You Bring Out the UP-Walli In Me

This is a poem by an unknown blogger that I found a long, long time ago on the Internet - the blog was something like Brown Girl Sings the Blues and it is long long gone. I am glad I copied the poem, it lives for me. If I took the weird white highlighting off the text then I lose the formatting and I did not want to do that.

You bring out the UP-walli in me,
The zari, gota, sitaraa,
The sweet, sweet bataasha,
The lilt of my (m)other tongue,
simmering under these words in me.

I play for you. For the twinkle in your eyes
when I rant in Hindi.
Kya hai.

Not ready to talk

Grief is a complicated, hydra-headed beast.

Boo

(this happened in 2015 I think but I can't remember if I ever shared it here)

Life in random snippets:

"I was walking in downtown Chicago to the train station with a friend when a (drunk and belligerent seeming) man yelled at me: 'Are you Asian or Indian?' (Umm seriously?)

He then went on to yell: teach your people to fucking tip better, you fucking Indians blah blah. (But but but I never took responsibility for all billion people - but racial slurs don't work that way I suppose? So I'll start offering lessons then?)

Even as we walked away, this kind of went on with him yelling. There wasn't any point engaging with him, even though it would have been nice to have an honest conversation (I can't even imagine the frustration of being a min wage worker, dependent on tips, but even so...)

I was pretty calm then but felt kind of shaken on the ride home. This is perhaps the only such experience I have had in Chicago and isn't reflective at all of my time here. But it sort of reminded me of the difference between a slur and stereotype and also why every once in a while, I feel uncomfortable in my own (brown Indian) skin."

You are tired by e.e. cummings

You are tired,

(I think)

Of the always puzzle of living and doing;

And so am I.

Come with me, then,

And we'll leave it far and far away—

(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,

(I think)

And broke the toys you were fondest of,

And are a little tired now;

Tired of things that break, and—

Just tired.

So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,

And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—

Open to me!

For I will show you the places Nobody knows,

And, if you like,

The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!

I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,

That floats forever and a day;

I'll sing you the jacinth song

Of the probable stars;

I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,

Until I find the Only Flower,

Which shall keep (I think) your little heart

While the moon comes out of the sea.

e.e. cummings

Portable

Moving kicks butt. I’ve done many kinds of moving. I started grand and gradually narrowed the imprudence of my ambitions. For my first move, I left my city, country and continent for a new set. All armed with two suitcases and a recklessness that in retrospect gives me the shivers. I half-knew a few people, I did not trust anyone. I was alone, more so in my head than in reality. Two years later, I decided (or rather was compelled to) to switch cities, leaving the calmer streets of Twin Cities for the bustle of Chicago. This time two suitcases would not be enough. Instead I had Amtrak ship six boxes for me, which arrived in the heart of downtown, in an underground city that I didn’t know existed. I cursed myself for those six boxes, as I tried to find someone who could drive me and the boxes for a price I could afford to what was to be a temporary home.

Shouldering

So today I woke up and something had happened to my shoulder/back. I couldn't stand or sit up and was hobbling most of the day. I absolutely had to do laundry today and I have promised myself that I will not eat lunch every single work day. The aim is to take lunch with me thrice a week and eat out the other two days. I never land up cooking during the week and so I use my Sundays to pack snacks, fruits and lunches. Given my shoulder today, I chopped then lay down, stirred then lay down, roasted and then lay down, packed some boxes then lay down. You get the drift. Everything took a lot of time but I am glad it was on a Sunday and not in the work week -- there isn't as much option for pause.

Daylight savings did something and I am not sure if I gained an hour or lost an hour but it was pitch black at 5 pm and that was not fun. I would have loved to take a walk but it felt like midnight. As I write this, I am huddled in front of a heater, eating ice cream, watching parks and recreation and in complete denial about some personal sadness. The show must go on, life waits for no one and grief is best worn alone (things I both believe and don't believe in).

Auto-pilot

It's been a while and so I am not going to try and catch you up on all that has happened (mainly a long trip home). I have been back for about five days and I've realized that while I am physically back, mentally I'm still floating somewhere in-between.