I found my copy of Orientalism when I opened my book cupboard so that my niece could help herself with any book she wanted. I thought I had given it away, but here it was musky, yellowed, reminiscent of a time when I was discovering the treasures inside bookshelves. The book is still as relevant as the age it was written or the time when I bought it. It is said that Edward Said’s office at Columbia University had bulletproof glass and he was always within an arm’s reach of a panic button. Interestingly enough, even after all this, the autocorrect doesn’t recognise the term Orientalism. It shows me a red squiggly line below it.
One of my close friends at the time had asked me to buy the book. I promptly did so because all his recommendations were excellent. My friend was the perfect librarian, knowing what any bookworm, based on their tastes, ought to read. Of course, he had many, many more facets but I came to some of my most beloved books via his recommendations, and that’s the part my memory loves to recall the most. I didn’t end up reading Orientalism but I read a lot of other literature from and of the “Orient”. Although I have unearthed the book from my little treasure trove (that my niece wholeheartedly approved of) I suppose I am better of reading Edward Said’s other book Culture and Imperialism given where I am right now. For I do believe that Western imperialism continues to exert force over the non-Western countries through literature, cinema, singular narratives, and of course, social media.
It was earlier this year that I decided I wanted to decolonise my wardrobe. I was feeling very insecure about my body because of some off hand comments by some people. I am also quite tired of wearing jeans in a climate as hot as ours. As someone who has always been comfortable in her skin, this was quite a shock to me. So many women in the world constantly battle with their bodies and while feminists are having the body positive conversation, it seemed to me as though the disappearance of local tailors, the rise of mass manufacturing clothing, and the rapid acceptance of the cookie-cutter model of dressing in India was all interlinked. Some cultures have always been body positive, I realised. This was going to be my new project, I thought earlier this year. I intend to go through with it and write an essay about it. When? I don’t know because I stand before this blog holding the budding ideas I want to undertake, and with enough impostor syndrome and inertia that I don’t know how to cure. Yes, my clothes are getting more comfortable, my jewellery is coming from local craftsmen, and I’ve bought my second saree for this year. I’m also making notes from history, and working on accepting my own skin. It just so happens that this time, it is more layered than I thought possible.
Am I at the brink of edging towards the other end of the ‘indigenous’ or non-Western extremism? I don’t think so. I know this because I keep myself in check, in many many ways. One of those ways is by asking my childhood friend if something is wrong with me, like I did two days ago. It is a constant battle in my head — is it me or is it them? She reassures me when I need it and gives me a reality check as well. Overall, we have come to the conclusion that we are not vainglorious bullies, and that, for the most part, nothing is wrong with us. It is very reassuring to be in the possession of this knowledge. Of course some things might be off, we are not untainted, but really, being a spotless human is not an aspiration for me right now. I’ve not completely lost my mind, thank you very much.
What I have lost, though, is the motivation to be a corporate rat. I have had it. I don’t care about the 5-day work week anymore. As far as I am concerned, work weeks should be 4 days. Working so much should have been cancelled during the pandemic, and specially now with AI making a dramatic entry and somehow convincing every tech bro leader that they could make more money in less time. Delusional. Fundamentally, I don’t think human beings need to work so much to stay alive. While massaging the knots in my right hand, my physiotherapist asked me how many hours I work in a day and I was ashamed of my response. There is no convincing reason why any of us should be whiling away our “one wild and precious life” in cold, glass buildings when we could be growing cucumbers and solving the climate crisis. As a person who has fasted the entire month of Ramzan, I have it on good authority that if drinking water runs out and the temperature is ~40 degrees it will really be over for all of us bitches.
I may not be a shining public speaker or a motivational guru or even an able scientist, but I am convinced that we as a human race have completely messed up priorities. I guess many people feel this way, and I have been told that nothing can be done. I believe people. I just want to, because it saves me time. It does make for riveting conversation, though. Many of my friends and I talk about these things. How we are living is a mainstay of the millennial discourse. What can be done about it? Not so much, I am told.
Maybe it is not as dispiriting as it sounds. Ah well, who am I kidding? It is downright depressing that we are able, sufficiently intelligent people and our response to most problems is “we can’t do much”. It’s such a damning thing, don’t you think?
After watching the advice of a scholar, I am trying to focus on what I know how to do. These days, I worry that I am getting a little disillusioned about literature, about the power of words when it comes to the human condition. It is a cause of concern specially because so much of who I am, and how I experience the world has to do with literature, poetry, and what it means in these contexts to be alive. I don’t consider it as the end of my life, because if anything, I’ve learnt that nothing is permanent and everything comes and goes. I bring it up because writing demands honesty, and because I am unable to romanticise the way we live now; the life as we see it at a macro-level, I mean.
I do marvel at the micro-interactions of our daily lives which refract our shared humanity. Whether it is the flower seller who asked me to come over for gajras on Eid day, or the kindness of my father in helping my mother and I while we were fasting, or the puran poli aunty who got us fresh puran polis for my cousins, or the abundance of food from a neighbour on a day that we had very little iftari, or the encouragement sent over by friends about my writing. I am not indifferent to these acts of our collective humanity, and I never will be. I think that our systems don’t serve us, they don’t ease the lives of those who need it the most, and above all, they don’t resonate with the values of the zeitgeist. All these people deserve more from the world they live in, including me. Every single last one of them, and that’s my grouse with where we are now.
Oftentimes I am paralysed by the ways in which we carry on, more often than not defeating, and writing around it becomes difficult for me. (Although I have a lot to say.) I’m feeling doubtful that literature will be able to do justice to the narrative of our humanity right now, both fractured and flawless, but there is nothing else I know how to do well with my time.
P.S.: I am trying to follow along NaPoWriMo on Daily Riyaaz. Breaks are due to illness, festive celebrations, and the doubts in my mind.
amarllyis 