I forget to make notes during the week about the things I want to say. Instead, I talk to myself and say them out loud. Then, I forget about them. Whispering nothings and mutterings to the universe is an unconscious habit. Now I understand why my grandmother used to talk to herself while washing vessels, washing clothes, cleaning cupboards. She had a bit of a cleaning compulsion, and she would make up songs and talk to herself. She was a fair bit lonesome towards the end of her years. They say that old women talk a lot because when they’re younger no one is actually listening to them.
I tend to talk a lot, too, and I provide too much context at times. Very few people I know listen to me, like really listen. When I see my mother providing extra context on every day stories, I tend to get exasperated. Maybe, I am the same way. Maybe, I am not an interesting storyteller. Although, I would love to narrate better stories. I would love to talk about my every day with crispness. Perhaps my grandmother’s end of life is a foreboding for me – I will live alone, have a cleaning compulsion, and talk to myself. Who knows? I just wish that my house is under a large tree.
Last week, when it rained incessantly in my city for 100 hours straight, we lived in a greyed out world. Thankfully, our neighbourhood glowed a fresh green, too, and was largely unaffected unlike the main city which was flooded in no time. Then, we had a parade of the usual citizen’s anger, the municipality sending their people out in danger to help others without modern-day tools, and apathy from elected officials. I used to write about this a lot when the Internet was a fledgling and the written word on the screen was accessible to everyone. After a few years, I realised the futility of it all. People said I was angry all the time and hated the city. I still maintain that people are not angry enough and that’s why nothing changes. But I’ve stopped raging online. I followed popular suit, nestled myself into my small privilege, and when it rains beyond reason in my neighbourhood I keep warm and look at the freshly washed trees outside my window. I suppose one must learn to live in an apathetic world. I am trying to do just fine.
Last week, my friend SF and I finished reading a book in just four days and I was stoked to have come across a book I wanted to tell everyone about. You know how you read something so beautiful that you want to share it immediately? I wanted to do that with this book. I wanted to talk to someone about it. But I did neither. I didn’t post about it on social media. I didn’t talk to anyone about it. Why put a picture online? Who is going to listen, I thought? So I took the treasured experience and filed away for later when I will post about it here. Why Fish Don’t Exist by Lulu Miller is a marvel of a book for all of us grappling with the apathy of the universe and our systems, and how to hold on to hope despite increasing entropy. Read it.
Among other things, I was published (see footnote), and I also drove my new car in traffic for hours on Thursday. This is a skill I’ve newly acquired and I was stunned by my ability to snail through the city’s traffic and come out unscathed. My whole body felt like it had gone through the gates of a new world. My mind was in utter disbelief. I know this comes across as too hyperbolic for people because driving is a common skill these days. For me, this wasn’t the case. For me, driving was always something out of my reach, a skill I never thought I would be able to learn. But I was taught. It would be remiss to say “I learned” because that isn’t the truth. The truth is that I was taught, and now, I do what I am taught. It still blows my mind. It makes me feel as if I could trick my mind into doing other things I previously thought wasn’t possible. My new thing these days is to listen to the 70s music while I drive my car.
Although, it is also true that after a certain age, when you try to learn new things people are not as patient with you, not as kind. When I moved my career into product management, I was surrounded by people who were mean to me, unkind, and non-supportive. Three years later, this largely remains unchanged except for a few people I can count on my one hand. I made the mistake of thinking that “learning new things” would change my brain, enable me to unlock new ways of thinking, which is what happened when I was taught how to drive, but unfortunately, moving careers did the exact opposite. It was a hostile environment which attacked my self esteem, filled with people who had no empathy and open-mindedness, and pulled me down into the dumps. It is an experience I will never forget.
Coming to think of it. this is also how Indian society tends to treat its people. Specially its old people. Our cities are inaccessible to anyone who is not “young” and able-bodied, and there is almost no way of old people living a dignified life with ways to engage their minds other than consuming copious amounts of TV (or now, the Internet). This is perhaps why we have been brainwashed into thinking we are the greatest nation on this planet. Let alone the fact that we can’t build a single road or have a community space in a city that is functional and clean.
All said and done, I find ways to lean into my privilege. I am currently contemplating picking up or inventing a project that I want to do on the side. I might edit the hundred poems I have written. I might start a cleaning drive. I might go out and fix the roads in the city. I might learn another new skill (but be wary of where I’m going because corporate India can go fuck itself.) I might start a butterfly garden. I might take time off to finish my reading goal in a crazy frenzy. Or some such. We will see.
P.S: My essay on reading in the age of social media and going through life in this city was recently published at The Bombay Literary Magazine. Please read when you can. In true spirit of committing to the long form and increasing my attention span, it is meditative and takes its own time.
amarllyis 
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