and rubbed and stretched her skin to see what it was that she had. The men looked at her, the men looked away.
She was naked and yet, she was not a sexual object. Nobody judged this woman. Nobody probably even thought of her as they went about their day. She definitely had no home, no possessions. NO possessions. Not a single piece of cloth on her. Not a single friend or family member in the world. How could that be on the most populated country in the world that you are completely alone? How must that be?
Anyway, I digress from the point I am trying to make. So, this naked skinny woman with no possessions and nobody to go 'home' to is sitting in the train trying to understand the rash in her privates. I don't know anybody else that can do that in public sans feeling embarrassed. Nude people can be nude in bunches to save being singled out. Nude people are usually running. Some of us can't even wear certain clothes showing too much skin because we are 'conscious'. Conscious of what?
Where does this consciousness come from? Where does the 'most embarrassing incident' feeling come from? I think possessions and people play a big part in our public egos. For just one moment put yourself in this woman's shoes (or the lack of them!). If you had nobody to answer to, nobody to impress, nobody to call your own--then, would you worry so much? It is so much like living alone on an island with other 'species'. Self-respect, ego, pride, shame everything loses its meaning in isolation.
When I'm left alone, I bite my toenails.
(Warning: If you are eating you might want to not read the rest of this post.)
One day, during rush hour, me and a friend climbed onto the train and stood by the door waiting for seats to empty. On the next station, a naked women entered the compartment. Thin and frail, she was so tiny. Her breasts were nonexistent, I could count her ribs from afar. It even took me a moment to realize it was a woman and not a teenaged boy. We are so used to seeing poverty in the trains of Mumbai, not many people cast a second glance. Many people did look away however, for fear of losing their appetite for lunch that day.
She sat alone on the floor near the open doorway of the train. As the train stopped from station to station, men from the platform across would look at the skinny, naked woman and look away. This woman had an infection in her genitals. She was trying to see what it was. Very unabashedly, she looked down at her vagina and touched and rubbed and stretched her skin to see what it was that she had. The men looked at her, the men looked away.
She was naked and yet, she was not a sexual object. Nobody judged this woman. Nobody probably even thought of her as they went about their day. She definitely had no home, no possessions. NO possessions. Not a single piece of cloth on her. Not a single friend or family member in the world. How could that be on the most populated country in the world that you are completely alone? How must that be?
Anyway, I digress from the point I am trying to make. So, this naked skinny woman with no possessions and nobody to go 'home' to is sitting in the train trying to understand the rash in her privates. I don't know anybody else that can do that in public sans feeling embarrassed. Nude people can be nude in bunches to save being singled out. Nude people are usually running. Some of us can't even wear certain clothes showing too much skin because we are 'conscious'. Conscious of what?
Where does this consciousness come from? Where does the 'most embarrassing incident' feeling come from? I think possessions and people play a big part in our public egos. For just one moment put yourself in this woman's shoes (or the lack of them!). If you had nobody to answer to, nobody to impress, nobody to call your own--then, would you worry so much? It is so much like living alone on an island with other 'species'. Self-respect, ego, pride, shame everything loses its meaning in isolation.
When I'm left alone, I bite my toenails.
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