Want a detox?

A lot of you know that I was in California until yesterday.  A couple of days in the Bay Area with the family (and a heartwarming reading at San Jose Public Library) followed by an intensive writing workshop in San Francisco. I am still exhausted.

The workshop, Voices of Our Nations Arts Foundation (VONA) hosted at University of San Francisco, will always remain special to me for very many reasons – some I’ll share with you; few others, my memory will always savor.

Here is how it started: I won a part scholarship to the VONA workshop. Naturally, I was excited and nervous about a new city, new opportunity. Who hasn’t dreamt of living in San Francisco for a week as a local resident and not a visitor? Soak in the city beyond the regular tourist haunts. Walk through the Golden Gate Bridge Park in the evening. Which artist doesn’t want to hang out at restaurants and bars where the creative energy is at its peak? See murals in the Mission area, grab a glass of wine in Haight, or recognize poetic symbols in their entrée served at eclectic restaurants. I can go on and on.

The instructors: it was an honor being in the company of experts: Suheir Hammad, Tayari Jones, Lorna Dee Cervantes, Mat Johnson, David Mura, and Elmaz Abinader.What mentors! God, each one of them could teach a class on humility. They were so encouraging and nurturing. It seemed our success meant as much to them as it did to us. I still remember what a few of them told me after my reading. And it takes a very big heart to shower such kindness.

I had the honor of being in Lorna Dee Cervantes’s class. Lorna is considered a legend in the world of poetry. What she told me in my one-on-one meeting with her still brings tears to my eyes. And I don’t cry easily. All I can say is that I feel blessed. And I hope her words come true.

My classmates: Sometimes it takes a lifetime to know someone; and other times, it takes a few hours to develop a bond. We ate together, dreamt together, partied together, and cried together. Even a private person like me was able to somewhat break that wall and share. As a fellow writer (from the fiction category) said, “Damn you, poets. You make us all emotional.” And then she teared-up and gave us a hug.:-)

Though we came from diverse backgrounds and carried our own baggage, we were all joined at the hip. We trusted each other with our darkest secrets and deepest fears when we least expected. Poetry can be autobiographical, confessional, therapeutic, which means you dig up issues and stories your pragmatic brain conveniently buries under the cement of societal pressures. We spoke of things that even our subconscious was unsure about uttering. Fearlessly helped one another with writing and reviewing. There were no selfish bones in the equation. Learned about each other’s cultures, past, and present. We danced to Shakira and hip-hop like there was no tomorrow. Tried a new cuisine every night. And worked until the cows came home. I mean, we all slogged!

I feel like my life underwent a change in just seven days. In the past, I have scoffed at people who have said such things. Such convictions sounded a bit cultish to me. But believe me, VONA was life altering for a lot of us. In many ways, self-revelatory (This is the part I keep to myself. Sorry).

After checking in at the airport, when I called up my husband, he joked about the tranquility in my voice and called me “a Californian.” He was right. I haven’t felt this calm in ages. And maybe, just maybe, there is something in the air of San Francisco that wants you to cleanse and heal.

More until next time,
Xoxo

Copyright © 06.27.2010

"There may not be a Heaven, but there is a San Francisco" ~ Ashleigh Brilliant

Do people enjoy the taste of BS?

I recently watched one of the latest Bollywood releases: Rajneeti. A good movie with fabulous actors and even better acting. But Ranbir Kapoor’s (The leading male protagonist in the movie) role in the movie left me wondering about moral values. Do you have to be scheming and calculating to get ahead in life? And is it always the ones you least expect that end up weaving webs of conceit? Are people’s appetites satiated only with platter of lies? Does truth always dig itself and its owner a grave of disaster?

Here is the thing: Words hold a sacred place in my life. I don’t see shades of grey through the kaleidoscope of life. My vision is restricted to black and white. But then again, I am not an imbecile. There are times when I think my honest opinion might not be appropriate in a particular situation (Telling a host their food sucks or suggesting to someone that their wardrobe reminds me of Raakhi Saawant’s etc.) That’s when I choose the path of silence - I prefer to seal my lips, momentarily.

I always thought my habit of relying on truth was a big strength in my personality. No one ever had to figure out if I meant what I said. No false promises, no heartbreaks, no fake relationships, no pretenses. When I said, “I miss you” or “Come over” or “I care” or “I will be there,” people knew I uttered them with sincerity.

But looking at the world around me, I am beginning to question the notion of truth. I think, most human beings are shallow and insecure about something or the other. The emotional strategists and scheming folks find those voids and fill them up with their superficiality. The older we get, the more susceptible we are to falling prey to bags of lies because the feeling of self-worth begins to lessen. And irrespective of age, everyone likes feeling important and loved.

An obese child likes to hear that he or she is the most beautiful kid on the block. Lovers desire only praises however fake they might be. Bosses are thrilled if you are the “yes-man.” Even parents suffering from empty nest syndrome like to believe that the child, who gets melodramatic around them (“Come live with me” or “You are my world, and I can’t live without you”), is the one who cares more. Subconsciously, all these people might know these statements aren’t fully honest. But they fall for it because that’s what the ear in their hearts and egos desire.

A very dear friend, who suffers from a severe case of honestitis as well, said something interesting. “Manipulation and deceit brings overall happiness and tranquil in a house.”

Recently, both she and I were privy to an interesting situation. An acquaintance said to her husband that her in-laws meant more to her than her own parents. Hold on. Take a breath. Anyone who says that they love someone else’s parents more than their own are either lying or evading their past. You can respect both the sets equally, care for them on similar levels, and feel the same sense of responsibility but not love them the same way. And I am not just saying this because I know how this acquaintance truly feels about her husband’s family. Just think logically. How can you feel the same emotions for each party when one set brought you up and spent twenty (sometimes thirty years) with you? They are two unique relationships.

Similarly, men and women, who coldly denounce where they come from (life pre-marriage), baffle me. I wonder what they grew up with. It’s such a reflection on that person’s childhood and personality. Anyway, in front our very own eyes, my friend and I saw this acquaintance’s husband sink blissfully into a sofa of bliss and denial. He chose to believe what his spouse told him because it was convenient. A man’s ego is always ready to be petted, and this woman knew just the right spots. Net result: she got her way, scored brownie points in the eyes of the society, and the male ego proliferated in his castle of ignorance and smugness.

It seems liars don’t sit on societal pyre. But here is my point: you can fib to the entire world, but what about your own self? How do manipulative people sleep every night knowing that they aren’t truly anyone’s friend? Doesn’t their conscience ever nudge them? Or am I too naïve to believe that truth should be the foundation of relationships?

 

More until next time, 

Xoxo

Copyright © 06. 17. 2010

 

“The worst lies are the lies we tell ourselves. We live in denial of what we do, even what we think. We do this because we're afraid. We fear we will not find love, and when we find it we fear we'll lose it. We fear that if we do not have love we will be unhappy.” Richard Bach 

A humble thank you to my third parent

Last week, a friend of mine said to me, “Times might have changed, but everything said and done, how many Indian men, from our generation, do you know who didn’t follow the traditional career path of medicine and engineering?” I looked at her and said, “Plenty.” Baffled by my response, she said, “I don’t know a single person.”

As South Asians, we are taught (often times coerced) to pick careers that offer financial stability and dependability. And those career paths are medicine, engineering, and the fad of the 90s—MBA. So, whether one likes it or not, you scar your supple, teenage brains with the stress and aggression of competitive exams. Parents put their life’s savings into coaching classes, for their children, for medicine, engineering or other professions that promise success. Believe me, I too have been there. I drew flowers and cartoons on entrance exam papers and doodled poetry. And I loathed each one of those “All India-let’s-look-good-for-your-family-contests.”

I have been trying to reflect on how and when I decided that medicine, engineering, MBA, or the civil services weren’t for me. At a young age, I might have lacked the confidence to articulate my career choice. But how was I even aware that I had other options in times when people studying anything aside from sciences were coined as “weak students”?

I think I might have found the answer. I spent my formative years in a boarding school, Oak Grove (OG), in Mussorie, India. Boarding schools have a notorious image: They are wonderful for an all round personality development, but they might not necessarily prepare you, mentally, for IITs and AIIMS or other entrance exams. And maybe there is some truth to it.

In 1980s and 90s, when most schools in India had one annual sports day and couple of cultural functions in a year, (all the energy was focused on students churning out 99.1% in their board exams), my school had a different vision. Oak Grove, like Jane Austen, was pretty ahead of its times. Extra curricular activities, like schools in the United States, were given equal importance. So, whether you liked it or not, you did treks, knew how to swim, survive with strangers, play at least three different field sports, two track events, partake in two or three cultural activities, and excel at debates even before you hit your teenage years. And all of this through the cold and wet weather.

Don’t get me wrong; we had a tremendous amount of academic pressure, but each one of us was allowed to blossom individually. And life was never compartmentalized by Indian expectations of grades. While some students went on to choose the traditional calling, a few of us chose to depend on the right side of our brain.

Last evening, when I saw my senior Puneet Monga’s album on Facebook, one picture, in particular, got me thinking. It was the image of my boarding school’s publication, ACORN. In my twelfth grade, from the girl’s school side, I was the chief-editor of my school magazine and from the boy’s school Sameer Mohindru was the man behind the words. Over a decade later, is it a surprise that Sameer is a journalist and I am a writer? Did OG subconsciously encourage us to think beyond the always chosen road?

Not just that, a significant number of people from my alma mater—men included—work in the creative field across different segments as fashion designers, visual artists, journalists, architects, filmmakers, jewelry designers, among others. And I am so proud of each one of them. They have turned their passion into profession. And that is the strength of OG. It showed us paths based on our strengths. On one hand we have graduates from esteemed institutes like IIMs, IITs, Symbiosis, NDA etc.; on the other, we have folks working for TV production houses and in other artistic fields.

I owe a big part of who I am today to my days spent at OG even though I loathed the depressing weather. Is it a coincidence that I signed another book contract on the same day as OG turned 122 years old, on June 1, 2010? I think not.

Unlike Mark Twain, who said, “I never let schooling interfere with my education,” I am glad I let my school interfere with my education.

 

More until next time, 

Xoxo

Copyright © 06. 04.2010

 

 “If there were no schools to take the children away from home part of the time, the insane asylums would be filled with mothers.” — Edgar W. H 

 

Death is the informant

We all grew up listening to this quote from Shakespeare: “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” The quote is simple, yet it carries a slightly altered meaning depending on your age, time, and place. For teenagers infatuated by their sweethearts, summer vacations explain this quote. For immigrants, the annual or once in two years trip to their motherland might hold the same meaning.  And so forth.

Up until this morning, I didn’t realize death would have the same effect on me. Today is my mausi and mausa’s wedding anniversary (My mother’s sister and her husband). My mausi passed away in August of 2010. And for some reason, her death has affected me in ways I didn’t know were possible. It’s not like she and I were best friends. In fact, her daughters are much closer to my mother, in an obvious sort of way, than I was to my mausi. But there was always a connection. Her smile had different warmth for me compared to my other cousins. I could sense it even though I couldn’t comprehend it.

Some emotions betray eloquence; they are simply felt.

My mausi always made my small moments special. A few months ago, I wrote about how she celebrated my first book of poetry. Unlike most others from her generation, who were happy for me but ended the joy with a thoughtful email, she actually discussed my book with me. I appreciated her gesture then, but I didn’t realize how much I would miss her after she was gone.  I have a new book of poems coming out soon, and I wish my mausi were alive to discuss it with me.

Today, for breakfast, I made something that was my mausi’s favorite dish. I remembered how she and my mom would enjoy a cup of good mid-morning-coffee along with Indian savories. The flashbacks from my childhood have consumed me all morning. All in a good way.

I am not exactly the most emotionally expressive person. I don’t condone public display of affection. I write about things more than I partake in face-to-face conversation about emotions and stuff (See, I couldn’t even complete the sentence eloquently). You won’t really hear me say “Miss you,” “Love you,” and all that. So, aside from complimenting my mausi on her ridiculously good looks and awesome collection of saris, I never said anything “meaningful.” Sometimes, it’s the death of a person that makes us realize how much they meant to us. I hope my mausi can hear, what I haven’t articulated, from wherever she is.

 

More until next time, 

Xoxo

Copyright © 05. 23.2010

"Absence and death are the same - only in death there is no suffering" ~ Theodore Roosevelt

What is home?

The older I get, the blurrier the definition of home becomes for me. Is it where I was born or is it the dwelling where I spent maximum number of years growing up or is it the place my husband and I started our lives together? Do geographic boundaries matter or is home truly where your heart is? By that token, can you have multiple homes because my heart is in New York, in India where my parents live, and the boarding school/college towns where I grew up. I have questions with no right or wrong answers.

When I shared my essay (“Homesick in My Thirties"), published in Khabar Magazine, with my friends on Facebook, I received responses echoing the same sentiments and challenges I face as an immigrant. And for people with children, the situation seems more difficult. For the younger generation born in the US, America will always be home but for their parents (born in India and migrated to the US), both their motherland and adopted land remains home.

But not just that; even people, who haven’t moved out of their own countries, are unable to define one city as home. Globalization and opportunities have turned us in to both willing and unwilling nomads. When was the last time you met someone, from my generation, who had spent the last two decades in the same city or country?

Am I wrong to believe that the generation of immigrants older than mine has settled (emotionally) better than my people? See, things were different when people migrated to the west about forty-fifty years ago. Their home countries didn’t have much to offer, so they could make peace with their move. But my generation didn’t leave India because there weren’t good prospects there. The change was initiated by the search for a “good” life/different experience/ability to travel the world. 

Sometimes I wonder if having a choice is more difficult than not having one and if it makes the definition of "home" more nebulous?  

On a completely different note, a few of you told me that you couldn’t read the links I had attached in my last post (List of published poems). Here they are again:

• "Writer in Another Town" 
• "A Bittersweet Summer" & "Finding Perspective" 
• "Living in Denial" 
  

 

More until next time, 

Xoxo

Copyright © 05. 13.2010

“Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.” – Charles Dickens

An interesting month

So, I am back in the concrete jungle called New York City. After just three weeks of country-living, I can't believe the blaring of horns startled me. On the first day after my return, that is. 

Anyway, I had a fabulous trip. Memorable experiences. Met interesting people. Interacted with generosity. Compared and traced history. Learnt lessons in trust. Indulged in gourmet food. Drank pure wine. And came back with lots of good writing material. More on that as and when the pieces are published.

April is National Poetry month. I feel humbled as four of my poems got published and a few others accepted during this time. Two of these were written in Portugal and Ireland respectively - at my residencies. 

As I embrace the reality of city life,  grab a cup of tea or coffee and delve into the world of words, won't you? And remember, Oscar Wilde said, "All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling."

"Writer in Another Town" - http://asiawrites.blogspot.com/2010/04/writer-in-another-town-by-sweta.html

"A Bittersweet Summer" & "Finding Perspective" - http://marnescriptspage2.blogspot.com/

"Living in Denial" - http://poem2day.blogspot.com/2010/04/living-in-denial-by-sweta-vikram.html

More until next time, 

Xoxo

 

Copyright © 04. 29.2010

Stranded but alive

Hi all,

Thank you for all the love. I have received such generous notes from people enquiring about my welfare; I feel truly blessed. Just wanted to inform everyone that I am alive and kicking. And no, I am not buried under any volcanic ash. Apparently, that's what some of the news channels in Asia have been talking about. 

Some of you know that our original plan was to celebrate my husband's birthday in Ireland. I was supposed to have finished my residency by last evening, and he was going to join me right after in picturesque Eyeries. Our hotels, flights, car rentals, trains etc. were all confirmed for a week of fun traveling. I even had the name of the bakery written down - the place from where I was going to order his birthday cake. My fellow residents had recommended restaurants. But much to our disappointment, as some of you know, the Srivastava-Vikram plans got disrupted.

Of course it's been upsetting and on many levels. As a friend pointed out, I have had the interesting fortune of being in a similar situation not too long ago. But you know what, life doesn't happen the way we want it. And we need to take the good with the bad. I can't say much because I have sorta been commissioned by a couple of magazines to write an essay and a poem about my experience. But I will share one thing with you. 

At the residency, I met this woman about twenty five years older than me. She was in a very happy marriage when she lost her husband to a tragic accident on Christmas eve. He was barely 33. She had two little boys at the time of his death. You could tell from her vulnerability, she still loved him even after two decades of his death. This lady said something that I will never forget: "What is a date? It's a concept. You can celebrate his birthday next week or next month. The wonderful thing is that you are both alive." She and another fellow resident, a famous Hollywood celebrity (an Emmy award winner), further suggested that once we are both back in NYC, I should organize a surprise birthday dinner for my husband.

It's unfortunate how one person's loss becomes another person's gain - in terms of learning. I did learn an important lesson that night: It's all about perspective. I have never been a pessimist, and I strongly believe that everything happens for a reason. My husband believes I can take something positive out of any situation. But this writer taught me something valuable - to appreciate what I have instead of obsess about what I don't. And I have hope and loved ones (family and friends) in my life. 

So what if I am stranded in Ireland? Despite the wrath of the volcanic ash, so far, I have a roof over my head, thanks to the magnanimity of a new but dear friend. Given what others have been subjected to, I want to count my blessings. If anything, I am humbled by the shower of generosity from everyone. Strangers have done what only friends and family would and more. 

I just saw on the news that a fresh round of eruptions has buried hopes of travelers, again. I am booked on a Sunday morning flight to New York and until last night, I was feeling pretty good about it. But as of now, I don't know. No one can tell what'll happen between today and then. But the human in me has faith that the skies will clear. Good follows bad. It's a cycle. And that I will be home sooner than later. But until then, the writer in me has an obligation to fulfill. I have these few days in my hand and a situation out of my control. I'd rather write than mope.

I will ping you next week with an update. Until then, stay safe!

More until next time, 

Xoxo

 

Copyright © 04. 20.2010

“For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else.” – Raplh Waldo Emerson