Monday, November 27, 2006

Living a Fascination... you'd think!

As a kid, I was possessed. With the whole idea of driving. Speeding. Drifting. Even changing lanes. All I wanted was for me to be in the hot seat and take myself places. My first preference was a bmw... with many first preferences falling in line as I grew up and understood what a 6 digit number meant in terms of currency. And I fantasized off and on... hating cars for having seat handles and weird headlights. But the Peugot, stayed. And obsessed as I am with everything I have wanted since childhood, I chased this. For a few years of my life, I've spent wisely, saved ridiculously. Of course it doesn't cover the interest I pay for now, but it makes me feel good. Like I did my part. And I finally caught up. With a little bit of money to throw around, I finally caught up on this brand new car, the apple of my eye. The only thing I've ever owned with a resale value attached to it. The process of fishing around for a second hand car until I was finally drawn into the gleaming babies in the showroom made me relish the purchase even more. I looked at her for a full 1/2 minute before jumping in and speeding out on my first drive ever. Cars are liabilities. They cannot hold value. There are 3 permanent speed radars on my way to work. 1 flashes you if you cross a red light. Policemen man every single traffic light I cross in the morning. And flouting the laws will land me in nothing short of a zero or negative bank balance, and probably a stint behind bars too, with my licence and my hot wheels, gone for good. I work 15 kms away from my home. Eyes open for pedestrians who will cross only before or after the zebra lines and when the lights are green - for the cars. Death wish. Death wish. Ears open for every car behind me that wants to honk because I did not set my handbrake down when the lights turned yellow. And if there's anything left of my senses, then making sure that all fully tinted windows and four wheelers get special consideration even if I am driving at the speed limit of 120 (the rare scene) and don't know which car to bump on which side so that they can pass through. Then of course, not running over the now growing biking enthusiasts who prefer to think that Hondas and Harleys have nothing to differ on. Yes I am a woman and a new driver (who happened to earn her manual licence at the very first shot). And I know that explains the whole story. But all I want to do is cruise around without thinking and knowing that every move I make on the roads is treacherous!!! What a pity I was born into a generation that threw the passion of driving out of the window to recklessly zoom around with a death wish screeching out of every abused spare part.

Thursday, November 09, 2006

Obsessed

I've been painting ever since I was a kid - it's a picture I can never get tired of. Four oblong coconuts hanging fancily from a tree on the beach. A woodhouse erected right next to the pine with a fence securing the backyard. A turtle crossing the cobbled path that meanders to the door. A boat turned upside down and tied to the pier. The sea touching this solitary island with the smallest of waves. Mountains bordering it far behind, hiding the sun behind them, but letting its warm and mellow rays reflect on the calm lake. No clouds to grey the evening. A couple of birds I could never name. For 15 years, I've painted the same picture, with a few modifications that gave birth to a number of versions of the original. The boat would go sailing, bobbing in the sunset. The turtle vanished sometimes. Rocks and grass grew on the side. The mountains grew in numbers. But the badly drawn tree and the 2-Dimensional house never changed. My father said every kid draws something like this - apparently. It runs in the family. The ubiquitious image that springs in mind when you learn the words sun and house and tree to remember the alphabet as a toddler. I sulked. And in consoling myself, painted a grey version of my little island. I call it the Dream. It was never publicized because my artistic style is nothing worth presenting. But my Dream holds a special place in my heart, purely because it is one of those passions that have survived my childhood and teenage, drawing respect for having held my interest thus far. I cannot comprehend what that picture tells me, but it was my last hope when I had a "Drawing Book" to complete in Grade 4. The versions I mentioned earlier were most useful in filling up the first and last few pages, each a little different from the other. The Dream was my best friend during long, tiring lectures at University where, unfortunately, I wasn't the one lecturing. A touching rendition of my feelings for those who were dear - the perfect "emotional gift" I could give to my close friends, though it became a little predictable the third time and warranted the release of yet another sunset edition I depressed my ex-best friend with. I fiercely defend the image when my friends poke at it and say "is that a tree or a broom?" because it is not the austerity, but the obsession that they try to insult. Of late, my Dream hangs innocently from the monitor on my office-desk. I seek solace whenever the pressure takes its toll... My painting is as unexplainable and intolerable as all the others that sell for millions around the world. But, unlike the creators of those masterpieces, I cannot claim that it has anything to do with anything - not even myself. I talk - banter is the word. I find comfort in numbers. I cannot swim in a lake. I cannot climb mountains. I cannot climb trees either - and the "philosophy" behind my own painting fails to park in my mind. No meaning. No memory. No money. But a tiny creation that I can call my own - My Dream is Everything to me.