Old letters – Time machines

Was reading an old old letter from a friend, written way back in my college days – full of hope, full of “Ifs”, looming large, full of LIFE, and even yesterday, it could transport me back in time. These were conversations, back and forth, and instantly, I could remember the thrill with which I used to open them, sit and read them. Go finish some chores. Come back and read them again, at leisure. Time machines, really.
As I read them yesterday, I thought perhaps I should write a letter. Just like back then. But then, since the Time is Now, I would probably give a call and let it out that I have sent a letter, or better, message a cryptic message(!), or worse, email and let them know that they should watch out for post!! Because, as far as I know, other than magazines subscribed to, all one gets through snail mail is tonnes of unwanted ‘Holiday in Maldives, through Amex’, ‘Citi makes it easy...just for you’, Utility payment (ever noticed how the credit card and phone bills arrive three days after the sms and the email pdf arrives, and probably, if you are the prompt kind, you might have made the payment also) and the likes, which are promptly discarded even before they are opened. I wouldn’t want to risk that happening to my letter!!
Really, whatever are we doing? With increased communication, there is hardly any time to actually converse. All we want is ‘to be kept in the loop’, ‘will keep you posted’, ‘will mark you a cc on this one’, ‘text me his business card’... Ironic, we are the Machines with no sense of ‘real time’!!

The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Dreamer, Indian Elder

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for,
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love,
for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow,
if you have been opened by life's betrayals
or have become shriveled and closed from fear of future pain!

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own,
without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with JOY, mine or you own:
if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to
the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful,
be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself;
if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.

I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore be trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not pretty every day,
and if you can source your life from ITS presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine,
and still stand on the edge of a lake and shout
to the silver of the full moon, YES!

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money
you have. I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone,
and do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn't interest me who you are, how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself,
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.

Full Stop

Should you be judged by what you did or what you didn't?
Should you be lauded for what you told or what you didn't?
Should you be?
Should You?
Should.

***

Seriously, I SHOULD stop writing. Full Stop.!!?!! I mean, Like this!

Missing DD

Really miss the good old days of DD when there were just two channels. Not 802 like today. And yet not a single good programme to watch. Wonder what's with the Movies on TV - terrible pick. And General Entertainment is even sadder.
Would give anything to get back the serials of yesteryears - that had a start date and an end date, and of course, a story - Dekh Bhai Dekh, Kashish, Chunauti, Yeh Jo hai Zindagi, Honi Anhoni, Udaan...
The World This Week, Turning Point, Fairy Tale Theatre, He-Man (yes, was awesome), Street Hawk (loved it), The Wonder Years, Doogie Howser M.D...
Back then we would wait, we had something to look forward to.
Today, we don't have to wait. As we have nothing to look forward to in the telly.

The irony of plentiful choices, but none worth exercising, like the irony of plentiful communication means, but none exercised, for want of time!

Talking of time, here's to the DD days:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WGF2jur0Ozs&feature=related

And if you have a lot of time or are too nostalgic like I am right now:
www.oldidiotbox.blogspot.com

Eat Pray Love

Bestseller and recommended for every woman - so they all said and raved about the book. I thought being a woman (a point which became ambiguous a little after I began reading the book)I too should do Eat, Pray, Love. I did. For precisely 20 pages. While on the 10th page, I started thinking, as I read, "Surely, there's this movie version, probably that might be better", but then read on, given my attempts to increase my now ever-low tolerance levels and up the threshold. But at Page 20, I dropped it, promptly returned the book to my neighbour.
But since I never give up, I downloaded and tried watching the movie version. I watched the movie for 5-7 minutes, perhaps. The same as the book. Drawls and drawls. Not that Julia Roberts has any day been my favourite, I can't stand her jaw bones placement, the mouth runs like the Great Wall when she smiles, only here concave maybe.
So, inspite of her, I did try watching. And couldn't.
This is when I started thinking if every woman HAS to read/watch it, and every woman LOVED it, where does that put me on the gender scale?
That answer can wait. Just until I finish this McCall Smith. And his celebration of the small things.

A Dear Diary Pick

A very long day at work in Singasandra - we started singing to the client's tunes only by 1pm, though we were ready there from 10am! Long long day and an even longer commute back home.
Am bookless - didn't pick up anything at Eloor yesterday remembering I had to read one book which I had bought not long back, Tokyo Cancelled - and couldn't find the book later at home.
Had to read something, ended up pulling out one of the old diaries and here goes...

I construct elaborate protective devices against the world, but from time to time someone comes along who walks right through these differences utterly unaware of them. When this happens, I have a sense of being on the edge of life itself, where amazing things can occur - and usually do. I realize that the door is open for hurt and rejection, but also for sharing and growing.
Is there any miracle on earth to compare with that of discovering a new friend, or having that friend discover you? So much is at stake, but I will gladly risk everything to give a promising relationship a chance.
-Alex Noble, Moments of Stillness, in Reader's Digest June 1990

The child is constantly confronted with the nagging questions : "What are you going to be?" Courageous would be the youngster who could look the adult squarely in the face and say, "I'm not going to be anything; I already am".
We adults would be shocked by such an instant remark, for we have forgotten, if indeed, we ever knew, that a child is an active, participating and contributing member of society from birth.
Childhood isn't a time when he is moulded into a human who will live life; he is a human who is living life. No child will miss the zest and joy of living unless these are denied him by adults who have convinced themselves that childhood is a period of preparation.
- Child psychologist David Elkind, The Hurried Child in Reader's Digest June 1990

Keep Writing

Had been to Anu's this evening. Were talking and suddenly Ray Bradbury came up in some context. And then the wonderful story of his. A favourite of mine (Shalini, remember?)
I reproduce:


I'LL NEVER FORGET YOU by Ray Bradbury
From Mar 1983 Reader's Digest (Pages 92-96)


When Ann Taylor came to teach at Green Town Central, it was the summer of her 24th birthday and it was the summer when Bob Spaulding would turn 14. She was that teacher for whom all the children wanted to bring huge oranges or pink flowers. She always seemed to be passing by on days when the shade was green under then tunnels of oaks and elms. She was the fine peaches of summer in the snow of winter, and she was cool milk for cereal on a hot early-June morning. And those rare few days in the year when the climate was balanced as fine as a leaf between winds that blew just right, those were the days like Ann Taylor, and should have been so named on the calendar.

As for Bob Spaulding he was the cousin who walked alone through town on any October evening with a pack of leaves after him like a horde of Halloween mice. Or you would see him, like a slow white fish in the tart waters of the Fox Hill Creek, baking brown - or hear his voice in those treetops where the wind entertained, dropping down hand by hand, and there would come Bob Spaulding to sit alone and look at the world.

That first morning when Miss Ann Taylor entered and wrote her name on the board, the schoolroom seemed suddenly flooded with illumination, as if the roof had moved back. Bob Spaulding sat with a spitball hidden in his hand, but let it drop. After class, he brought in a bucket of water and began to wash the boards. "What's this?" She turned to him from her desk, where she had been correcting spelling papers.
"The boards are kind of dirty. I suppose I should have asked permission," he said, halting uneasily.
"I think we can pretend you did," she replied, smiling, and at this smile he finished the boards in a burst of speed and pounded the erasers so furiously that the air was full of snow, it seemed.

The next morning he happened by the place where she took board and room just as she was coming out to walk to school.
"Well, here I am," he said.
"And do you know," she said, "I'm not surprised."
"May I carry your books?" he asked.
"Why, thank you, Bob."

They walked for a few minutes and he said nothing. She glanced over and slightly down at him and saw how at ease he was, how happy he seemed. When they reached the edge of the school ground, he said, "I better leave you here. The other kids wouldn't understand."
"I'm not sure I do, either," said Miss Taylor.
"Why, we're friends," said Bob with a natural honesty.
'Bob--" she started to say. "Never mind." She walked away.

And there he was in class and there he was after school for the next two weeks, never speaking, quietly washing the boards while she worked, and there was the silence of the sun going down in the slow sky, and the rustle of papers and the scratch of a pen. Sometimes the silence would go on until almost five, when Miss Taylor would find Bob in the last seat, waiting.
"Well, it's time to go home," Miss Taylor would say. And he would run and fetch her hat and coat. Then they would walk across the empty yard and talk all sorts of things.
"What are you going to be, Bob, when you grow up?"
"A writer," he said.
"Oh, that's big ambition."
"I know, but I'm going to try," he told her. "I've read a lot."
He thought for a while and said, "Do me a favor, Miss Taylor?"
"It all depends."
"I walk every Saturday along the creek to Lake Michigan. There're a lof of butterflies and crayfish. Maybe you'd like to walk too."
"I'm afraid not. I'm going to be busy."
He started to ask doing what, but stopped. "I take along sandwiches and pop. I wish you'd come."
"Thanks, Bob, perhaps some other time."
"I shouldn't have asked you, should I?" he said.
"You have every right to ask anything you want to," she said.

A few days later she gave him a copy of Great Expectations. He stayed up all night reading it, and they talked about it.

Each day Bob met Miss Taylor and many days she would start to tell him not to come anymore, but she never could.

He talked with her about Dickens and Kipling and Poe, coming and going to school. But she found it impossible to call on him to recite in class. She would hesitate, then call someone else. Nor would she look at him while they were walking. But on several late afternoons as he moved his arm high on the blackboard, sponging away the arithmetic symbols, she found herself glancing over at him for seconds at a time.

Then one Saturday morning he was standing in the creek with his overalls rolled up to his knees, bending to catch crayfish, when he looked up and saw her.
"Well, here I am," she said, laughing.
"And do you know," he said, "I'm not surprised."
"Show me the crayfish and the butterflies," she said.

They walked down to the lake and sat on the sand with a warm wind blowing softly about them, fluttering her hair and the ruffle on her blouse, and he sat a few yards back from her and they ate the ham-and-pickle sandwiches and drank the orange pop solemnly.
"I didn't think I would ever come on a picnic like this," she said.
"With some kid," he said.
They said little else during the afternoon.

"This is all wrong," Bob said later. "And I can't figure why. Just walking along and catching butterflies and crayfish and eating sandwiches. But Mom and Dad'd rib me if they knew, and the kids would too. And the other teachers would laugh at you, wouldn't they?"
"I'm afraid so. I don't exactly understand how I came here at all," she said.

That was about all there was to the meeting of Miss Ann Taylor and Bob Spaulding: two or three monarch butterflies, a copy of Dickens, a dozen crayfish, four sandwiches and two afternoon, she left early with a headache.

But on Tuesday after school they were both in the silent room again - he sponging the board contentedly, and she working on her papers in peace, when suddenly the courthouse clock struck five. Its great bronze boom shuddered one's body, making you seem older by the minute. Miss Taylor put down her pen.
"Bob," she said, "come here."
"Yes'm." He put down the sponge.
She looked at him intently for a moment until he looked away. "Bob," I wonder if you know what I'm going to talk to you about."
"Yes," he said at last. "About us."
"How old are you, Bob?"
"Going on fourteen."
"Do you know how old I am?"
"Yes'm, I heard. Twenty-four. I'll be twenty four in ten years, almost," he said. "And sometimes I feel twenty-four."
"Yes, and sometimes you almost act it."
"Do I, really?!!"
"Now sit still. It's very important that we understand what is happening. First, let's admit we are the greatest friends in the world. I have never had a student like you, nor have I had as much affection for any boy I've ever known." He flushed at this. She went on. "And let me speak for you - you've found me to be the nicest teacher of any you've ever known."
"Oh, more than that," he said.
"Perhaps more than that, but there are facts to be faced - a town and its people, and you and me. I've thought this over, Bob. Don't think I've been unaware of my feelings. Under some circumstances our friendship would be odd. But you are no ordinary boy. And I know I'm not sick, mentally or physically, and that whatever has evolved here has been a true regard for your character and goodness. But those are not the things we consider in this world, unless they occur in a man of a certain age. I don't know if I'm saying this right."
"If I was ten years older and about fifteen inches taller it'd make all the difference," he said.
"I know it seems foolish," she said. "When you feel very grown-up and right and have nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe someday they will judge a person's mind so accurately that they can say, 'This is a man, though his body is only thirteen, with a man's responsibility.' But until then, we have to go by ages and heights in an ordinary world."
"I don't like that," he said.
"Perhaps I don't either, but there really is no way to do anything about us."
"Yes, I know."
"We must decide what to do," she said. "I can secure a transfer from this school ..."
"You don't have to do that," he said. "We're moving. My folks and I, we're going to live in Madison."
"It has nothing to do with all this, has it?"
"No, no, my father has a new job there. It's only fifty miles away. I can see you, can't I?"
"Would that be a good idea?"
"No, I guess not," he said.
They sat awhile in the silent schoolroom.
"When did all this happen?" he said, helplessly.
"I don't know," she said. "Nobody ever knows. They haven't known for thousand of years. Sometimes two people like each other who shouldn't. I can't explain it."
"There's one thing I want you to remember," she said finally. "There are compensations in life. You don't feel well now; neither do I. But something will happen to fix that. Do you believe that?"
"I'd like to. If only you'd wait for me," he blurted.
"Ten years?"
"I'd be twenty-four then."
"But I'd be thirty-four and another person entirely, perhaps. No, I don't think it can be done."

He sat there for a long time. "I'll never forget you," he said.
"You'll forget."
"I'll find a way of never forgetting you," he said.
She went to erase the boards.
"I'll help you," he said.
"No, no," she said hastily. "You go home."

He left the school. Looking back, he saw Miss Taylor through the window, at the board, slowly washing out the chalked words.


HE moved away the next week and was gone for 16 years. Though he was only 50 miles away, he never got to Green Town again until he was almost 30 and married. Then one spring they were driving through on their way to Chicago and stopped off for a day.

Bob left his wife at the hotel and walked around town and finally asked about Miss Ann Taylor.
"Oh, yes, the pretty teacher. She died in 1936, not long after you left."
Had she ever married?
"No, come to think of it, she never had."

He walked out to the cemetery and found her stone, which said, "Ann Taylor, born 1910, died 1936." And he thought, Twenty-six years old. Why, I'm almost four years older than you are now, Miss Taylor."

Later in the day the people in the town saw Bob Spaulding's wife strolling to meet him under the elms and the oak trees. She was the fine peaches of summer in the snow winter, and she was cool milk for cereal on a hot early-summer morning. And this was one of those rare few days in time when the climate was balanced like a leaf between winds that blow just right, one of those days that should have been named, everyone agreed, after Robert Spaulding's wife."


- Condensed from "A Story of Love", a short story by Ray Bradbury.

Dragged

Nothing significant happens through the day, and the day actually dragged - but I'd turn around the corner of 2011 and wonder, am sure, how did the year go by so fast, when the minutes tricked all along?
My day is divided into chunks - the drop-to-school chunk, the pick-up-from-school chunk and the in-between chunk (when I say dragged, I meant this chunk only)
Thoughts dragged, my feet dragged, even my yawn dragged today
Everything stretched, all along insignificantly.
What did I expect to happen anyway?

The only significant thing I did was to change the blog title - from Someday I'll Write to the new one. A dragged realization that no day soon looks like I will write, and by write, I mean WRITE, and that BET the Moment is very convenient. Moments may drag, but not the moment. I am aware, enjoying and thanking this moment - no, no day will I write unless something happens yet again to let my fingers race at the keys. What that something is, I really do not know.
Until then, am going to keep writing. Everyday.Like the Keep Walking one of Johnnie Walker. One of them says, 'life can only be understood sdrawkcab , but must be lived forwards' - love that line.

In the Now

This morning I got a phone call immediately upon waking up, that my childhood 'best' friend - in those days of innocence, who, when I would tell her to wait for me to finish a sum in math, would answer me with all sincerity, 'I will, once am done', and I would be happy that she agreed to - passed away, possibly a cardiac arrest!
Subalakshmi, also called as Subhasree by her folks, and I, we were best of friends from the age of 6 right through to 12/13, perhaps, after which age, we drifted apart, found new friends, formed new ideas and changed as persons, and lost contact. Through a common relative, I came to know she had also married, got a kid, then another and the usual cycle. She was in Mumbai.
I never think of her, except in passing, while recalling incidents of high schiool, where she became the School Pupil Leader, the favourite of Sr.Crescentia, our principal then, whom I used to 'HATE' and whom she used to 'LOVE' and was loved mutually by the Sister -and I think she told on us or something, a set of friends, and we got suspended from school for few days and were roaming around school without a badge - we were to actually feel very ashamed of ourselves, but, I do not recall ever having felt so much of it, except when my dad was called upon to hear a lecture of how badly his daughter was turning out to be, with Godliness going away from her, and the rest - My Dad gave it to me that day and considered it his worst insult in life, like he was being called to the police station to get his arrested daughter out of bail or something - who gets called to the police station, in my dad's case, the school?
All this is forgotten with the ravages of time and life moves on, but strangely some connections are just snapped for ever. Even then, today, ever since I heard the news, I have been very disturbed. Why? Because it just seems so cruel, so sudden, to go away leaving a 6 yr old and a 11/2 year old kid, today, I am thinking of how it would be for a child to grow up without a mother, how impossible it would be for a father to double up and do justice, try as he might, how her living parents and probably a grandparent, am not sure would be feeling, and along with all this, the realisation that life is so fleeting and the folly of immortality with which we move around, folly and beauty actually, because, no one wants to know when they are going to die, and yet, yet, it's just an instant. It's there, and it's over - one minute you may be thinking of doing up the curtains in your house and the next, you are not there!
What would Subalakshmi have been thinking of doing, what plans she would have made, she was on a holiday, what could be the conversation she would have had with her kids, her husband, her people around? And then immediately, I think, what about me? And same time, think, I should hit the gym, take care, warning signs - all along with the headlines - How fleeting it all is - and so back to the Moments theory - it is all and only in the Now, better be thankful for what is and live it up Now. In the Now, as Nandita used to say when she was 3 years old.

Minc

I was busy shopping for the top at Minc, already had made my husband buy 2 for me – yes, that is how I shop, in spurts, infrequently, but once at the shop, I can be done with swiping a LOT of money in very LITTLE TIME. Be it my card or anyone else’s!
But I did have a conscience – at least it decided to wake up, unannounced and it started telling me, “You pay for the third one, OK, your card, not his!” Damn Jiminy Cricket. And was about to take the credit card when I realized, my handbag was missing.
***
The handbag has 14 cards – of which 3 are credit cards. I haven’t seen so many cards in my life, all in one wallet. Let me see how much money is here in this. Rs.40/-. Damn. These rich plastic guys, all plastic, no real money. But am sure using a card is not going to be such a problem.. some card when put into that fancy machine the ATM will vomit money. Which of these but.. once I figure that out, am all set. But first, let me change from these Security uniforms and become a man. Just another man who has new found plastic. They should ban plastic, all forms of plastic and insist on paper. That way, I’d have cash in here. Hahahah.
***
“Hey, come here, someone’s left a handbag!”
“Great! Happy Thursday! We spilt the cards and the cash, as always”
“Make it quick, the Security is right outside, we need to slip it past him. Snooty bastard he is. Ever drooling for money”
“Oh, come on! You are no better, Mr.”
And then, they both looked up. A lady was staring with laser-like vision into the handbag, so much so that it seemed the contents would pop open and land into her hand.
“Ah, well, Ma’am, we were just thinking of leaving it at the Security – that’s what’s done normally.”
“Yess. Yess. Please check the contents, Ma’am.”
The laser woman checked thoroughly, all was in order. She had hardly any cash to give and so just thanked profusely and left.
***
I should have known, double-checked. How did people not forget? Or maybe something really wrong with me – the part of the memory which remembers the objects one had taken while going out with, probably had been infected. Or better, absent. The only saving grace was my cell phone was with me.. My husband had already started calling up the banks to block the cards. Thank God for men. Who do. And not set off thinking about which part of the brain was missing. But while he was making those calls, whenever he made eye contact, I knew what I was in for and what was being said, ‘How could you? Can someone like this exist?’
***
I walked out of the shop very happy with the two shirts and a trouser that I picked up – anything but blue is the motto. I will learn driving spoon, take my driver’s licence in these new clothes, and start driving the Innoa for some rich fat man and his even fatter wife – if Raghu can do that, why can’t I? Now, all I need is a pair of good sunglasses, just like that hero in the English film I took my son to last weekend. And yes, this shop has it – well, here I swipe, sign, am really good at this! And here walks out the new hero in his glasses!!
***
“Hey, come here, someone’s left a handbag!”
“Great! Happy Thursday! We spilt the cash, as always”
“Make it quick, the Security is right outside, we need to slip it past him. Snooty bastard he is. Ever drooling for money”
“Oh, come on! You are no better, Mr.”
“Hey, hey, let’s just split what’s in it, head out together, anyway our shift’s done, and hit the shops!”
And off they went.
***
Beep!Beep! Message – thankfully my mobile was still in my pocket. Shit! My credit card limit is Rs.36,390/-. I swear it was Rs.83,000 something yesterday! Shit! Shit! Fucked to the core! But I did call them and block the card, I mean, he did, but all the same. Damn plastic.
***
Beep!Beep! Him. God, I don’t know how badly I want to run now. “Am upstairs. The Security wants you to identify the contents of the handbag – one bag’s been found. I raced upstairs – and was quizzed by the Security.
What colour is your handbag?
Easy one, “Black”.
How many cards do you have in there, madam?”
Not so easy. “Let me think.. one debit card, two credit cards, a few other loyalty cards….?”
“There are 14 cards in here madam. It’s been an hour since the show got over.!”
Nothing to say but stand and wait for the bag. And avoid the look of disbelief in his face and the Security’s that someone could actually be like this.

:::: Inspired by key words - Source Code – alternate realities – parallel universe ::::
One of the above happened in the reality I live in. Which one, is the reader’s guess

Honey, who shrunk the communication?

A friend of mine organizes a get-together of all ex-colleagues once a year. She really takes the effort in letting everyone know, check dates etc, and fix venue as well. And this is not easy, considering everyone is working, travelling etc, and also given that not all of them are (active) on Facebook, and still use the mobile – talk and sms (see, this is one step outdated, the hierarchy is this – bottom of the pyramid is mobile communication, then comes Facebook, then Twitter, then_______ (I really don’t know, anyone who does can fill in). So, she uses a combination of all of these and tries to organize such an event for the last 2 months. She had messaged me 2 days back asking if I would be free for lunch on March 6th? I was at work then, and saw the message much later in the evening, thought will reply later (so much for instant communication) and that’s it, only remembered today while going to work, and since was in the auto idling, sitting and scanning the messages received – oh yes, we are people on the move, we try and stay connected always, in fact I had just logged out after checking my mail and also a quick look at who was available to chat – and then came to reading the sms es! I immediately replied. It pained to see the reply from her which said that no one had bothered to even reply to the email, except for 2 of them, who had anyway agreed to meet up! I called her up and she was saying that perhaps people had outgrown the need to meet up, have a get-together etc., That’s when I thought aloud, that the more technology has advanced and the world’s getting smaller, distances and the urge to meet up and connect is shrinking as well!
It seems that with every increasing milestone in networking, attempting to make communication much easier, people have become less responsive, more closeted and too busily caught up in their own lives! My kids do not know to identify a post-box if not for their play school having taught them to draw and colour in red! In fact, I really don’t see them ever using the post box at all! Fine, change and advancement, so take it as it comes.
However, surprising that people are distancing themselves from everyone around them – yes, Facebook photos are pasted promptly by the F-addicts who believe that anything worth talking and sharing is worth it only if it has been/is/will be on Facebook, and the world better know it, of course, the world that breathes Facebook. Although there may be more than 8 million (am sure it’s more, since 43.3% of all statistics are made on the spot) members on Facebook and the number is growing as I type another word, there are several million (more of them , not quoting stats here) that are not really addicted to Facebook or have access to one.
Take me for instance. There is a friend of mine whom I haven’t met in the last 10 years, given that we were quite close back in undergrad days and now are in the same city. My stupid brain never forgets her birthday, so I end up making the one call every year, and every year, the conversation goes like this:
Me: I wish I could forget your birthday! Dammit!
She: Haha
Me: So, when are we going to meet?
She: I don’t know, you tell me….
Me: I think this month is doable, lunch one day, weekday, i.e?
She: Sure, am at work only, Bannerghatta Road, give a call and we’ll make it!
Me: Such a shame..
She: I know (subdued haha)
Me: OK, then, have a great year!
She: Thanks
Me: Ciao
She: Ciao
And every year after the call my thoughts are: Next year, am not calling her and wishing at all. Knowing fully well I will do the same thing next year as well.
Oh, and must say, haven’t seen her on Facebook at all!
Our lunch is yet to happen!

PS:Now that it is out in print, hope I do make that lunch happen!

Extracts from Elif Shafak's The Forty Rules of Love

Intellect and love are made of different materials - intellect ties people in knots and risks nothing, but love dissolves all tangles and risks everything. Intellect is always cautious and advises,'Beware, too much ecstasy,' whereas love says 'Oh, never mind! Take the plunge!' Intellect does not easily break down, whereas love can effortlessly reduce itself to a rubble. But treasures are hidden among ruins. A broken heart hides treasures.

While everyone in the world strives to get somewhere and become someone, only to leave it all behind after death, you aim for the supreme stage of nothingness. Live this life as light and as empty as the number zero. We are no different from a pot. It is not the decorations outside but the emptiness inside that holds us straight. Just like that, it is not what we aspire to achieve but the consciousness of nothingness that keeps us going.

The quest for love changes us. There is no seeker among those who search for love who has not matured on the way. The moment you start looking for love, you start to change within and without.

Try not to resist the changes that come your way. Instead let life live through you. And do not worry that your life is turing upside down. How do you know that the side you are used to is better than the one to come?

If you want to change the way others treat you, you should first change the way you treat yourself. Unless you learn to love yourself, fully and sincerely, there is no way you can be loved. Once you achieve that stage, however, be thankful for every thorn that others might throw at you. It is a sign that you will soon be showered in roses.

Hell is in the here and now. So is heaven. Quit worrying about hell or dreaming about heaven, as they are both present inside this very moment. Every time we fall in love, we ascend to heaven. Every time we hate, envy , or fight someone, we tumble straight into the fires of hell.

The past is an interpretation. The future is an illusion. The world does not move through time as if it were a straight line, preoceeding from the past to the future. Instead time moves through and within us, in endless spirals. Eternity does not mean infinite time, but simply timelessness. If you want to experience eternal illumination, put the past and the future out of your mind, and remain within the present moment.

***

Two men were travelling from one town to another. They came to a stream that had risen due to heavy rainfall. Just when they were about to cross the water, they noticed a toung, beautiful woman, standing there all alone, in need of help. One of the men immediately went to her side. He picked the woman up and carried her in his arms across the stream. Then he dropped her there, waved goodbye, and the two men went their way.
During the rest of the trip, the second traveller was unusually silent and sullen, not responding to his friend's questions. After several hours of sulking, unable to keep silent anymore, he said, "Why dd you touch that woman? She could have seduced you! Men and women cannot come into contact like that!"
The first man responded calmly, "My friend, I carried the woman across the stream, and that is where I left her. It is you who have been carrying her ever since."

***

One day a man came running to a Sufi and said, panting, "Hey, they are carrying trays, look over there!"
The Sufi answered calmly, "What is it to us? Is it any of my business?"
"But they are taking the trays to your house!" the man exclaimed.
"Then is it any of your business?" the Sufi said.
(Unfortunately, people always watch the trays of others. Instead of minding their own business, they pass judgment on other people).