A new tradition, for a new year. In an attempt to capture the moments of every month, I will attempt to compile a commemorative list of every month.
1.New Year’s Day: realizations and revelations abound. I finally understood that to be an independent adult, I had to learn to flutter my own wings and fly. Shortly after that I realized that I CAN have it all – nobody can compromise my beliefs except myself.
2. Discovering www.kottu.org - a Sri Lankan blog aggregator. It's interesting seeing how the other side of the world relishes this seemingly elusive identity of being Sri Lankan.
3.Pongal 2009 whispered it’s way in and straggled out amidst the craziness of snowstorm after snowstorm. January has been brutal.
4.Having Vaxi aunty inaugurate our crib by accepting a lunch invite. It was super! I realized I love entertaining, even if it does involve a lot of work.
5.Bride Wars with the girls – bad movie but great times. I heart being part of a trinity. The older I get, the more I can count on my siblings. I heart that times a trillion.
6.Mikes and I discovered a common love for tilapia, spinach, chicken potpies and soup in our efforts to eat in more (last year we ate out 3 nights a week + the weekends). We’ve got a nice little marital routine going when it comes to our endeavors in the kitchen. I'm starting to find my groove as a wifey :)
7.Watching Thatha cut his first cake in 75 years and simultaneously realizing how much we have. And incidentally, how lucky we have been.
8.Realizing that I want a little person too. One day. With Mikes. Only.
9.Books relished this month: Michael Ondaatje’s ‘Anil’s Ghost’ , Meera Syal’s ‘Life isn’t all hahaheehee’ and the first 72 pages of ‘Love Marriage’ (I was completely wrong. And blinded by my own insecurities. The novel is becoming a worthy and memorable read. And in good time too.)
10.Fave purchase of the month: Gray nail polish after months of relentless searching. Closely followed my incandescent dance with jcrewing online. Oh yes, and realizing that lying to my warden is probably not the best of ideas, in the long run ☺
And this month is especially, special. Because today, I realized how little I know about the conflict in Sri Lanka. My brain has been assaulted by the many news stories. Human chains and protests in Toronto. And I, found out, just like the rest of the unaffected population did. On tv. And yet, these are supposedly my people. This is apparently the story that has influenced my entire journey - or that of my parents at least.
So my goal for Feb 2009 is to educate myself. I want to really understand the situation there. It’s alarming that we’re using the word “genocide” to describe what Tamil people are going through in Sri Lanka. I want to know more so I can figure out how I can make a difference and be a part of the solution. Not as an International bystander. But. As. A. Sri.Lankan. Ambitious much? Might be. But heck, Bringiton!
And with that I bid January, adieu!
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Pointless but poignant
How far do you have to fall before you realize you’ve fallen?
Is it the phonetic echo of the thud when your bum grazes twice glazed cherrywood flooring? Or is it the physical drop of your heart floating in the juices of your belly as someone’s lips delivers news it can’t bear to entertain? Or could it be all the moments in between that first feeling of “uh oh” and “this sucks”?
And most importantly, if you fall when nobody is watching, does it really count?
--
the above is not meant to be cryptic at all. I actually don’t know where it came from – all I know is that I opened a blank document and my fingers threw up a gargantuan mess that assembled itself into something. Something to ponder at least.
PONDER.
I don’t think enough people use the word ponder in their day to day lives. I’m going to single-handedly change that. From now on, I will ponder about using the word ponder as often and much as possible. I will be Little Miss. Ponder. Or maybe MissPonderiffic! I see a bright yellow unitard with tangerine swirls and a pink sparkly headband. *sigh* Sure as heck sounds a lot more fun than how I feel right about now.
I feel sorry for the poor suckers in my life that will have to no doubt endure this for the next 2 hours. Who am I kidding? With my special brand of ADD, I’ll move on and forget all about it in 10mins flat.
It’s almost the weekend. And after this week, which has really felt more like 4 long weeks loosely sewn into one, I’m ready for a kitkatbreak from work. Hence the nonsensical rambling…chalk it up to a Friday kinda fever.
I can't wait to curl up with a good read and a yummy espresso.
Is it the phonetic echo of the thud when your bum grazes twice glazed cherrywood flooring? Or is it the physical drop of your heart floating in the juices of your belly as someone’s lips delivers news it can’t bear to entertain? Or could it be all the moments in between that first feeling of “uh oh” and “this sucks”?
And most importantly, if you fall when nobody is watching, does it really count?
--
the above is not meant to be cryptic at all. I actually don’t know where it came from – all I know is that I opened a blank document and my fingers threw up a gargantuan mess that assembled itself into something. Something to ponder at least.
PONDER.
I don’t think enough people use the word ponder in their day to day lives. I’m going to single-handedly change that. From now on, I will ponder about using the word ponder as often and much as possible. I will be Little Miss. Ponder. Or maybe MissPonderiffic! I see a bright yellow unitard with tangerine swirls and a pink sparkly headband. *sigh* Sure as heck sounds a lot more fun than how I feel right about now.
I feel sorry for the poor suckers in my life that will have to no doubt endure this for the next 2 hours. Who am I kidding? With my special brand of ADD, I’ll move on and forget all about it in 10mins flat.
It’s almost the weekend. And after this week, which has really felt more like 4 long weeks loosely sewn into one, I’m ready for a kitkatbreak from work. Hence the nonsensical rambling…chalk it up to a Friday kinda fever.
I can't wait to curl up with a good read and a yummy espresso.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
I must confess
That I am jealous.
Not the garden-variety type of jealous – but the kind that gargles, bubbles and slowly froths deep within the innermost pit of your belly. Somebody turned the internal espresso machine on – and left it unattended.
If I must admit one thing it is that I’ve always wanted to write a book. As many kind and incredibly biased people have told me – apparently I can write. One would hope so considering that I used to be a copywriter in my past life. But the thought of short pithy lines always left me hungry for a little more. The courses I’ve taken on short fiction – have been great and truly encouraging. But the thing is, I lack the fundamental characteristics that are required of a writer: persistence, perseverance and the mojo to keep going regardless of all else that flitters through your world.
My mantra is: one of these days….hopefully in the next 5 years.
So my “book” (insert air quotes here) was always going to be about my relationship with Sri Lanka and the many threads that bind me securely to the country of my birth. And perhaps the underlying reason that lets me embrace my good friend, procrastination, is that partly – I haven’t figured out the seed of my union with that little chaotic jewel in the sea. My one style technique though was to utilize the thirrukurral – hardly a unique tool but in my mind, it all made sense.
And then I picked up this book called Love Marriage by an incredibly talented young, Sri Lankan author. And there in plain daylight was one vein of my story laid out interspersed with verses from none other than the thirrukurral. And my heart sank. The first thought I had was: uh oh, I guess I did wait too long.
But I went ahead and tried to keep an open mind as I sat down to devour the book. And I kept stumbling. Now initially, I chalked it up to my childish nature – so maybe I was a little bitter that someone beat me to the punch – although the rational me did realize that my punch was entirely different but set in the same context. And that’s okay. A trillion books have been penned about India – and yet, there are still a trillion more stories to tell. So no worries – right? Right, said the right side of my brain. Umm okay, whispered the left.
So last night, I climbed into bed in my comfy jammies and tried to crack it open again. One deep breath, then another and I still can’t seem to motivate myself to get through the book. I’m embarrassingly on page 35 or something silly like that after a week of “reading”. I’m still working on it. And I realized the reason last night. I lean towards people who can write pictures. Yup, I’m a traitor.
I tend to eagerly fall into the arms of writers who are firmly rooted in imagery. I get lost between the letters that breathe life to vivid pictures where I can choose the colours that would define the emotions being discussed. And I tend to write like that – flowery and filled with pictures. It’s the only way that I feel anything for a character – when I can identify with them.
And this writer – she is far from flowery. Her craft embodies the poise of rewriting. Everything is composed just right – the simplest language tied together in the simplest ways with a distinct tone of voice. But to me, that voice sounds empty. I’m reading her book about a topic that I feel incredibly passionate about and yet I feel nothing. I don’t relate to the characters even though one of them has my name. I can’t get past the clinical nature of her language. It’s no-nonsense. It’s to the point. It’s got little to no punctuation – let alone punctuation play. It’s void of any emotion and the tamasha of life that you create when you play with words and punctuation. Mind you I’m on page 35 only. And maybe it gets better. But right now, it’s a hard mountain to climb – this coming from someone who tracked this book down and threatened more than one person to ensure it got to me in one piece, as soon as possible.
But I’ve got to cut her some slack first novels are always an experiment in tone and voice. And you know what, just because I’m not into straight shooting writing with little to no punctuation doesn’t mean that it sucks. Far. From. It. But then I think of Arundhati or Jhumpa and I’m back to my own sheltered belief of words being the brush you outline pictures with.
I wish I could close my eyes and start afresh.
And maybe that’s exactly what I need to do. Shut it out. And retry in a few weeks.
Maybe round 2 is where the magic meets the mind.
Not the garden-variety type of jealous – but the kind that gargles, bubbles and slowly froths deep within the innermost pit of your belly. Somebody turned the internal espresso machine on – and left it unattended.
If I must admit one thing it is that I’ve always wanted to write a book. As many kind and incredibly biased people have told me – apparently I can write. One would hope so considering that I used to be a copywriter in my past life. But the thought of short pithy lines always left me hungry for a little more. The courses I’ve taken on short fiction – have been great and truly encouraging. But the thing is, I lack the fundamental characteristics that are required of a writer: persistence, perseverance and the mojo to keep going regardless of all else that flitters through your world.
My mantra is: one of these days….hopefully in the next 5 years.
So my “book” (insert air quotes here) was always going to be about my relationship with Sri Lanka and the many threads that bind me securely to the country of my birth. And perhaps the underlying reason that lets me embrace my good friend, procrastination, is that partly – I haven’t figured out the seed of my union with that little chaotic jewel in the sea. My one style technique though was to utilize the thirrukurral – hardly a unique tool but in my mind, it all made sense.
And then I picked up this book called Love Marriage by an incredibly talented young, Sri Lankan author. And there in plain daylight was one vein of my story laid out interspersed with verses from none other than the thirrukurral. And my heart sank. The first thought I had was: uh oh, I guess I did wait too long.
But I went ahead and tried to keep an open mind as I sat down to devour the book. And I kept stumbling. Now initially, I chalked it up to my childish nature – so maybe I was a little bitter that someone beat me to the punch – although the rational me did realize that my punch was entirely different but set in the same context. And that’s okay. A trillion books have been penned about India – and yet, there are still a trillion more stories to tell. So no worries – right? Right, said the right side of my brain. Umm okay, whispered the left.
So last night, I climbed into bed in my comfy jammies and tried to crack it open again. One deep breath, then another and I still can’t seem to motivate myself to get through the book. I’m embarrassingly on page 35 or something silly like that after a week of “reading”. I’m still working on it. And I realized the reason last night. I lean towards people who can write pictures. Yup, I’m a traitor.
I tend to eagerly fall into the arms of writers who are firmly rooted in imagery. I get lost between the letters that breathe life to vivid pictures where I can choose the colours that would define the emotions being discussed. And I tend to write like that – flowery and filled with pictures. It’s the only way that I feel anything for a character – when I can identify with them.
And this writer – she is far from flowery. Her craft embodies the poise of rewriting. Everything is composed just right – the simplest language tied together in the simplest ways with a distinct tone of voice. But to me, that voice sounds empty. I’m reading her book about a topic that I feel incredibly passionate about and yet I feel nothing. I don’t relate to the characters even though one of them has my name. I can’t get past the clinical nature of her language. It’s no-nonsense. It’s to the point. It’s got little to no punctuation – let alone punctuation play. It’s void of any emotion and the tamasha of life that you create when you play with words and punctuation. Mind you I’m on page 35 only. And maybe it gets better. But right now, it’s a hard mountain to climb – this coming from someone who tracked this book down and threatened more than one person to ensure it got to me in one piece, as soon as possible.
But I’ve got to cut her some slack first novels are always an experiment in tone and voice. And you know what, just because I’m not into straight shooting writing with little to no punctuation doesn’t mean that it sucks. Far. From. It. But then I think of Arundhati or Jhumpa and I’m back to my own sheltered belief of words being the brush you outline pictures with.
I wish I could close my eyes and start afresh.
And maybe that’s exactly what I need to do. Shut it out. And retry in a few weeks.
Maybe round 2 is where the magic meets the mind.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
If it's meant to be...
It’s up to me.
don't mind the super random and way more optimistic than i feel quote of the day. if it's meant to be - it's actually not up to me. from 9 to 6pm - it's actually up to my boss. No really, my boss. At work. And after that my other other boss - also known as my husband takes over his shift. And on the weekends, my dad goes back to being the boss of me.
So really, it's rarely up to me :)
Although they are all quite good at letting me believe that I'm the boss of myself. Only when questioned though.
--::--
a little document-able tidbit that legitimizes what I’ve known all along: there is definitely a strand of crazy in my DNA.
So, I lied. Not just “off the cuff” lied but planned, plotted and schemed kinda lied. I did what every wife, jokes about doing but maybe thinks twice before pulling it off. In my case, I did think twice – as in, is this enough or should I add an extra sweater to the lot.
Yup, I did a little jcrewing online. In my defense, I was saving myself and my husband 20% as I gleefully took advantage of their final clearance sale. Hrmph. It would have been nice to be applauded for that. But instead, I got bated out by my own father.
So where did the lying happen? Well, I usually have all my things (mail and packages) delivered to my parents house – I never did get around to changing my addy especially since I always thought of our condo as being more of a temporary type of dwelling. Don’t ask me why – but in my logic – it made sense. Well dad decided to play a game of his own. And this is where you see the effects of a man who has lived thirty odd years in one house with four women. He has obviously picked up a thing or two about vengefully bating one out when he’s got his emotions and panties in a knot.
So dad bates me out. Mikey is surprised. Astonished actually. And I am not a happy or trusted camper. TheybasicallythinkISUCK. Now, the strange thing is that mikes is a big shopper just like myself – so I don’t really know why I lied. Knowing my husband, he would’ve just said: “Oh, that’s pretty – you should totally get it” and yet, I went ahead and lied about it.
I wonder what that says about me. Apart from the fact that in my old age, I’m becoming a pathological liar. My Dad would be so proud. I'm sure he'd say I inherited that from my mom's side of the gene pool.
And now, I’m off to trek through 20cms of once-fluffy-white-stuff to get to the streetcar, then subway, then car. Pray for me. Or even better, buy me a ticket to some tropical country. One way will do just fine, thanks.
don't mind the super random and way more optimistic than i feel quote of the day. if it's meant to be - it's actually not up to me. from 9 to 6pm - it's actually up to my boss. No really, my boss. At work. And after that my other other boss - also known as my husband takes over his shift. And on the weekends, my dad goes back to being the boss of me.
So really, it's rarely up to me :)
Although they are all quite good at letting me believe that I'm the boss of myself. Only when questioned though.
--::--
a little document-able tidbit that legitimizes what I’ve known all along: there is definitely a strand of crazy in my DNA.
So, I lied. Not just “off the cuff” lied but planned, plotted and schemed kinda lied. I did what every wife, jokes about doing but maybe thinks twice before pulling it off. In my case, I did think twice – as in, is this enough or should I add an extra sweater to the lot.
Yup, I did a little jcrewing online. In my defense, I was saving myself and my husband 20% as I gleefully took advantage of their final clearance sale. Hrmph. It would have been nice to be applauded for that. But instead, I got bated out by my own father.
So where did the lying happen? Well, I usually have all my things (mail and packages) delivered to my parents house – I never did get around to changing my addy especially since I always thought of our condo as being more of a temporary type of dwelling. Don’t ask me why – but in my logic – it made sense. Well dad decided to play a game of his own. And this is where you see the effects of a man who has lived thirty odd years in one house with four women. He has obviously picked up a thing or two about vengefully bating one out when he’s got his emotions and panties in a knot.
So dad bates me out. Mikey is surprised. Astonished actually. And I am not a happy or trusted camper. TheybasicallythinkISUCK. Now, the strange thing is that mikes is a big shopper just like myself – so I don’t really know why I lied. Knowing my husband, he would’ve just said: “Oh, that’s pretty – you should totally get it” and yet, I went ahead and lied about it.
I wonder what that says about me. Apart from the fact that in my old age, I’m becoming a pathological liar. My Dad would be so proud. I'm sure he'd say I inherited that from my mom's side of the gene pool.
And now, I’m off to trek through 20cms of once-fluffy-white-stuff to get to the streetcar, then subway, then car. Pray for me. Or even better, buy me a ticket to some tropical country. One way will do just fine, thanks.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Baby proofed - or so I thought!
(words of warning: get ready for a long, rambling post minus any editing of any sort - this was written in between two morning meetings without any coffee!)
--
I’ve always been a fence sitter when it came to the topic of babies. I think that they can be incredibly adorable, wonderfully entertaining and such a joy in so many ways. Often to other people.
Because I’m a realist. I realize that I’ve also derived that same type of pleasure from many of my extra curricular activities – shopping, reading, hanging out with my friends, growing my career, nurturing my writing….i’m sure you catch the drift. I’ve never looked at a baby and thought to myself: Now, I’d like to take you home honey.
And in the past, when I have cooed those words to a newborn – it was born out of a feeling of obligation to fawn over someone’s “mini me”. Rather than a real indication of being baby ready or baby-friendly for that matter.
Meeting a newborn, in the past, was always quite the event for me. Sorta in the same vein as job interviews or awkward gatherings. I automatically fear the worst: what if this baby isn’t all that attractive?!?!
Now, I know – it seems silly and nobody with a child would ever agree with what I’m about to say but….. Not all kids are attractive as they bust out of the gates.
And that’s where it gets sticky. I’ve had “meh” looking kids thrust at me by friendly co-workers and acquaintances forcing me to fall back on my good ole faithful tactic of finding something nice to say: I love her booties or Aww, that’s a cute clip or the best, yellow is such a lovely colour on her…I mean him.
Pathetic much? Maybe. But heck, nobody wants to hear that somebody, ANYBODY, thinks their baby isn’t the type of stuff that America’s Next Top Model is made of. I was raised on a diet of "if you can't say something nice, make up something FAST"
Until I had a baby infiltrate my inner circle that is.
T, one of my oldest girlfriends and a habit that I can’t seem to shake, had her first one. I stayed away from her all through her pregnancy, creeped out by this phenomenon. I could barely commit to a hair colour let alone a baby – and that put her in a league of her own. That was five years ago – when I had just met Mikey and was starting to become okay with the idea of committing to one person.
Then I met her. That squishie exquisite smelling bundle we call Rakshaa. She is Ah.Mazing. In all the ways, that I never thought would matter.
I fell hopelessly in love with her chortle, her cheeks, her cheeky lil’ laugh, her chubby lil arms....*sigh*…and when she started saying my name – I could have sworn my heart sang. That girl, broke me down. These days, I’m a baby-loving but still largely, “baby proofed” version of my former self. I’m more comfortable with having kids crawl over me, around me, spit up on me, wreck my prized possessions, take a poo on me, throw up on me….you name it – I’ve endured it. So please, you can take me off the “national baby hater” list that I might have inadvertently gotten myself onto.
Before I met Mikes, I took pride in the knowledge that I wasn’t that into babies. It took a lot of explaining to all the wrong people who had one too many questions. It ranked up there with my: I don't believe in marriage and committing to one of anything - stance.
I liked babies just fine – but I always felt like my life would be full regardless of whether I had a little one pittering and pattering all over my Marc Jacobs or NOT (preferably option 2, thanks). I had other things in my life that I placed in high priority – my family, my friends,my career (that I love), traveling, impromptu events and excursions, the freedom of having a fun lifestyle - unencumbered by baby bags, strollers and the such. A life filled with individual passions, actualized.
Then I met Mikey.
Now Mikey, is one of those rare individuals (that I seem to meet more and more of as of late – a cultural shift perhaps?) who seem to have been born to be a parent. He’s just comfortable around kids and really relates to them in a visceral way. And has always known that he wanted his own.
Before we got married we had the big “b” talk. I agreed that while I didn’t necessarily need a child – I wouldn’t be averse to having one – at some point down the road. A year, five, ten…whose counting! So we got hitched with the knowledge that babies might make an appearance in our coupledom but they certainly weren’t an expectation.
When we got hitched, all our friends were also getting hitched. It was two years of 12 weddings a season – lots of dressing up, manning up and having a great time at one party or another. It was the remake of 27 dresses – aptly named 27 sari’s. But then something happened.
Our group of late twenty somethings who had vehemently held out against early marriages and the such – transformed. Our nights of debauchery have now turned into nights of discussing organic diapers, the role of a soother, the various degrees of spit up, sign language as a way of communicating with a new born etc. In the last two years, we’ve seen a flurry of baby making. Almost everyone I know, in their late twenties and early thirties just had one, is having one, is trying for one or praying every night for the miracle to happen – or some crazy combination of the above mentioned factors.
Gone are the times when they’d cross their fingers and hope it was just a scare! Gone are the days when they’d wait for their period as an indicator that nothing is baking in their ovens. The singular lines of focused prayer that would be chanted begging the powers that be – that next time they would be more careful had disappeared. Now they’ve been replaced with a flurry of disappointed phone calls when the bloody thing shows up – literally!
Mikes and I have been uninvolved in this chaotic hurricane – we’ve somehow managed to stay largely unaffected by the frenzy of shagging with an ulterior motive. Or so I thought.
Afterall we had some major issues to contend with - first.
Everyone who knows me knows that I’m too sweet. Having a baby with uncontrolled diabetes – is not a recommended plan of action. So in the hopes of getting baby ready – I hopped off the “it’s all about me – all the time” bandwagon and started taking those darn insulin shots. Which is good – because at thirty one, apparently my window of opportunity for a healthy and pain-free pregnancy is small and rapidly shrinking.
Mikes and I agreed that we’d start trying (and by that I mean, stop using contraceptives not setting up baby calendars and temperature checks) in June of this year. We figure, it’s apt – 2 years of coupledom have helped us create what is now a much more solid relationship. This April, we turn 6 - which is a pretty good run of great times.
Now, this agreement happened with Jana – still being on the fence about a needing a child to find ultimate fulfillment. We’ve talked about adoption and we know that if we have a little person – we’d definitely want more than one. Which is a concern with my saccharine sweet ailment. So adoption might play a role in our lives as well.
But something happened yesterday.
Yesterday, my very pregger sister in law, was complaining about the cost of having a child – financially, physically, emotionally etc. And she and my mother in law, were discussing all things baby related. And that’s when it happened. That’s when I felt it. My heart inhaled mid sentence and firmly lodged the thought of babies, rompers, cribs and such somewhere on my radar.
I’ve never felt that chord struck, quite so intensely before. For the first time, I had a familiar thought about a completely unfamiliar item.
“I wish I could have that too”. “I wish it were me”.
WHAT?!!?!? I know. I’ve said that about a gazillion things before – all material, all tangible, all envy inducing. But a baby?!?!? For the first time EVER, I felt like I was ready to maybe seriously consider adding a third person to our marriage.
And yes, I am that childish.
I know that there have been tons of moments where I’ve relished being Mikey’s best love. And I know that babies would change that completely. I’ve been told you end up loving them in ways that you didn’t even realize you could. And a small part of me fears that. It unnerves me, this thought of adding a third person into our marriage. An unpredictable character – who can be a pleasure or a nightmare or both. A factor that we won’t be able to control – and one that will change our relationship forever. Hopefully for the better - but I've heard stories from both camps. And chances, are not to be taken.
I firmly believe in having a rock solid boat before inviting strangers onboard. I always thought that I would be happy being “aunty jana” and just that – just aunty. And you know what, I still would be – because who knows, what other complications might exist. But I woke up this morning with a strong need for a verbal throw up session and it was coincidental that a fellow flogette, felt the same way. Mind you, her's was much more succint.
For the first time, I wanted a baby. And that is such a heady realization. It kinda feels like the first moment when I realized I loved mikey – ages before I got the bling that promised other things.
So I know – that when it happens – I will be thrilled. And I know, that even if it doesn’t – the journey and the progress is not so much in having a baby per say – but finally arriving at the destination my husband has been in for at least two years, if not more. It’s nice to finally feel like we are on the same page. And it’s knowing – that if and when it happens – I’ll be ready to embrace the next phase and turn that next page with excitement – as opposed to impending doom.
I plan on having it all. I plan on doing all the things I do now with just an extra addition. I know it will probably be a little more work - but I refuse to think that my life has to stop and alter for that third factor to be integrated. I'm sure some things will alter themselves - we'll find better and easier ways of doing others - but the spirit of our relationship will not change. (she said, pre-baby and pre-spittle cloths)
But heck, until then, I plan on working to keep my blood sugar just right and taking every opportunity I can to continue having as much fun as possible. Because when it happens, it will happen only because we want it to.
And not because, I feel like the slow kid who is constantly a few steps behind the rest of the pack – because I know that’s just silly talk! But a little part of my brain, is still there. left behind - questioning why it always takes her much longer to catch up to the rest of the crew when it comes to matters of the heart.
--
I’ve always been a fence sitter when it came to the topic of babies. I think that they can be incredibly adorable, wonderfully entertaining and such a joy in so many ways. Often to other people.
Because I’m a realist. I realize that I’ve also derived that same type of pleasure from many of my extra curricular activities – shopping, reading, hanging out with my friends, growing my career, nurturing my writing….i’m sure you catch the drift. I’ve never looked at a baby and thought to myself: Now, I’d like to take you home honey.
And in the past, when I have cooed those words to a newborn – it was born out of a feeling of obligation to fawn over someone’s “mini me”. Rather than a real indication of being baby ready or baby-friendly for that matter.
Meeting a newborn, in the past, was always quite the event for me. Sorta in the same vein as job interviews or awkward gatherings. I automatically fear the worst: what if this baby isn’t all that attractive?!?!
Now, I know – it seems silly and nobody with a child would ever agree with what I’m about to say but….. Not all kids are attractive as they bust out of the gates.
And that’s where it gets sticky. I’ve had “meh” looking kids thrust at me by friendly co-workers and acquaintances forcing me to fall back on my good ole faithful tactic of finding something nice to say: I love her booties or Aww, that’s a cute clip or the best, yellow is such a lovely colour on her…I mean him.
Pathetic much? Maybe. But heck, nobody wants to hear that somebody, ANYBODY, thinks their baby isn’t the type of stuff that America’s Next Top Model is made of. I was raised on a diet of "if you can't say something nice, make up something FAST"
Until I had a baby infiltrate my inner circle that is.
T, one of my oldest girlfriends and a habit that I can’t seem to shake, had her first one. I stayed away from her all through her pregnancy, creeped out by this phenomenon. I could barely commit to a hair colour let alone a baby – and that put her in a league of her own. That was five years ago – when I had just met Mikey and was starting to become okay with the idea of committing to one person.
Then I met her. That squishie exquisite smelling bundle we call Rakshaa. She is Ah.Mazing. In all the ways, that I never thought would matter.
I fell hopelessly in love with her chortle, her cheeks, her cheeky lil’ laugh, her chubby lil arms....*sigh*…and when she started saying my name – I could have sworn my heart sang. That girl, broke me down. These days, I’m a baby-loving but still largely, “baby proofed” version of my former self. I’m more comfortable with having kids crawl over me, around me, spit up on me, wreck my prized possessions, take a poo on me, throw up on me….you name it – I’ve endured it. So please, you can take me off the “national baby hater” list that I might have inadvertently gotten myself onto.
Before I met Mikes, I took pride in the knowledge that I wasn’t that into babies. It took a lot of explaining to all the wrong people who had one too many questions. It ranked up there with my: I don't believe in marriage and committing to one of anything - stance.
I liked babies just fine – but I always felt like my life would be full regardless of whether I had a little one pittering and pattering all over my Marc Jacobs or NOT (preferably option 2, thanks). I had other things in my life that I placed in high priority – my family, my friends,my career (that I love), traveling, impromptu events and excursions, the freedom of having a fun lifestyle - unencumbered by baby bags, strollers and the such. A life filled with individual passions, actualized.
Then I met Mikey.
Now Mikey, is one of those rare individuals (that I seem to meet more and more of as of late – a cultural shift perhaps?) who seem to have been born to be a parent. He’s just comfortable around kids and really relates to them in a visceral way. And has always known that he wanted his own.
Before we got married we had the big “b” talk. I agreed that while I didn’t necessarily need a child – I wouldn’t be averse to having one – at some point down the road. A year, five, ten…whose counting! So we got hitched with the knowledge that babies might make an appearance in our coupledom but they certainly weren’t an expectation.
When we got hitched, all our friends were also getting hitched. It was two years of 12 weddings a season – lots of dressing up, manning up and having a great time at one party or another. It was the remake of 27 dresses – aptly named 27 sari’s. But then something happened.
Our group of late twenty somethings who had vehemently held out against early marriages and the such – transformed. Our nights of debauchery have now turned into nights of discussing organic diapers, the role of a soother, the various degrees of spit up, sign language as a way of communicating with a new born etc. In the last two years, we’ve seen a flurry of baby making. Almost everyone I know, in their late twenties and early thirties just had one, is having one, is trying for one or praying every night for the miracle to happen – or some crazy combination of the above mentioned factors.
Gone are the times when they’d cross their fingers and hope it was just a scare! Gone are the days when they’d wait for their period as an indicator that nothing is baking in their ovens. The singular lines of focused prayer that would be chanted begging the powers that be – that next time they would be more careful had disappeared. Now they’ve been replaced with a flurry of disappointed phone calls when the bloody thing shows up – literally!
Mikes and I have been uninvolved in this chaotic hurricane – we’ve somehow managed to stay largely unaffected by the frenzy of shagging with an ulterior motive. Or so I thought.
Afterall we had some major issues to contend with - first.
Everyone who knows me knows that I’m too sweet. Having a baby with uncontrolled diabetes – is not a recommended plan of action. So in the hopes of getting baby ready – I hopped off the “it’s all about me – all the time” bandwagon and started taking those darn insulin shots. Which is good – because at thirty one, apparently my window of opportunity for a healthy and pain-free pregnancy is small and rapidly shrinking.
Mikes and I agreed that we’d start trying (and by that I mean, stop using contraceptives not setting up baby calendars and temperature checks) in June of this year. We figure, it’s apt – 2 years of coupledom have helped us create what is now a much more solid relationship. This April, we turn 6 - which is a pretty good run of great times.
Now, this agreement happened with Jana – still being on the fence about a needing a child to find ultimate fulfillment. We’ve talked about adoption and we know that if we have a little person – we’d definitely want more than one. Which is a concern with my saccharine sweet ailment. So adoption might play a role in our lives as well.
But something happened yesterday.
Yesterday, my very pregger sister in law, was complaining about the cost of having a child – financially, physically, emotionally etc. And she and my mother in law, were discussing all things baby related. And that’s when it happened. That’s when I felt it. My heart inhaled mid sentence and firmly lodged the thought of babies, rompers, cribs and such somewhere on my radar.
I’ve never felt that chord struck, quite so intensely before. For the first time, I had a familiar thought about a completely unfamiliar item.
“I wish I could have that too”. “I wish it were me”.
WHAT?!!?!? I know. I’ve said that about a gazillion things before – all material, all tangible, all envy inducing. But a baby?!?!? For the first time EVER, I felt like I was ready to maybe seriously consider adding a third person to our marriage.
And yes, I am that childish.
I know that there have been tons of moments where I’ve relished being Mikey’s best love. And I know that babies would change that completely. I’ve been told you end up loving them in ways that you didn’t even realize you could. And a small part of me fears that. It unnerves me, this thought of adding a third person into our marriage. An unpredictable character – who can be a pleasure or a nightmare or both. A factor that we won’t be able to control – and one that will change our relationship forever. Hopefully for the better - but I've heard stories from both camps. And chances, are not to be taken.
I firmly believe in having a rock solid boat before inviting strangers onboard. I always thought that I would be happy being “aunty jana” and just that – just aunty. And you know what, I still would be – because who knows, what other complications might exist. But I woke up this morning with a strong need for a verbal throw up session and it was coincidental that a fellow flogette, felt the same way. Mind you, her's was much more succint.
For the first time, I wanted a baby. And that is such a heady realization. It kinda feels like the first moment when I realized I loved mikey – ages before I got the bling that promised other things.
So I know – that when it happens – I will be thrilled. And I know, that even if it doesn’t – the journey and the progress is not so much in having a baby per say – but finally arriving at the destination my husband has been in for at least two years, if not more. It’s nice to finally feel like we are on the same page. And it’s knowing – that if and when it happens – I’ll be ready to embrace the next phase and turn that next page with excitement – as opposed to impending doom.
I plan on having it all. I plan on doing all the things I do now with just an extra addition. I know it will probably be a little more work - but I refuse to think that my life has to stop and alter for that third factor to be integrated. I'm sure some things will alter themselves - we'll find better and easier ways of doing others - but the spirit of our relationship will not change. (she said, pre-baby and pre-spittle cloths)
But heck, until then, I plan on working to keep my blood sugar just right and taking every opportunity I can to continue having as much fun as possible. Because when it happens, it will happen only because we want it to.
And not because, I feel like the slow kid who is constantly a few steps behind the rest of the pack – because I know that’s just silly talk! But a little part of my brain, is still there. left behind - questioning why it always takes her much longer to catch up to the rest of the crew when it comes to matters of the heart.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Courting Destiny
what a delightfully thought-provoking truism.
and one that's been playing on repeat in my head, like kid cudi and his strangely mesmerizing track "day & night". And disguised in that noise, introspection creeps in and begins to motor up it's little engine that always thought it could.
This year, thus far atleast, I find that the days seem to bleed into each other. Colours of one sunset - bright, vibrant and drunk on homegrown toddy - tinge the thoughts and actions of the next.
I assume this is what it's like when you spend your life pain painstakingly assembling 6 yards of personalized silk. To me, this time around the metaphor that rings like temple bells through the ornate halls of '09 is this:
life. feels like. six yards. of. glorious. kanjeevaram silk.
I feel like this life and the lovelies who fill it hand me a constant supply of thread - in varying lengths, a rainbow of colours and consistently - well, inconsistent.
My task, as i've chosen to embrace it, is to keep weaving those threads together, in an attempt to make sense of it all.
Until it eventually personifies this life i'm living. no limits. no boundaries. except the ones that i set for myself,that is. Sadly, the task is not as easy as it seems in passing conversation - afterall, this metaphor assumes that every moment is a contribution made towards that story being woven.
And my life is a constant struggle because i'm not willing to accept just any tired, ole' life. i want it all. ah, i know, the folly of my egocentric north american ways. i work at living a life where the focus is firmly affixed on pleasure, passion and a vehement stance against mediocrity. and this means constantly questioning everything and accepting nothing but the past as concrete.
this sari that i weave is enveloped in the remains of my daily courtship with destiny, fate and karma. i am but the person i am because every action (yours and mine) has an equal and opposite reaction.
--::--
while flipping through the dailies today, buried between the Obama drama i found another morsel of news that rang true. it was penned in regards to the chinese new year celebrations that will paint Toronto in a sea of red envelopes, lanterns and tasty dim sum. when asked to comment on his schedule, a Chinese-Canadian event manager said this:
"The Chinese-Canadian's here are more Chinese than the Chinese in Hong Kong".
hmm. so it's not just Indo-Canadians that are plagued by this lack of true national identity that drives them to treasure every inflexible ritual in the hopes of making them feel more of something.
while the Tdot is a beautiful and tremendously organic city vibrant with the colours of a thousand different threads, a luke warm sense of sadness underlies it all. we ( as a collective) are all clamoring to hold on to whatever remnants we have from our own national pasts, led by our faulty memories and hearsay. And in the comfort of that process, we've inadvertently married ourselves to memories of a frozen past and have indeed taken a step away from evolving culturally.
i know it's true in the case of most SL's in Toronto. there's a huge population that left the war torn island fleeing with nothing but their shell shocked memories. and in their little cultural cul-de-sacs they've recreated an SL that doesn't exist - atleast not today. i don't know too many SL's personally because well they've always given me the creeps - close minded, firmly stuck in their pasts - their lives a testament of how oppressive one's culture can be. yet while i was in SL, i thoroughly enjoyed it's residents - forward thinking, liberal, and filled with all sorts of goodness that makes someone a pleasure to be around.
someone dropped the ball people... and there's the seed of something literary in that insight - variations of it have been mined dry in the past - but i think a fresh take or two still waits to be harvested by the right mind.
--
another post about nothing *yawn* sometimes you need to get through these painful ones to hit a chunk of gold.
heck, atleast it gave my fingers a good workout.
one more sleep to that TGIF feeling.
and one that's been playing on repeat in my head, like kid cudi and his strangely mesmerizing track "day & night". And disguised in that noise, introspection creeps in and begins to motor up it's little engine that always thought it could.
This year, thus far atleast, I find that the days seem to bleed into each other. Colours of one sunset - bright, vibrant and drunk on homegrown toddy - tinge the thoughts and actions of the next.
I assume this is what it's like when you spend your life pain painstakingly assembling 6 yards of personalized silk. To me, this time around the metaphor that rings like temple bells through the ornate halls of '09 is this:
life. feels like. six yards. of. glorious. kanjeevaram silk.
I feel like this life and the lovelies who fill it hand me a constant supply of thread - in varying lengths, a rainbow of colours and consistently - well, inconsistent.
My task, as i've chosen to embrace it, is to keep weaving those threads together, in an attempt to make sense of it all.
Until it eventually personifies this life i'm living. no limits. no boundaries. except the ones that i set for myself,that is. Sadly, the task is not as easy as it seems in passing conversation - afterall, this metaphor assumes that every moment is a contribution made towards that story being woven.
And my life is a constant struggle because i'm not willing to accept just any tired, ole' life. i want it all. ah, i know, the folly of my egocentric north american ways. i work at living a life where the focus is firmly affixed on pleasure, passion and a vehement stance against mediocrity. and this means constantly questioning everything and accepting nothing but the past as concrete.
this sari that i weave is enveloped in the remains of my daily courtship with destiny, fate and karma. i am but the person i am because every action (yours and mine) has an equal and opposite reaction.
--::--
while flipping through the dailies today, buried between the Obama drama i found another morsel of news that rang true. it was penned in regards to the chinese new year celebrations that will paint Toronto in a sea of red envelopes, lanterns and tasty dim sum. when asked to comment on his schedule, a Chinese-Canadian event manager said this:
"The Chinese-Canadian's here are more Chinese than the Chinese in Hong Kong".
hmm. so it's not just Indo-Canadians that are plagued by this lack of true national identity that drives them to treasure every inflexible ritual in the hopes of making them feel more of something.
while the Tdot is a beautiful and tremendously organic city vibrant with the colours of a thousand different threads, a luke warm sense of sadness underlies it all. we ( as a collective) are all clamoring to hold on to whatever remnants we have from our own national pasts, led by our faulty memories and hearsay. And in the comfort of that process, we've inadvertently married ourselves to memories of a frozen past and have indeed taken a step away from evolving culturally.
i know it's true in the case of most SL's in Toronto. there's a huge population that left the war torn island fleeing with nothing but their shell shocked memories. and in their little cultural cul-de-sacs they've recreated an SL that doesn't exist - atleast not today. i don't know too many SL's personally because well they've always given me the creeps - close minded, firmly stuck in their pasts - their lives a testament of how oppressive one's culture can be. yet while i was in SL, i thoroughly enjoyed it's residents - forward thinking, liberal, and filled with all sorts of goodness that makes someone a pleasure to be around.
someone dropped the ball people... and there's the seed of something literary in that insight - variations of it have been mined dry in the past - but i think a fresh take or two still waits to be harvested by the right mind.
--
another post about nothing *yawn* sometimes you need to get through these painful ones to hit a chunk of gold.
heck, atleast it gave my fingers a good workout.
one more sleep to that TGIF feeling.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
i wish
i was watching history unfold.
instead i sit here sullenly typing this sorry-ass post.
i heart my job but honestly don't clients know that big things are going down today? who sets up a meeting from 8:30 to 11 am on Inauguration day?
c'mon people, YOU are getting in the way of life. i think it hurts even more because i can hear our creative guys watching it in the studio and me, i'm stuck, discussing growth opportunities.
*sigh* i guess i'll read about it in the newspapers like other less than fortunate souls.
instead i sit here sullenly typing this sorry-ass post.
i heart my job but honestly don't clients know that big things are going down today? who sets up a meeting from 8:30 to 11 am on Inauguration day?
c'mon people, YOU are getting in the way of life. i think it hurts even more because i can hear our creative guys watching it in the studio and me, i'm stuck, discussing growth opportunities.
*sigh* i guess i'll read about it in the newspapers like other less than fortunate souls.
you
are on my mind.
and on the minds of thousands, around the globe, who will no doubt cluster around television screens, pulled by a force larger than themselves - magnetically, inexplicably - they will wait with bated breath.
and it's quite fitting actually.
that today came after yesterday.
yesterday marked the day when one chocolate-skinned man, decades ago, spoke of a dream when everybody else refused to stand up and speak out. and today, another caramel toned brother will step up on the podium and loudly proclaim that "yes we can" - hope in something larger than what we've had in the past.
i refused to be caught up in the oba-mania spreading like wild fire, globally. but i would be lying if i said a little part of me isn't magnetically drawn to the force that is Barack. Change is on it's way people - whether it's big, small or revolutionary.
the media sits waiting, ready to pounce. the world, with bated breath speak of the "weight of the world" resting on his shoulders. communities, are rallying for the cause of good. But all of it is relative to what we've experienced globally in the past. Nothing will change overnight. Nothing will fix itself so purely that the world will return to a pre-apple-thiefing-eve rosiness. But today, we are once again making history folks - scratch that, we are living history.
but one thing is sure - folks, it is time for a change. and Barack is endearing enough that I can't help but get excited for him.
and for all of us.
whether we succeed in the fight against evil, one thing is certain - we certainly will give it all we've got because YES.WE.CAN.
and on the minds of thousands, around the globe, who will no doubt cluster around television screens, pulled by a force larger than themselves - magnetically, inexplicably - they will wait with bated breath.
and it's quite fitting actually.
that today came after yesterday.
yesterday marked the day when one chocolate-skinned man, decades ago, spoke of a dream when everybody else refused to stand up and speak out. and today, another caramel toned brother will step up on the podium and loudly proclaim that "yes we can" - hope in something larger than what we've had in the past.
i refused to be caught up in the oba-mania spreading like wild fire, globally. but i would be lying if i said a little part of me isn't magnetically drawn to the force that is Barack. Change is on it's way people - whether it's big, small or revolutionary.
the media sits waiting, ready to pounce. the world, with bated breath speak of the "weight of the world" resting on his shoulders. communities, are rallying for the cause of good. But all of it is relative to what we've experienced globally in the past. Nothing will change overnight. Nothing will fix itself so purely that the world will return to a pre-apple-thiefing-eve rosiness. But today, we are once again making history folks - scratch that, we are living history.
but one thing is sure - folks, it is time for a change. and Barack is endearing enough that I can't help but get excited for him.
and for all of us.
whether we succeed in the fight against evil
Sunday, January 18, 2009
the truth is..
"i'm a writer, i use people for what i write" - sharon stone in basic instinct.
unintentionally of course, i find myself storing away little details. the way a man raises his eyebrow and cocks his head when a PYT struts past him - his eyes sending hurried instant messages. the way a mom instinctively puts her hand out to hold her child back from bounding down the stairs in front of them - even though they've probably done this a dozen times before. the nervous laughter that punctuates a sentence in the hopes of covering up awkwardness - boy/girl, girl/girl, boy...you get the picture, i'm sure. it all gets collected, sorted and thrown into piles for pickling. the fermentation process is sketchy but they exist in their neat little jars on a cerebral shelf - feather dusted every once in a while when i stomp through the place, ripping things apart in the hopes of discovering one little thought stuck in a jar of brine - still waiting to become just right.
this weekend was a varied mix of goodness and growth.
friday night - we joined some of mr.man's friends for a night of arabic food and memories of their lifetimes in dubai, eons ago. The shawarma was no match to the delightful handfuls that you get at Yahala Shawarma in Karama, Dubai. No joke, those were by far the tastiest little wraps I've ever consumed and for a measly 3 dhiram's at that. No matter, Paramount, the restaurant we hit up, had all sorts of other authentic goodies - from Zaffer sprinkled cheese pizza type delicacies to mouth watering hummus and fresh ballooned pita's...it was definitely a night of reminiscing and laughter. the night ended at our place after the guys trekked down nostalgia avenue and watched a retrorific superman flick.
saturday was another fun filled day. First there was our brunch at saravana's - the only time we get a hit of real south indian food in our monotonous routine of sautee'd this and stir fried that. I got some mouth-watering rava kichadi and kesari. tres-yum. we then watched basic instinct - which i had never watched fully much to Mr.man's chagrin. it was okay. i still felt it was more porn than movie. The plan for the evening was to hit up a 75th birthday fam jam - it was the first time that thatha had ever cut a cake - in 75 years. And I think i found a new localized cake lady - woot woot! Driving on a blanket of snow would have been much more ideallyic had the traffic been bearable - but with 4 car spin outs littering the 401 - our 25min ride took us 2hours. No matter, the family fun that followed more than made up for it.
sunday - today was supposed to have been my day of familial bliss. the breakfast and movie club had a much-anticipated meeting set up - except mother nature took a poo all over it. with 15 cms of nastiness on the ground - i was stuck in sauga with mr.man. i was incredibly bummed and so mr.man went out of his way to make sure i had a good time. we did a little browsing, a little shopping ( i finally found some GRAY nailpolish and I bought an awesome little dress), a little canoodling and then it was sunday dinner with the inlaws - a regular ritual in my existence.
And that's when i realized how good i have it. My MIL is probably one of the nicest ladies around. She's smart, funny, interesting, fashionable, witty and well connected with the world. And she's fairly non-intrusive. And when she does judge me - she keeps it to herself - which works great for me. So it's easy to be her friend. And while I was bitching and moaning about the few hiccups we might have - never have i taken a moment to be grateful that she's so wonderfully approachable and always open to anything i might have to say. AND she loves my family.
Now, that folks - always seals the deal.
Also, this weekend i missed my bfg. These days we keep missing each other and the truth is that its starting to grate on both our nerves a little. So this tuesday night we have a date and then the three of us will watch Bride Wars. Which i'm sure isn't worth talking or writing about but heck, it's a nice little fluffy number that i'm sure we'll all enjoy as a time pass.
This coming week promises to be hectic. But here are two promises i hope to keep for the next 5 days.
1. Talk to my BFG every day - even if it means i have to phone stalk her until she's tired of me.
2. Go to the gym atleast 3 times this week - and no, getting dressed, going down there and then turning around and coming back home does not count.
grr...sunday-nitis is the worst and this coming from someone who loves her job.
--
Lest I forget, i saw this wicked documentary on sri lanka and the kathirgama festival. Appa used to tell me that when i was super young, we used to go to kathirgama every year when i visited SL. I must make a point to go there the next time I hit SL - which at this point in time looks like it might only happen at the end of this year. No matter, it definitely gives me something to look forward to.
--
time to hit the sack and dream of something special enough to pen in the AM.
unintentionally of course, i find myself storing away little details. the way a man raises his eyebrow and cocks his head when a PYT struts past him - his eyes sending hurried instant messages. the way a mom instinctively puts her hand out to hold her child back from bounding down the stairs in front of them - even though they've probably done this a dozen times before. the nervous laughter that punctuates a sentence in the hopes of covering up awkwardness - boy/girl, girl/girl, boy...you get the picture, i'm sure. it all gets collected, sorted and thrown into piles for pickling. the fermentation process is sketchy but they exist in their neat little jars on a cerebral shelf - feather dusted every once in a while when i stomp through the place, ripping things apart in the hopes of discovering one little thought stuck in a jar of brine - still waiting to become just right.
this weekend was a varied mix of goodness and growth.
friday night - we joined some of mr.man's friends for a night of arabic food and memories of their lifetimes in dubai, eons ago. The shawarma was no match to the delightful handfuls that you get at Yahala Shawarma in Karama, Dubai. No joke, those were by far the tastiest little wraps I've ever consumed and for a measly 3 dhiram's at that. No matter, Paramount, the restaurant we hit up, had all sorts of other authentic goodies - from Zaffer sprinkled cheese pizza type delicacies to mouth watering hummus and fresh ballooned pita's...it was definitely a night of reminiscing and laughter. the night ended at our place after the guys trekked down nostalgia avenue and watched a retrorific superman flick.
saturday was another fun filled day. First there was our brunch at saravana's - the only time we get a hit of real south indian food in our monotonous routine of sautee'd this and stir fried that. I got some mouth-watering rava kichadi and kesari. tres-yum. we then watched basic instinct - which i had never watched fully much to Mr.man's chagrin. it was okay. i still felt it was more porn than movie. The plan for the evening was to hit up a 75th birthday fam jam - it was the first time that thatha had ever cut a cake - in 75 years. And I think i found a new localized cake lady - woot woot! Driving on a blanket of snow would have been much more ideallyic had the traffic been bearable - but with 4 car spin outs littering the 401 - our 25min ride took us 2hours. No matter, the family fun that followed more than made up for it.
sunday - today was supposed to have been my day of familial bliss. the breakfast and movie club had a much-anticipated meeting set up - except mother nature took a poo all over it. with 15 cms of nastiness on the ground - i was stuck in sauga with mr.man. i was incredibly bummed and so mr.man went out of his way to make sure i had a good time. we did a little browsing, a little shopping ( i finally found some GRAY nailpolish and I bought an awesome little dress), a little canoodling and then it was sunday dinner with the inlaws - a regular ritual in my existence.
And that's when i realized how good i have it. My MIL is probably one of the nicest ladies around. She's smart, funny, interesting, fashionable, witty and well connected with the world. And she's fairly non-intrusive. And when she does judge me - she keeps it to herself - which works great for me. So it's easy to be her friend. And while I was bitching and moaning about the few hiccups we might have - never have i taken a moment to be grateful that she's so wonderfully approachable and always open to anything i might have to say. AND she loves my family.
Now, that folks - always seals the deal.
Also, this weekend i missed my bfg. These days we keep missing each other and the truth is that its starting to grate on both our nerves a little. So this tuesday night we have a date and then the three of us will watch Bride Wars. Which i'm sure isn't worth talking or writing about but heck, it's a nice little fluffy number that i'm sure we'll all enjoy as a time pass.
This coming week promises to be hectic. But here are two promises i hope to keep for the next 5 days.
1. Talk to my BFG every day - even if it means i have to phone stalk her until she's tired of me.
2. Go to the gym atleast 3 times this week - and no, getting dressed, going down there and then turning around and coming back home does not count.
grr...sunday-nitis is the worst and this coming from someone who loves her job.
--
Lest I forget, i saw this wicked documentary on sri lanka and the kathirgama festival. Appa used to tell me that when i was super young, we used to go to kathirgama every year when i visited SL. I must make a point to go there the next time I hit SL - which at this point in time looks like it might only happen at the end of this year. No matter, it definitely gives me something to look forward to.
--
time to hit the sack and dream of something special enough to pen in the AM.
Friday, January 16, 2009
a silly little survey
and boy oh boy, do i ever love these. They are the best "time passes" ever!
-- the j 55: who's yo daddy now?!? -- (completed over two days)
1. What is in the back seat of your car right now?
Kleenex. Because with this type of crazed weather - you need all the help you can get. A better question would be "what's in your dickey?" (i heart that term..it reminds me of araliya's, thambili and doing no wrong)
2. What's your favorite curse word?
The f-bomb of course. Although I am exploring incorporating the following into my rhetoric: you smelly pirate hooker
3. Name 3 people who made you smile today?
My bff, M and Ammio
4. What were you doing at 8 am this morning?
Sitting on the Gardiner – waiting for someone to move from the parking lot we call a highway
5. What were you doing 30 minutes ago?
Briefing the creative team on a new project
6. What will you be doing 3 hours from now?
Watching a flick with Mr.Man and his mansome friends. Can we say, sausage fest?!?!
7. Have you ever been to a strip club?
Nope. Because quite frankly i find nothing aesthetically pleasing about pee-pee's or vajayjay's for that matter.
9. What is the last thing you said aloud?
Pee-pee. Hmmm, i still use the same word I did when I was 12 to describe the male genitalia.
10. What is the best ice cream flavor?
Ice cream? I can't stomach it. Sorbet/Gelato on the other hand - *slurp* - I would have to go with lemon/lime, closely followed by raspberry.
11. What was the last thing you had to drink?
Coffee - never deny an advertising accounts jerk her version of water. Not unless you want an unexpected brief that is :)
12. What was the last thing you ate?
A sorry little mandarin orange. I wish they came peeled.
14. Have you bought any new clothing items this week?
Yup. A chocolate brown cardi and a white swiss dot shirt.
15. What's the last sporting event you watched?
The Raps play the Celtics.
16. Who is the last person you emailed?
One of my clients
17. Ever go camping?
Briefly. Literally, I got there, freaked out and wanted to get back home asap. Then I called my dad and asked him to drive 2 hrs north of toronto to pick me up. I'm a...what do you call those people....PUSSY. Everything scares me - the dark, the bugs, the sounds...eeek!
18. Do you have a tan?
According to white people, yes. I love feeling my skin burn in tropical heat though - so according to me, NO.
19. Do you drink your soda from a straw?
I don't do soda. And when I do, it's usually in a glass.
20. What did your last IM say?
What the hell is Nihari?!?
21. Are you someone's best friend?
Yup and it warms the cockles of my heart :)
22. What are you doing tomorrow?
Breakfast with Mr.Man, Seeing above mentioned BFF and my peeps at a fam jam!
23. Where is your mom right now?
At Home. 54 kms away from me.
24. Look to your left, what do you see?
Stacks of paper work. competitive reviews. client files. A constant reminder of my neverending workload. TGILoveMyJob.
25. What color is your watch?
Metallic chocolate brown. I'm sure DKNY has a name for it.
26. What do you think of when you think of Australia ?
My crazy cousins and the Gold Coast.
27. Would you consider plastic surgery?
Ummm, if you know me you totally know I would consider it - theoretically. But if you know me, you also know that I would be too afraid of the pain to actually follow through with it.
28. What is your birthstone?
Don't know and never thought about it.
29.How many kids do you want?
Anything except one. I think having an only child is a curse worse than death. I'd rather have zero than 1. So 2 or more. I'd like to create my own lil' world vision camp.
30. Do you have a dog?
My parents do. A little puggle. He's naughty but lovable. Kinda like the three of us.
31. Last person you talked to on the phone?
Mr.Man - he's picking me up in 20 mins.
32. Have you met anyone famous? (sat morning answers)
When i was young - Nadhiya. This tamil actress. I remember her wearing loads of makeup and everyone in boarding school fawning over her fame and drooling all over my photos. I on the other hand, had no idea what the heck they were going on about! In my adult years, Rohinton Mistry. I cried when I met him. Pathetic? Maybe. But heck, he's better than any boyband in my books.
33. Any plans today?
Well since its now tomorrow, i'd say yea - i've got a jam packed day that I rolled into a little later than originally planned.
34. How many states have you lived in?
None. Countries on the other hand - that's another discussion.
35. Ever go to college?
Yup. And university. I read and write good.
36. Where are you right now?
On my couch in my jammies nursing a cup of starbucks. God, I love Mikey's tassimo. I just named him Marley.
37. Biggest annoyance in your life right now?
My diabetes. But heck, that's always the effin pain in my kundi.
38. Last song listened to?
Love locked down.
39. Are you allergic to anything?
Ignorant people, making breakfast at the condo, mopping....the list could go on and on and on
40. Favorite pair of shoes you wear all the time?
These days my fugly North Face geriatric snow boots - it's the caddy of snowboots but uglier than sin.
41. Are you jealous of anyone?
Mmm lots of people - whole continents of them - who get to bask in warm sunshine and tropical rains all year round.
42. What time is it?
10:38am
43 Do any of your friends have children?
I'm at the phase where everyone i know is pregnant, thinking about it or trying really hard. Everyone's got babies on their brain - including my daddy.
44. What do you usually do during the day?
I'm an accounts jerk that used to be a copywriter - so my work days are filled with loads of psychology (i've always got someone in my office with an issue about something), strategic thinking and making things happen.
45. Has something upset you lately?
Not enough to awaken the volcano that rests within.
46. Do you use the word 'hello' daily?
Or some version of that concept. Usually i'm an "hola" / "whas'happenin?" kinda girl
47. How old will you be turning on your next birthday?
Twenty five...for the 7th time. Crap.
48. Have you ever been to Six Flags?
Nope. And i'd like to keep it that way - I'm shit scared of rollercoasters.
54. How did you get one of your scars?
The one on my left hand - impatiently trying to cut some sugarcane. That's another story for another time.
55. What is your best personality trait?
I'm a whiney, high-maintenance, diva that's a heady combination of a variety of oxymorons. Yup, that's my best personality trait.
--
Now, it's time for some Saravana Bhavan love and maybe a jaunt to Chapters. Yay, to a lazy saturday morning.
-- the j 55: who's yo daddy now?!? -- (completed over two days)
1. What is in the back seat of your car right now?
Kleenex. Because with this type of crazed weather - you need all the help you can get. A better question would be "what's in your dickey?" (i heart that term..it reminds me of araliya's, thambili and doing no wrong)
2. What's your favorite curse word?
The f-bomb of course. Although I am exploring incorporating the following into my rhetoric: you smelly pirate hooker
3. Name 3 people who made you smile today?
My bff, M and Ammio
4. What were you doing at 8 am this morning?
Sitting on the Gardiner – waiting for someone to move from the parking lot we call a highway
5. What were you doing 30 minutes ago?
Briefing the creative team on a new project
6. What will you be doing 3 hours from now?
Watching a flick with Mr.Man and his mansome friends. Can we say, sausage fest?!?!
7. Have you ever been to a strip club?
Nope. Because quite frankly i find nothing aesthetically pleasing about pee-pee's or vajayjay's for that matter.
9. What is the last thing you said aloud?
Pee-pee. Hmmm, i still use the same word I did when I was 12 to describe the male genitalia.
10. What is the best ice cream flavor?
Ice cream? I can't stomach it. Sorbet/Gelato on the other hand - *slurp* - I would have to go with lemon/lime, closely followed by raspberry.
11. What was the last thing you had to drink?
Coffee - never deny an advertising accounts jerk her version of water. Not unless you want an unexpected brief that is :)
12. What was the last thing you ate?
A sorry little mandarin orange. I wish they came peeled.
14. Have you bought any new clothing items this week?
Yup. A chocolate brown cardi and a white swiss dot shirt.
15. What's the last sporting event you watched?
The Raps play the Celtics.
16. Who is the last person you emailed?
One of my clients
17. Ever go camping?
Briefly. Literally, I got there, freaked out and wanted to get back home asap. Then I called my dad and asked him to drive 2 hrs north of toronto to pick me up. I'm a...what do you call those people....PUSSY. Everything scares me - the dark, the bugs, the sounds...eeek!
18. Do you have a tan?
According to white people, yes. I love feeling my skin burn in tropical heat though - so according to me, NO.
19. Do you drink your soda from a straw?
I don't do soda. And when I do, it's usually in a glass.
20. What did your last IM say?
What the hell is Nihari?!?
21. Are you someone's best friend?
Yup and it warms the cockles of my heart :)
22. What are you doing tomorrow?
Breakfast with Mr.Man, Seeing above mentioned BFF and my peeps at a fam jam!
23. Where is your mom right now?
At Home. 54 kms away from me.
24. Look to your left, what do you see?
Stacks of paper work. competitive reviews. client files. A constant reminder of my neverending workload. TGILoveMyJob.
25. What color is your watch?
Metallic chocolate brown. I'm sure DKNY has a name for it.
26. What do you think of when you think of Australia ?
My crazy cousins and the Gold Coast.
27. Would you consider plastic surgery?
Ummm, if you know me you totally know I would consider it - theoretically. But if you know me, you also know that I would be too afraid of the pain to actually follow through with it.
28. What is your birthstone?
Don't know and never thought about it.
29.How many kids do you want?
Anything except one. I think having an only child is a curse worse than death. I'd rather have zero than 1. So 2 or more. I'd like to create my own lil' world vision camp.
30. Do you have a dog?
My parents do. A little puggle. He's naughty but lovable. Kinda like the three of us.
31. Last person you talked to on the phone?
Mr.Man - he's picking me up in 20 mins.
32. Have you met anyone famous? (sat morning answers)
When i was young - Nadhiya. This tamil actress. I remember her wearing loads of makeup and everyone in boarding school fawning over her fame and drooling all over my photos. I on the other hand, had no idea what the heck they were going on about! In my adult years, Rohinton Mistry. I cried when I met him. Pathetic? Maybe. But heck, he's better than any boyband in my books.
33. Any plans today?
Well since its now tomorrow, i'd say yea - i've got a jam packed day that I rolled into a little later than originally planned.
34. How many states have you lived in?
None. Countries on the other hand - that's another discussion.
35. Ever go to college?
Yup. And university. I read and write good.
36. Where are you right now?
On my couch in my jammies nursing a cup of starbucks. God, I love Mikey's tassimo. I just named him Marley.
37. Biggest annoyance in your life right now?
My diabetes. But heck, that's always the effin pain in my kundi.
38. Last song listened to?
Love locked down.
39. Are you allergic to anything?
Ignorant people, making breakfast at the condo, mopping....the list could go on and on and on
40. Favorite pair of shoes you wear all the time?
These days my fugly North Face geriatric snow boots - it's the caddy of snowboots but uglier than sin.
41. Are you jealous of anyone?
Mmm lots of people - whole continents of them - who get to bask in warm sunshine and tropical rains all year round.
42. What time is it?
10:38am
43 Do any of your friends have children?
I'm at the phase where everyone i know is pregnant, thinking about it or trying really hard. Everyone's got babies on their brain - including my daddy.
44. What do you usually do during the day?
I'm an accounts jerk that used to be a copywriter - so my work days are filled with loads of psychology (i've always got someone in my office with an issue about something), strategic thinking and making things happen.
45. Has something upset you lately?
Not enough to awaken the volcano that rests within.
46. Do you use the word 'hello' daily?
Or some version of that concept. Usually i'm an "hola" / "whas'happenin?" kinda girl
47. How old will you be turning on your next birthday?
Twenty five...for the 7th time. Crap.
48. Have you ever been to Six Flags?
Nope. And i'd like to keep it that way - I'm shit scared of rollercoasters.
54. How did you get one of your scars?
The one on my left hand - impatiently trying to cut some sugarcane. That's another story for another time.
55. What is your best personality trait?
I'm a whiney, high-maintenance, diva that's a heady combination of a variety of oxymorons. Yup, that's my best personality trait.
--
Now, it's time for some Saravana Bhavan love and maybe a jaunt to Chapters. Yay, to a lazy saturday morning.
even in death....
his truth shall ring in the ears and echo in the minds of the reflective few - transcending geography.
A lot has been happening in Sri Lanka. More so than usual. SL is a country where you could lose your life for more than one reason - none which would resonate with a rational human being. Being a controversial journalist, albeit a brave and courageous one, is similar to drawing a massive red target on yourself. Your lease on life is exactly that - a lease. One that can be terminated at any given moment by either side.
That's what happened to Lasantha.
Lasantha Wickrematunge, 50, was stabbed and shot to death in broad daylight last Friday (Jan 9th) as he drove to work at The Sunday Leader, the liberal Colombo-based newspaper he edited. As most people in his position, he knew that the work he did would eventually catch up to him considering the climate of his contextual existence. In preparation, he wrote his own eulogy. I've attached it below, for memories sake.
I wasn't going to blog about this. Mostly because his murder does not afflict the bubble in which I exist. And in true human fashion, if something doesn't directly impact my life - it's worthy of a few ummm's, ahh's and cursory remarks - but then it's brushed aside to make way for the really important things in my life. Like sales for instance - JCrew is having one (extra 20% off their already marked down stuff), obsessing over driving in the snow, the conundrum of which flick is worthy of a sunday matinee date or the Obama fever that does impact my mostly placid Canadian existence.
Superficial? Totally.
But is it real? Do we all do this? Absolutely.
Does that make it right? Absolutely Not.
Perhaps now is a good time to get someone to change that freaking bulb so the switch can finally go on.
I have always had an incredibly organic relationship with SL. It's like a set of behaviors neatly labeled and set aside for the right time and the right place. It emerges, rumbling awake from it's dormant state, at the strangest triggers. I still haven't figured this part of my life out.
I'm constantly questioned about my ethnicity. I'm not tamil enough for the tamil folk. Not Sri Lankan enough for the Sinhalese folk. Not brown enough to exist anywhere wholly. I seem to be part of that generation that's caught between different worlds. Constantly defining my culture. Consistently trying to prove that I am in fact worthy of my nationalities. And it's tiring. The tread marks of getting run over by skeptics, at every turn, is starting to slow the mojo down. I can't get over how often I've tried to be "more" of something to no avail. It always comes down to the fact that I'm too white, too Canadian, too disengaged, too far gone - to belong. To any one place - fully.
And somewhere in my twenties it clicked.
All I have to do is be me. And I will be as Sri Lankan and as Canadian as only I can. And that is okay. It doesn't matter if I fit their definition - because nobody walks in my shoes - except me. Simple I know - but for me, it's been a journey. well, more like an uphill battle...not that I'm bitter about it or anything ;)
Like others, my perspective of the world is built on the views of my past. And my past is firmly rooted in the happenings of a broken Sri Lanka. One day, I hope to be able to explain this journey that I've witnessed, perhaps even allude to how it started and the cost of this internal war on our people. Most importantly, one day, I hope to understand it. One day...I'm sure there are lots of us, who feel this way about a lot of things. And in the spirit of that, I wanted to document this event more for myself than for anyone else.
---
'And Then They Came For Me'
By Lasantha Wickrematunge
NO other profession calls on its practitioners to lay down their lives for their art save the armed forces and, in Sri Lanka, journalism. In the course of the past few years, the independent media have increasingly come under attack. Electronic and print-media institutions have been burnt, bombed, sealed and coerced. Countless journalists have been harassed, threatened and killed. It has been my honour to belong to all those categories and now especially the last.
I have been in the business of journalism a good long time. Indeed, 2009 will be The Sunday Leader's 15th year. Many things have changed in Sri Lanka during that time, and it does not need me to tell you that the greater part of that change has been for the worse. We find ourselves in the midst of a civil war ruthlessly prosecuted by protagonists whose bloodlust knows no bounds. Terror, whether perpetrated by terrorists or the state, has become the order of the day. Indeed, murder has become the primary tool whereby the state seeks to control the organs of liberty. Today it is the journalists, tomorrow it will be the judges. For neither group have the risks ever been higher or the stakes lower.
Why then do we do it? I often wonder that. After all, I too am a husband, and the father of three wonderful children. I too have responsibilities and obligations that transcend my profession, be it the law or journalism. Is it worth the risk? Many people tell me it is not. Friends tell me to revert to the bar, and goodness knows it offers a better and safer livelihood. Others, including political leaders on both sides, have at various times sought to induce me to take to politics, going so far as to offer me ministries of my choice. Diplomats, recognising the risk journalists face in Sri Lanka, have offered me safe passage and the right of residence in their countries. Whatever else I may have been stuck for, I have not been stuck for choice.
But there is a calling that is yet above high office, fame, lucre and security. It is the call of conscience.
The Sunday Leader has been a controversial newspaper because we say it like we see it: whether it be a spade, a thief or a murderer, we call it by that name. We do not hide behind euphemism. The investigative articles we print are supported by documentary evidence thanks to the public-spiritedness of citizens who at great risk to themselves pass on this material to us. We have exposed scandal after scandal, and never once in these 15 years has anyone proved us wrong or successfully prosecuted us.
The free media serve as a mirror in which the public can see itself sans mascara and styling gel. From us you learn the state of your nation, and especially its management by the people you elected to give your children a better future. Sometimes the image you see in that mirror is not a pleasant one. But while you may grumble in the privacy of your armchair, the journalists who hold the mirror up to you do so publicly and at great risk to themselves. That is our calling, and we do not shirk it.
Every newspaper has its angle, and we do not hide the fact that we have ours. Our commitment is to see Sri Lanka as a transparent, secular, liberal democracy. Think about those words, for they each has profound meaning. Transparent because government must be openly accountable to the people and never abuse their trust. Secular because in a multi-ethnic and multi-cultural society such as ours, secularism offers the only common ground by which we might all be united. Liberal because we recognise that all human beings are created different, and we need to accept others for what they are and not what we would like them to be. And democratic... well, if you need me to explain why that is important, you'd best stop buying this paper.
The Sunday Leader has never sought safety by unquestioningly articulating the majority view. Let's face it, that is the way to sell newspapers. On the contrary, as our opinion pieces over the years amply demonstrate, we often voice ideas that many people find distasteful. For example, we have consistently espoused the view that while separatist terrorism must be eradicated, it is more important to address the root causes of terrorism, and urged government to view Sri Lanka's ethnic strife in the context of history and not through the telescope of terrorism. We have also agitated against state terrorism in the so-called war against terror, and made no secret of our horror that Sri Lanka is the only country in the world routinely to bomb its own citizens. For these views we have been labelled traitors, and if this be treachery, we wear that label proudly.
Many people suspect that The Sunday Leader has a political agenda: it does not. If we appear more critical of the government than of the opposition it is only because we believe that - pray excuse cricketing argot - there is no point in bowling to the fielding side. Remember that for the few years of our existence in which the UNP was in office, we proved to be the biggest thorn in its flesh, exposing excess and corruption wherever it occurred. Indeed, the steady stream of embarrassing expos‚s we published may well have served to precipitate the downfall of that government.
Neither should our distaste for the war be interpreted to mean that we support the Tigers. The LTTE are among the most ruthless and bloodthirsty organisations ever to have infested the planet. There is no gainsaying that it must be eradicated. But to do so by violating the rights of Tamil citizens, bombing and shooting them mercilessly, is not only wrong but shames the Sinhalese, whose claim to be custodians of the dhamma is forever called into question by this savagery, much of which is unknown to the public because of censorship.
What is more, a military occupation of the country's north and east will require the Tamil people of those regions to live eternally as second-class citizens, deprived of all self respect. Do not imagine that you can placate them by showering "development" and "reconstruction" on them in the post-war era. The wounds of war will scar them forever, and you will also have an even more bitter and hateful Diaspora to contend with. A problem amenable to a political solution will thus become a festering wound that will yield strife for all eternity. If I seem angry and frustrated, it is only because most of my countrymen - and all of the government - cannot see this writing so plainly on the wall.
It is well known that I was on two occasions brutally assaulted, while on another my house was sprayed with machine-gun fire. Despite the government's sanctimonious assurances, there was never a serious police inquiry into the perpetrators of these attacks, and the attackers were never apprehended. In all these cases, I have reason to believe the attacks were inspired by the government. When finally I am killed, it will be the government that kills me.
The irony in this is that, unknown to most of the public, Mahinda and I have been friends for more than a quarter century. Indeed, I suspect that I am one of the few people remaining who routinely addresses him by his first name and uses the familiar Sinhala address oya when talking to him. Although I do not attend the meetings he periodically holds for newspaper editors, hardly a month passes when we do not meet, privately or with a few close friends present, late at night at President's House. There we swap yarns, discuss politics and joke about the good old days. A few remarks to him would therefore be in order here.
Mahinda, when you finally fought your way to the SLFP presidential nomination in 2005, nowhere were you welcomed more warmly than in this column. Indeed, we broke with a decade of tradition by referring to you throughout by your first name. So well known were your commitments to human rights and liberal values that we ushered you in like a breath of fresh air. Then, through an act of folly, you got yourself involved in the Helping Hambantota scandal. It was after a lot of soul-searching that we broke the story, at the same time urging you to return the money. By the time you did so several weeks later, a great blow had been struck to your reputation. It is one you are still trying to live down.
You have told me yourself that you were not greedy for the presidency. You did not have to hanker after it: it fell into your lap. You have told me that your sons are your greatest joy, and that you love spending time with them, leaving your brothers to operate the machinery of state. Now, it is clear to all who will see that that machinery has operated so well that my sons and daughter do not themselves have a father.
In the wake of my death I know you will make all the usual sanctimonious noises and call upon the police to hold a swift and thorough inquiry. But like all the inquiries you have ordered in the past, nothing will come of this one, too. For truth be told, we both know who will be behind my death, but dare not call his name. Not just my life, but yours too, depends on it.
Sadly, for all the dreams you had for our country in your younger days, in just three years you have reduced it to rubble. In the name of patriotism you have trampled on human rights, nurtured unbridled corruption and squandered public money like no other President before you. Indeed, your conduct has been like a small child suddenly let loose in a toyshop. That analogy is perhaps inapt because no child could have caused so much blood to be spilled on this land as you have, or trampled on the rights of its citizens as you do. Although you are now so drunk with power that you cannot see it, you will come to regret your sons having so rich an inheritance of blood. It can only bring tragedy. As for me, it is with a clear conscience that I go to meet my Maker. I wish, when your time finally comes, you could do the same. I wish.
As for me, I have the satisfaction of knowing that I walked tall and bowed to no man. And I have not travelled this journey alone. Fellow journalists in other branches of the media walked with me: most of them are now dead, imprisoned without trial or exiled in far-off lands. Others walk in the shadow of death that your Presidency has cast on the freedoms for which you once fought so hard. You will never be allowed to forget that my death took place under your watch. As anguished as I know you will be, I also know that you will have no choice but to protect my killers: you will see to it that the guilty one is never convicted. You have no choice. I feel sorry for you, and Shiranthi will have a long time to spend on her knees when next she goes for Confession for it is not just her owns sins which she must confess, but those of her extended family that keeps you in office.
As for the readers of The Sunday Leader, what can I say but Thank You for supporting our mission. We have espoused unpopular causes, stood up for those too feeble to stand up for themselves, locked horns with the high and mighty so swollen with power that they have forgotten their roots, exposed corruption and the waste of your hard-earned tax rupees, and made sure that whatever the propaganda of the day, you were allowed to hear a contrary view. For this I - and my family - have now paid the price that I have long known I will one day have to pay. I am - and have always been - ready for that. I have done nothing to prevent this outcome: no security, no precautions. I want my murderer to know that I am not a coward like he is, hiding behind human shields while condemning thousands of innocents to death. What am I among so many? It has long been written that my life would be taken, and by whom. All that remains to be written is when.
That The Sunday Leader will continue fighting the good fight, too, is written. For I did not fight this fight alone. Many more of us have to be - and will be - killed before The Leader is laid to rest. I hope my assassination will be seen not as a defeat of freedom but an inspiration for those who survive to step up their efforts. Indeed, I hope that it will help galvanise forces that will usher in a new era of human liberty in our beloved motherland. I also hope it will open the eyes of your President to the fact that however many are slaughtered in the name of patriotism, the human spirit will endure and flourish. Not all the Rajapakses combined can kill that.
People often ask me why I take such risks and tell me it is a matter of time before I am bumped off. Of course I know that: it is inevitable. But if we do not speak out now, there will be no one left to speak for those who cannot, whether they be ethnic minorities, the disadvantaged or the persecuted. An example that has inspired me throughout my career in journalism has been that of the German theologian, Martin Niem"ller. In his youth he was an anti-Semite and an admirer of Hitler. As Nazism took hold in Germany, however, he saw Nazism for what it was: it was not just the Jews Hitler sought to extirpate, it was just about anyone with an alternate point of view. Niem"ller spoke out, and for his trouble was incarcerated in the Sachsenhausen and Dachau concentration camps from 1937 to 1945, and very nearly executed. While incarcerated, Niem"ller wrote a poem that, from the first time I read it in my teenage years, stuck hauntingly in my mind:
First they came for the Jews
and I did not speak out because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the Communists
and I did not speak out because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists
and I did not speak out because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left to speak out for me.
If you remember nothing else, remember this: The Leader is there for you, be you Sinhalese, Tamil, Muslim, low-caste, homosexual, dissident or disabled. Its staff will fight on, unbowed and unafraid, with the courage to which you have become accustomed. Do not take that commitment for granted. Let there be no doubt that whatever sacrifices we journalists make, they are not made for our own glory or enrichment: they are made for you. Whether you deserve their sacrifice is another matter. As for me, God knows I tried.
---
*sigh* definitely, blog worthy.
A lot has been happening in Sri Lanka. More so than usual. SL is a country where you could lose your life for more than one reason - none which would resonate with a rational human being. Being a controversial journalist, albeit a brave and courageous one, is similar to drawing a massive red target on yourself. Your lease on life is exactly that - a lease. One that can be terminated at any given moment by either side.
That's what happened to Lasantha.
Lasantha Wickrematunge, 50, was stabbed and shot to death in broad daylight last Friday (Jan 9th) as he drove to work at The Sunday Leader, the liberal Colombo-based newspaper he edited. As most people in his position, he knew that the work he did would eventually catch up to him considering the climate of his contextual existence. In preparation, he wrote his own eulogy. I've attached it below, for memories sake.
I wasn't going to blog about this. Mostly because his murder does not afflict the bubble in which I exist. And in true human fashion, if something doesn't directly impact my life - it's worthy of a few ummm's, ahh's and cursory remarks - but then it's brushed aside to make way for the really important things in my life. Like sales for instance - JCrew is having one (extra 20% off their already marked down stuff), obsessing over driving in the snow, the conundrum of which flick is worthy of a sunday matinee date or the Obama fever that does impact my mostly placid Canadian existence.
Superficial? Totally.
But is it real? Do we all do this? Absolutely.
Does that make it right? Absolutely Not.
Perhaps now is a good time to get someone to change that freaking bulb so the switch can finally go on.
I have always had an incredibly organic relationship with SL. It's like a set of behaviors neatly labeled and set aside for the right time and the right place. It emerges, rumbling awake from it's dormant state, at the strangest triggers. I still haven't figured this part of my life out.
I'm constantly questioned about my ethnicity. I'm not tamil enough for the tamil folk. Not Sri Lankan enough for the Sinhalese folk. Not brown enough to exist anywhere wholly. I seem to be part of that generation that's caught between different worlds. Constantly defining my culture. Consistently trying to prove that I am in fact worthy of my nationalities. And it's tiring. The tread marks of getting run over by skeptics, at every turn, is starting to slow the mojo down. I can't get over how often I've tried to be "more" of something to no avail. It always comes down to the fact that I'm too white, too Canadian, too disengaged, too far gone - to belong. To any one place - fully.
And somewhere in my twenties it clicked.
All I have to do is be me. And I will be as Sri Lankan and as Canadian as only I can. And that is okay. It doesn't matter if I fit their definition - because nobody walks in my shoes - except me. Simple I know - but for me, it's been a journey. well, more like an uphill battle...not that I'm bitter about it or anything ;)
Like others, my perspective of the world is built on the views of my past. And my past is firmly rooted in the happenings of a broken Sri Lanka. One day, I hope to be able to explain this journey that I've witnessed, perhaps even allude to how it started and the cost of this internal war on our people. Most importantly, one day, I hope to understand it. One day...I'm sure there are lots of us, who feel this way about a lot of things. And in the spirit of that, I wanted to document this event more for myself than for anyone else.
---
'And Then They Came For Me'
By Lasantha Wickrematunge
NO other profession calls on its practitioners to lay down their lives for their art save the armed forces and, in Sri Lanka, journalism. In the course of the past few years, the independent media have increasingly come under attack. Electronic and print-media institutions have been burnt, bombed, sealed and coerced. Countless journalists have been harassed, threatened and killed. It has been my honour to belong to all those categories and now especially the last.
I have been in the business of journalism a good long time. Indeed, 2009 will be The Sunday Leader's 15th year. Many things have changed in Sri Lanka during that time, and it does not need me to tell you that the greater part of that change has been for the worse. We find ourselves in the midst of a civil war ruthlessly prosecuted by protagonists whose bloodlust knows no bounds. Terror, whether perpetrated by terrorists or the state, has become the order of the day. Indeed, murder has become the primary tool whereby the state seeks to control the organs of liberty. Today it is the journalists, tomorrow it will be the judges. For neither group have the risks ever been higher or the stakes lower.
Why then do we do it? I often wonder that. After all, I too am a husband, and the father of three wonderful children. I too have responsibilities and obligations that transcend my profession, be it the law or journalism. Is it worth the risk? Many people tell me it is not. Friends tell me to revert to the bar, and goodness knows it offers a better and safer livelihood. Others, including political leaders on both sides, have at various times sought to induce me to take to politics, going so far as to offer me ministries of my choice. Diplomats, recognising the risk journalists face in Sri Lanka, have offered me safe passage and the right of residence in their countries. Whatever else I may have been stuck for, I have not been stuck for choice.
But there is a calling that is yet above high office, fame, lucre and security. It is the call of conscience.
The Sunday Leader has been a controversial newspaper because we say it like we see it: whether it be a spade, a thief or a murderer, we call it by that name. We do not hide behind euphemism. The investigative articles we print are supported by documentary evidence thanks to the public-spiritedness of citizens who at great risk to themselves pass on this material to us. We have exposed scandal after scandal, and never once in these 15 years has anyone proved us wrong or successfully prosecuted us.
The free media serve as a mirror in which the public can see itself sans mascara and styling gel. From us you learn the state of your nation, and especially its management by the people you elected to give your children a better future. Sometimes the image you see in that mirror is not a pleasant one. But while you may grumble in the privacy of your armchair, the journalists who hold the mirror up to you do so publicly and at great risk to themselves. That is our calling, and we do not shirk it.
Every newspaper has its angle, and we do not hide the fact that we have ours. Our commitment is to see Sri Lanka as a transparent, secular, liberal democracy. Think about those words, for they each has profound meaning. Transparent because government must be openly accountable to the people and never abuse their trust. Secular because in a multi-ethnic and multi-cultural society such as ours, secularism offers the only common ground by which we might all be united. Liberal because we recognise that all human beings are created different, and we need to accept others for what they are and not what we would like them to be. And democratic... well, if you need me to explain why that is important, you'd best stop buying this paper.
The Sunday Leader has never sought safety by unquestioningly articulating the majority view. Let's face it, that is the way to sell newspapers. On the contrary, as our opinion pieces over the years amply demonstrate, we often voice ideas that many people find distasteful. For example, we have consistently espoused the view that while separatist terrorism must be eradicated, it is more important to address the root causes of terrorism, and urged government to view Sri Lanka's ethnic strife in the context of history and not through the telescope of terrorism. We have also agitated against state terrorism in the so-called war against terror, and made no secret of our horror that Sri Lanka is the only country in the world routinely to bomb its own citizens. For these views we have been labelled traitors, and if this be treachery, we wear that label proudly.
Many people suspect that The Sunday Leader has a political agenda: it does not. If we appear more critical of the government than of the opposition it is only because we believe that - pray excuse cricketing argot - there is no point in bowling to the fielding side. Remember that for the few years of our existence in which the UNP was in office, we proved to be the biggest thorn in its flesh, exposing excess and corruption wherever it occurred. Indeed, the steady stream of embarrassing expos‚s we published may well have served to precipitate the downfall of that government.
Neither should our distaste for the war be interpreted to mean that we support the Tigers. The LTTE are among the most ruthless and bloodthirsty organisations ever to have infested the planet. There is no gainsaying that it must be eradicated. But to do so by violating the rights of Tamil citizens, bombing and shooting them mercilessly, is not only wrong but shames the Sinhalese, whose claim to be custodians of the dhamma is forever called into question by this savagery, much of which is unknown to the public because of censorship.
What is more, a military occupation of the country's north and east will require the Tamil people of those regions to live eternally as second-class citizens, deprived of all self respect. Do not imagine that you can placate them by showering "development" and "reconstruction" on them in the post-war era. The wounds of war will scar them forever, and you will also have an even more bitter and hateful Diaspora to contend with. A problem amenable to a political solution will thus become a festering wound that will yield strife for all eternity. If I seem angry and frustrated, it is only because most of my countrymen - and all of the government - cannot see this writing so plainly on the wall.
It is well known that I was on two occasions brutally assaulted, while on another my house was sprayed with machine-gun fire. Despite the government's sanctimonious assurances, there was never a serious police inquiry into the perpetrators of these attacks, and the attackers were never apprehended. In all these cases, I have reason to believe the attacks were inspired by the government. When finally I am killed, it will be the government that kills me.
The irony in this is that, unknown to most of the public, Mahinda and I have been friends for more than a quarter century. Indeed, I suspect that I am one of the few people remaining who routinely addresses him by his first name and uses the familiar Sinhala address oya when talking to him. Although I do not attend the meetings he periodically holds for newspaper editors, hardly a month passes when we do not meet, privately or with a few close friends present, late at night at President's House. There we swap yarns, discuss politics and joke about the good old days. A few remarks to him would therefore be in order here.
Mahinda, when you finally fought your way to the SLFP presidential nomination in 2005, nowhere were you welcomed more warmly than in this column. Indeed, we broke with a decade of tradition by referring to you throughout by your first name. So well known were your commitments to human rights and liberal values that we ushered you in like a breath of fresh air. Then, through an act of folly, you got yourself involved in the Helping Hambantota scandal. It was after a lot of soul-searching that we broke the story, at the same time urging you to return the money. By the time you did so several weeks later, a great blow had been struck to your reputation. It is one you are still trying to live down.
You have told me yourself that you were not greedy for the presidency. You did not have to hanker after it: it fell into your lap. You have told me that your sons are your greatest joy, and that you love spending time with them, leaving your brothers to operate the machinery of state. Now, it is clear to all who will see that that machinery has operated so well that my sons and daughter do not themselves have a father.
In the wake of my death I know you will make all the usual sanctimonious noises and call upon the police to hold a swift and thorough inquiry. But like all the inquiries you have ordered in the past, nothing will come of this one, too. For truth be told, we both know who will be behind my death, but dare not call his name. Not just my life, but yours too, depends on it.
Sadly, for all the dreams you had for our country in your younger days, in just three years you have reduced it to rubble. In the name of patriotism you have trampled on human rights, nurtured unbridled corruption and squandered public money like no other President before you. Indeed, your conduct has been like a small child suddenly let loose in a toyshop. That analogy is perhaps inapt because no child could have caused so much blood to be spilled on this land as you have, or trampled on the rights of its citizens as you do. Although you are now so drunk with power that you cannot see it, you will come to regret your sons having so rich an inheritance of blood. It can only bring tragedy. As for me, it is with a clear conscience that I go to meet my Maker. I wish, when your time finally comes, you could do the same. I wish.
As for me, I have the satisfaction of knowing that I walked tall and bowed to no man. And I have not travelled this journey alone. Fellow journalists in other branches of the media walked with me: most of them are now dead, imprisoned without trial or exiled in far-off lands. Others walk in the shadow of death that your Presidency has cast on the freedoms for which you once fought so hard. You will never be allowed to forget that my death took place under your watch. As anguished as I know you will be, I also know that you will have no choice but to protect my killers: you will see to it that the guilty one is never convicted. You have no choice. I feel sorry for you, and Shiranthi will have a long time to spend on her knees when next she goes for Confession for it is not just her owns sins which she must confess, but those of her extended family that keeps you in office.
As for the readers of The Sunday Leader, what can I say but Thank You for supporting our mission. We have espoused unpopular causes, stood up for those too feeble to stand up for themselves, locked horns with the high and mighty so swollen with power that they have forgotten their roots, exposed corruption and the waste of your hard-earned tax rupees, and made sure that whatever the propaganda of the day, you were allowed to hear a contrary view. For this I - and my family - have now paid the price that I have long known I will one day have to pay. I am - and have always been - ready for that. I have done nothing to prevent this outcome: no security, no precautions. I want my murderer to know that I am not a coward like he is, hiding behind human shields while condemning thousands of innocents to death. What am I among so many? It has long been written that my life would be taken, and by whom. All that remains to be written is when.
That The Sunday Leader will continue fighting the good fight, too, is written. For I did not fight this fight alone. Many more of us have to be - and will be - killed before The Leader is laid to rest. I hope my assassination will be seen not as a defeat of freedom but an inspiration for those who survive to step up their efforts. Indeed, I hope that it will help galvanise forces that will usher in a new era of human liberty in our beloved motherland. I also hope it will open the eyes of your President to the fact that however many are slaughtered in the name of patriotism, the human spirit will endure and flourish. Not all the Rajapakses combined can kill that.
People often ask me why I take such risks and tell me it is a matter of time before I am bumped off. Of course I know that: it is inevitable. But if we do not speak out now, there will be no one left to speak for those who cannot, whether they be ethnic minorities, the disadvantaged or the persecuted. An example that has inspired me throughout my career in journalism has been that of the German theologian, Martin Niem"ller. In his youth he was an anti-Semite and an admirer of Hitler. As Nazism took hold in Germany, however, he saw Nazism for what it was: it was not just the Jews Hitler sought to extirpate, it was just about anyone with an alternate point of view. Niem"ller spoke out, and for his trouble was incarcerated in the Sachsenhausen and Dachau concentration camps from 1937 to 1945, and very nearly executed. While incarcerated, Niem"ller wrote a poem that, from the first time I read it in my teenage years, stuck hauntingly in my mind:
First they came for the Jews
and I did not speak out because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the Communists
and I did not speak out because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists
and I did not speak out because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left to speak out for me.
If you remember nothing else, remember this: The Leader is there for you, be you Sinhalese, Tamil, Muslim, low-caste, homosexual, dissident or disabled. Its staff will fight on, unbowed and unafraid, with the courage to which you have become accustomed. Do not take that commitment for granted. Let there be no doubt that whatever sacrifices we journalists make, they are not made for our own glory or enrichment: they are made for you. Whether you deserve their sacrifice is another matter. As for me, God knows I tried.
---
*sigh* definitely, blog worthy.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
"Happy Pongal..
wishing you and your family all the best" the email said.
And that's when i realized that crikey, once again my brown self had misplaced a date. Mind you, here Pongal is nothing like it is back in India. I don't really remember too many Pongal's in Sri Lanka either. There's only one that stands out. But in India, it's a week filled with religious debauchery.
--::-- The only memorable Pongal in Sri Lanka --::--
I must have been about 7 . I say this without the conviction of factual knowledge, because much like most Sri Lankan children brutally severed from their pasts, I don’t have too many childhood tangibles that traveled with us. The one picture I remember seeing had both my grandparents in it - so it must have been '85 or '86.
Because SHE passed away in ’86 leaving a void that never managed to get filled. Despite our best efforts.
The morning air carried with it the scent of sea salt. And the sullen promise of unpredictability. I can still recall the symphony of the torrential downpour from the night before, leaving everything vibrating in dew as dawn squeaked past it and wiped the slate clean. Water, it cleanses everything in it’s path.
A profound insight, I couldn’t wait to share.
I remember climbing on thatha’s brown leather chair to peek out the window. Yup, there they were. Curled into themselves, shielding their fleshy pink faces from the sudden downpour of stinging hot rain. The lotus’ were her favorite. I used to think the pond existed just so that they had a home. She loved us all that wholly.
My Chithi sauntered out, wrapped in a white sari, the colour earmarked for mourning by Hindu’s. Maybe she knew, subconsciously, that the end was in fact, grazing against the bubble that we lived in – slowly and most certainly eating away at the protective membrane they’d taken years to cultivate. White was just that. The signal that as one thing ends, another inevitably begins.
Our ayah’s with the help of our butler had tied tall moist stalks of sugarcane to the sides of our gate with other Pongal decorations, leaves folded on a taunt twine line, creating a haveli of sorts. I don’t recall 75 IBC road, ever looking that un-Buddhist. My grandparents, Hindu by birth, had always worn their Buddhist affinities on their sleeves. They embraced it, clinging to a way of life they had adopted when they had bought that piece of land. It was their Tamil, Hindu blood that helped build the Buddhist temple across the street from our house – both financially and physically. But on Pongal day, we were Hindu and damn proud of it.
So this was indeed a special occasion. I recall scurrying around the bricks, careful to tuck in my toes, and the two mischief filled toddlers (my sisters), when they got too close to the edge of the driveway./< Of the round clay pot>/< Of life>.
I busied myself helping light a fire so our pot of blessings can overflow with goodwill and signal the beginning of a new year. I don’t recall much else other than the sound of firecrackers, the milky sweetness of kiri bath, the tingling of lunu miris and the details of the house. Strangely, my surroundings seem to have etched themselves with permanent ink against the building blocks of my childhood. But for the life of me, I can’t recall the details of the people around me.
It’s probably because by the time I was 7, I had already lived too many lifetimes; been on too many journeys. And had much more information to process than my brain was anticipating.
And that’s why I regret the one thing my folks regret the most. The gaping void of having a sparse visual history. All our baby pictures were burned in a fire. I know it wasn’t in the ’83 riots – I don’t think. But to me, it might as well have been. Sri Lanka and our lives finally mirrored each other. We all started anew after that event and our lives began on fresh slates clouded by the memories of too much lost.
Maybe that’s why I’m so camera-happy these days, much to the displeasure of my crew. I carry my lil’ canon around more often than my phone. I have this inherent, fanatical need to document everything. Because to me, pictures paint a thousand words – especially when memory fails and words have a way of recreating themselves.
Which I’m starting to realize more and more, on a first hand basis.
That one photo captured everything- pre.cisely.
My thatha stands by the overflowing pot, wearing a traditional white sarong and a white shirt, he normally reserved for political meetings or his jaunts to the temple across the street. My sisters were in his arms, proudly on display for the singular gaze of an unflinching camera lens. It’s almost like he knew that one day, this would be a defining piece of evidence that we’d re-visit a hundred times, in the hopes of deciphering our past.
And I was there by his side, as I often was. Positioned, slyly. Half-hidden behind him, my features pulled together in an expression of unadulterated defiance. But towards what, I can’t recall. Maybe it was the knowledge that I would soon be placed firmly on an aircraft – sent back to where I rightfully belonged – at boarding school.
Wow. It always astounds me when something tickles a niche of my brain and it throws up memories that it can’t contain any longer. That’s particularly why I have this space – not because I assume that what I have to say is of any interest to anyone – but because, I realize how fast my childhood memories are being replaced by other ones.
It’s almost like being pushed off a conveyor belt – eventually something’s got to give.
--::--
I wish I could say Pongal '09 was as eventful as the ones from my childhood. This year, I spent it freezing my kundi off in -39 type temperatures. Everything seemed to go wrong yesterday – from the traffic to the terrific mushroom & spinach stuffed chicken. I said a silent prayer – not because I have anything to harvest but because at one point in time, this day, was yet another reason for me to return home.
No matter, I will see my fam in less than 48 hours.
w00t w00t.
And that's when i realized that crikey, once again my brown self had misplaced a date. Mind you, here Pongal is nothing like it is back in India. I don't really remember too many Pongal's in Sri Lanka either. There's only one that stands out. But in India, it's a week filled with religious debauchery.
--::-- The only memorable Pongal in Sri Lanka --::--
I must have been about 7 . I say this without the conviction of factual knowledge, because much like most Sri Lankan children brutally severed from their pasts, I don’t have too many childhood tangibles that traveled with us. The one picture I remember seeing had both my grandparents in it - so it must have been '85 or '86.
Because SHE passed away in ’86 leaving a void that never managed to get filled. Despite our best efforts.
The morning air carried with it the scent of sea salt. And the sullen promise of unpredictability. I can still recall the symphony of the torrential downpour from the night before, leaving everything vibrating in dew as dawn squeaked past it and wiped the slate clean. Water, it cleanses everything in it’s path.
A profound insight, I couldn’t wait to share.
I remember climbing on thatha’s brown leather chair to peek out the window. Yup, there they were. Curled into themselves, shielding their fleshy pink faces from the sudden downpour of stinging hot rain. The lotus’ were her favorite. I used to think the pond existed just so that they had a home. She loved us all that wholly.
My Chithi sauntered out, wrapped in a white sari, the colour earmarked for mourning by Hindu’s. Maybe she knew, subconsciously, that the end was in fact, grazing against the bubble that we lived in – slowly and most certainly eating away at the protective membrane they’d taken years to cultivate. White was just that. The signal that as one thing ends, another inevitably begins.
Our ayah’s with the help of our butler had tied tall moist stalks of sugarcane to the sides of our gate with other Pongal decorations, leaves folded on a taunt twine line, creating a haveli of sorts. I don’t recall 75 IBC road, ever looking that un-Buddhist. My grandparents, Hindu by birth, had always worn their Buddhist affinities on their sleeves. They embraced it, clinging to a way of life they had adopted when they had bought that piece of land. It was their Tamil, Hindu blood that helped build the Buddhist temple across the street from our house – both financially and physically. But on Pongal day, we were Hindu and damn proud of it.
So this was indeed a special occasion. I recall scurrying around the bricks, careful to tuck in my toes, and the two mischief filled toddlers (my sisters), when they got too close to the edge of the driveway.
I busied myself helping light a fire so our pot of blessings can overflow with goodwill and signal the beginning of a new year. I don’t recall much else other than the sound of firecrackers, the milky sweetness of kiri bath, the tingling of lunu miris and the details of the house. Strangely, my surroundings seem to have etched themselves with permanent ink against the building blocks of my childhood. But for the life of me, I can’t recall the details of the people around me.
It’s probably because by the time I was 7, I had already lived too many lifetimes; been on too many journeys. And had much more information to process than my brain was anticipating.
And that’s why I regret the one thing my folks regret the most. The gaping void of having a sparse visual history. All our baby pictures were burned in a fire. I know it wasn’t in the ’83 riots – I don’t think. But to me, it might as well have been. Sri Lanka and our lives finally mirrored each other. We all started anew after that event and our lives began on fresh slates clouded by the memories of too much lost.
Maybe that’s why I’m so camera-happy these days, much to the displeasure of my crew. I carry my lil’ canon around more often than my phone. I have this inherent, fanatical need to document everything. Because to me, pictures paint a thousand words – especially when memory fails and words have a way of recreating themselves.
Which I’m starting to realize more and more, on a first hand basis.
That one photo captured everything- pre.cisely.
My thatha stands by the overflowing pot, wearing a traditional white sarong and a white shirt, he normally reserved for political meetings or his jaunts to the temple across the street. My sisters were in his arms, proudly on display for the singular gaze of an unflinching camera lens. It’s almost like he knew that one day, this would be a defining piece of evidence that we’d re-visit a hundred times, in the hopes of deciphering our past.
And I was there by his side, as I often was. Positioned, slyly. Half-hidden behind him, my features pulled together in an expression of unadulterated defiance. But towards what, I can’t recall. Maybe it was the knowledge that I would soon be placed firmly on an aircraft – sent back to where I rightfully belonged – at boarding school.
Wow. It always astounds me when something tickles a niche of my brain and it throws up memories that it can’t contain any longer. That’s particularly why I have this space – not because I assume that what I have to say is of any interest to anyone – but because, I realize how fast my childhood memories are being replaced by other ones.
It’s almost like being pushed off a conveyor belt – eventually something’s got to give.
--::--
I wish I could say Pongal '09 was as eventful as the ones from my childhood. This year, I spent it freezing my kundi off in -39 type temperatures. Everything seemed to go wrong yesterday – from the traffic to the terrific mushroom & spinach stuffed chicken. I said a silent prayer – not because I have anything to harvest but because at one point in time, this day, was yet another reason for me to return home.
No matter, I will see my fam in less than 48 hours.
w00t w00t.
he
loves me so.
boys are always a mystery - no matter, their age, ethnicity or any of the other socio-economic or educational factors that play into it.
but you know, you've got a lot of something special when he willing braves -39 temperatures so you can get dropped off right outside your workplace.
i heart his "actions speak louder than words" kinda love.
for right now.
tomorrow? that's a different story.
--
MINUS THIRTY NINE.
*sigh*
today, is a blue day.
and by that i mean, my fingers are slowly turning a shade of frost bitten blue.
and yes, sadly, i am inside an apparently heated office.
thank god i love my job.
--
boys are always a mystery - no matter, their age, ethnicity or any of the other socio-economic or educational factors that play into it.
but you know, you've got a lot of something special when he willing braves -39 temperatures so you can get dropped off right outside your workplace.
i heart his "actions speak louder than words" kinda love.
for right now.
tomorrow? that's a different story.
--
MINUS THIRTY NINE.
*sigh*
today, is a blue day.
and by that i mean, my fingers are slowly turning a shade of frost bitten blue.
and yes, sadly, i am inside an apparently heated office.
thank god i love my job.
--
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
everyday
i CHOOSE to love him.
which goes beyond simply being in love with someone. it transcends the glittery sheen of romance that often blinds the frail minded. it wafts beyond the boundaries of butterfly wings and clouds parting and aria's engulfing your soul. it spits in the face of acceptance and embraces one verb - completely. it becomes exactly what it is.
A. Choice.
And I choose in a thousand small ways to love him, every day. I'm fairly certain he's oblivious to this - I'm also pretty sure that he'd be appalled if he knew how carefully my mind scrutinizes our relationship. I've had too many friends venture into love affairs that became minefields trapping them in the cobwebs of their self-manufactured fairy tales. Idealistic and blinded by expectations they were unaware of harboring - what do you call your spirit when it reaches around you and stabs you in the back? And in the essence of once bitten, twice shy - I've learned from mistakes that while not my own, still ripped a tendril from my central artery and whisked it away in the name of empathy.
And now, it's second nature to me. The irony in this is that I. am. THAT. commit.ment. phobe. My spirit refuses to believe that there's only one of anything - ever. My heart refuses to buy into the notion of forever and ever. My brain constantly whispers hurried warnings, lest the world hears the words in my head. But somewhere along the way in the last 19 months - something shifted.
In the last 19 months I've grown into a relationship that is more adult-like than i had ever hoped to experience. A relationship that I treasure not as the most prominent one in my life - but as one that is irreplaceable by any other. I unintentionally watch what I say. My usually forceful tongue holds itself back, willfully. I subconsciously accept small concessions because I realize the absolute greatness of what we have. I concede defeat in petty arguments because it's not worth fighting any more when I know that what awaits me on the other side of forgiveness is joy. And all of this happens without my permission. And I forget the small misgivings and disappointments - my mind doesn't cling to those grudges as it once would have. I treat him like I treat my family.
did someone turn a light on?
I recently took off my wedding ring. Not because it was a nuisance, as I once anticipated it would be. But because I felt my finger was suffocating within it's confines. I was growing around it. Think finger spillage - i had finger fat happening people and it was starting to look quite alarming. So without a second thought, i slid it off my finger and put it away.
Now a while ago, someone told me, in passing, that the reason you wear your wedding band on your left hand is because there is a nerve that connects your ring finger to your heart. Not sure how true it is - but in my mind, it must've found a spot and made itself a home.
Because ever since I took it off, whenever I moved my finger - my heart would physically hurt. Ridiculous much? I know! But no joke, every time my finger would bend, I would feel a physical tug somewhere in my arterial region.
So i put it back on for fear that my psychosis was slowly but surely breaking me down - mentally and now, physically. I'm diabetic people, I can't afford to take these types of chances.
It's amazing what your mind does when your heart is ready to let go. He is right - never will he be my own. Never, will I, the holder of bonds, ever let go of those I consider mine - to let, him in. But somewhere, I guess my heart grew up and grew past it's 5-year-old mentality and accepted one thing: I chose him. He is indeed my most favorite stranger. And for him, I would move mountains to make sure he's okay. As long as he isn't aware of that fact, that is.
Love is an easy word to speak. I say it often and much about shoes, a great cup of coffee, a delicious book. But this type of marital love is work. Just like my relationship with my family is. It's only as beautiful and multi-textured as it is because we all pull our weight - we all pitch in- and we all stand steadfastly behind each other. And now, I have that with him. I'm so blessed in so many ways - that sometimes, I wonder... *sigh*
Clarity is a funny thing - because it always escapes you when you need it the most. But this time I got lucky - in case I forget how awesome I have it - all I'll ever have to do is take off my wedding band to know my heart has found yet another corner to call, home.
okay, you can gag now. I think I just did.
A pretty sappy second post of the day. I'd like to blame the lack of oxygen in my office for this vomit-inducing post. And the fact that it's freezing cold means I can't venture out into the world of self-indulgence. Hence the introspection. Now, it's time to get back to work. Goodnight and until tomorrow.
which goes beyond simply being in love with someone. it transcends the glittery sheen of romance that often blinds the frail minded. it wafts beyond the boundaries of butterfly wings and clouds parting and aria's engulfing your soul. it spits in the face of acceptance and embraces one verb - completely. it becomes exactly what it is.
A. Choice.
And I choose in a thousand small ways to love him, every day. I'm fairly certain he's oblivious to this - I'm also pretty sure that he'd be appalled if he knew how carefully my mind scrutinizes our relationship. I've had too many friends venture into love affairs that became minefields trapping them in the cobwebs of their self-manufactured fairy tales. Idealistic and blinded by expectations they were unaware of harboring - what do you call your spirit when it reaches around you and stabs you in the back? And in the essence of once bitten, twice shy - I've learned from mistakes that while not my own, still ripped a tendril from my central artery and whisked it away in the name of empathy.
And now, it's second nature to me. The irony in this is that I. am. THAT. commit.ment. phobe. My spirit refuses to believe that there's only one of anything - ever. My heart refuses to buy into the notion of forever and ever. My brain constantly whispers hurried warnings, lest the world hears the words in my head. But somewhere along the way in the last 19 months - something shifted.
In the last 19 months I've grown into a relationship that is more adult-like than i had ever hoped to experience. A relationship that I treasure not as the most prominent one in my life - but as one that is irreplaceable by any other. I unintentionally watch what I say. My usually forceful tongue holds itself back, willfully. I subconsciously accept small concessions because I realize the absolute greatness of what we have. I concede defeat in petty arguments because it's not worth fighting any more when I know that what awaits me on the other side of forgiveness is joy. And all of this happens without my permission. And I forget the small misgivings and disappointments - my mind doesn't cling to those grudges as it once would have. I treat him like I treat my family.
did someone turn a light on?
I recently took off my wedding ring. Not because it was a nuisance, as I once anticipated it would be. But because I felt my finger was suffocating within it's confines. I was growing around it. Think finger spillage - i had finger fat happening people and it was starting to look quite alarming. So without a second thought, i slid it off my finger and put it away.
Now a while ago, someone told me, in passing, that the reason you wear your wedding band on your left hand is because there is a nerve that connects your ring finger to your heart. Not sure how true it is - but in my mind, it must've found a spot and made itself a home.
Because ever since I took it off, whenever I moved my finger - my heart would physically hurt. Ridiculous much? I know! But no joke, every time my finger would bend, I would feel a physical tug somewhere in my arterial region.
So i put it back on for fear that my psychosis was slowly but surely breaking me down - mentally and now, physically. I'm diabetic people, I can't afford to take these types of chances.
It's amazing what your mind does when your heart is ready to let go. He is right - never will he be my own. Never, will I, the holder of bonds, ever let go of those I consider mine - to let, him in. But somewhere, I guess my heart grew up and grew past it's 5-year-old mentality and accepted one thing: I chose him. He is indeed my most favorite stranger. And for him, I would move mountains to make sure he's okay. As long as he isn't aware of that fact, that is.
Love is an easy word to speak. I say it often and much about shoes, a great cup of coffee, a delicious book. But this type of marital love is work. Just like my relationship with my family is. It's only as beautiful and multi-textured as it is because we all pull our weight - we all pitch in- and we all stand steadfastly behind each other. And now, I have that with him. I'm so blessed in so many ways - that sometimes, I wonder... *sigh*
Clarity is a funny thing - because it always escapes you when you need it the most. But this time I got lucky - in case I forget how awesome I have it - all I'll ever have to do is take off my wedding band to know my heart has found yet another corner to call, home.
okay, you can gag now. I think I just did.
A pretty sappy second post of the day. I'd like to blame the lack of oxygen in my office for this vomit-inducing post. And the fact that it's freezing cold means I can't venture out into the world of self-indulgence. Hence the introspection. Now, it's time to get back to work. Goodnight and until tomorrow.
The great white north...
got its name for a reason.
And I am paying the price for a decision my parents made 18 years ago.
I am freezing in my little office.
Tucked away in a weathered brick building nestled in the heart of Toronto's Distillery District, I find myself hating this wintery weather even more so than years past. You see, outside my little green windows is a scene straight out of Dickens - softly falling snow, wrought iron gates, cobble stone pathways, winter-friendly flora strategically placed to brighten up the place and of course, the steady flame of antique street lamps. In fact, I live in a novel. Across the street from my building is an English Bakery with authentic EVERYTHING! Envy-inducing? Please, don't let it be.
Get a couple inches closer to that window and cast your eyes downward and you'll notice people slipping and sliding around, ice firmly lodged in-between those charming cobble stones and of course the slush left behind by throngs of foot-traffic.
Beauty comes with it's own price. In this case, a mighty hefty one. Right now, I would willingly trade in my little piece of Dickens to be in the heart of downtown Toronto, in a massive cube-farm, all toasty and warm.
If anyone is willing to do a trade - please do let me know. My only caveat: I only do advertising. Which i realize could limit my trade options :)
Tonight - it's supposed to hit -21 and will feel more like -35.
Y.A.Y. M.E.
Every winter, I wish the same god darn thing. I wish i was back in Sri Lanka - a land fraught with political uncertainty - yes. But, a land enveloped in tropical heat with everything I hold dear - like sun, sand and clear blue seas.
*sigh* it's Tuesday folks and it's time to get back to work.
And I am paying the price for a decision my parents made 18 years ago.
I am freezing in my little office.
Tucked away in a weathered brick building nestled in the heart of Toronto's Distillery District, I find myself hating this wintery weather even more so than years past. You see, outside my little green windows is a scene straight out of Dickens - softly falling snow, wrought iron gates, cobble stone pathways, winter-friendly flora strategically placed to brighten up the place and of course, the steady flame of antique street lamps. In fact, I live in a novel. Across the street from my building is an English Bakery with authentic EVERYTHING! Envy-inducing? Please, don't let it be.
Get a couple inches closer to that window and cast your eyes downward and you'll notice people slipping and sliding around, ice firmly lodged in-between those charming cobble stones and of course the slush left behind by throngs of foot-traffic.
Beauty comes with it's own price. In this case, a mighty hefty one. Right now, I would willingly trade in my little piece of Dickens to be in the heart of downtown Toronto, in a massive cube-farm, all toasty and warm.
If anyone is willing to do a trade - please do let me know. My only caveat: I only do advertising. Which i realize could limit my trade options :)
Tonight - it's supposed to hit -21 and will feel more like -35.
Y.A.Y. M.E.
Every winter, I wish the same god darn thing. I wish i was back in Sri Lanka - a land fraught with political uncertainty - yes. But, a land enveloped in tropical heat with everything I hold dear - like sun, sand and clear blue seas.
*sigh* it's Tuesday folks and it's time to get back to work.
Friday, January 09, 2009
9 days late
and right on time.
Happy New Year! This year, I decided to defer a few things right off the bat. Mainly for fear of falling off the proverbial wagon. You know the drill - we make resolutions, set well-intentioned goals and then somewhere between day 5 and day 9 - fall flat on our kundi's or even worse, our faces.
So this year, I started things differently. I deferred new years until the 2nd of January. And blissfully, we turned 2009 a day later than our neighbors and friends.
Now, being the borderline superstitious child that I am, i refuse to verbally ring in 2009 without kissing 2008 goodbye. So here's to '08!
'08 - will fondly be remembered as the year I decided to fight the status quo and stand up for myself, regardless of how petty the want may seem to others. I changed jobs with the support of man that I've grown to love even more deeply than I had in years passed. I re-arranged my priorities, was forced to take off my rose coloured glasses at some points. I retired my nic sticks for good or so it feels. I guess I can say that now that it has officially been 3 months of smoke free fresh air! My perspectives on a lot of things underwent a shift of some sort- relationships, friendships, marriage, family...You name it, it shifted. Not drastically but enough to create a ripple in the sea of my peter-pan lifestyle. Last year will fondly be remembered as the year that my relationships took on even more colour, texture and emotion than ever before - and for being able to feel that and witness it, I'm grateful. I lived without regrets and I survived to talk about it.
And now, it's time to welcome '09. This year I hope to really live my 3.1 motto: Be happy in the moment, that's enough. Because really, that is enough. I can only be responsible for myself and while I can attempt to protect the ones I love - I have to learn to let them test their own wings and fly. In the meantime, I hope '09 teaches me the art of balance. And provides me with the courage to keep growing and living, without regrets.
More to follow....
Happy New Year! This year, I decided to defer a few things right off the bat. Mainly for fear of falling off the proverbial wagon. You know the drill - we make resolutions, set well-intentioned goals and then somewhere between day 5 and day 9 - fall flat on our kundi's or even worse, our faces.
So this year, I started things differently. I deferred new years until the 2nd of January. And blissfully, we turned 2009 a day later than our neighbors and friends.
Now, being the borderline superstitious child that I am, i refuse to verbally ring in 2009 without kissing 2008 goodbye. So here's to '08!
'08 - will fondly be remembered as the year I decided to fight the status quo and stand up for myself, regardless of how petty the want may seem to others. I changed jobs with the support of man that I've grown to love even more deeply than I had in years passed. I re-arranged my priorities, was forced to take off my rose coloured glasses at some points. I retired my nic sticks for good or so it feels. I guess I can say that now that it has officially been 3 months of smoke free fresh air! My perspectives on a lot of things underwent a shift of some sort- relationships, friendships, marriage, family...You name it, it shifted. Not drastically but enough to create a ripple in the sea of my peter-pan lifestyle. Last year will fondly be remembered as the year that my relationships took on even more colour, texture and emotion than ever before - and for being able to feel that and witness it, I'm grateful. I lived without regrets and I survived to talk about it.
And now, it's time to welcome '09. This year I hope to really live my 3.1 motto: Be happy in the moment, that's enough. Because really, that is enough. I can only be responsible for myself and while I can attempt to protect the ones I love - I have to learn to let them test their own wings and fly. In the meantime, I hope '09 teaches me the art of balance. And provides me with the courage to keep growing and living, without regrets.
More to follow....
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