On Ingestion

Nothing that is about to follow is particularly original. In fact, this topic is so much in the ether that one more opinion on it will not tip the scale in any way. But I do hope to be able to engage interested friends and acquaintances within the non-threatening context of a leisurely online conversation and hope to discuss some of the recurring lines said and stances taken.

Locus standi:
I am myself a non-vegetarian, although I don't really have meat more than once in two weeks on average. I have had beef but am not particularly fond of it. I like certain kinds of pork, and I like turkey in sandwiches. Haven't experimented with a whole lot of other meats. I also love my veggies and fruits. I love cooking and do it often for myself and family and friends.

What I do not believe is okay:
Invoking any sort of moral superiority to back one's stance at any point in the spectrum. I have endured hours of vegan and carnivorous proselytizing and it really only just pushed me further away. If it is your purpose to win over people to your side, it does not serve said purpose to make another human being feel like an asshole for holding a differing opinion. Besides, resorting to a "higher" moral authority only undermines your own: is it not an argument in favour of your chosen lifestyle if you chose it because of its inherent virtues?

Having the government determine what one should eat. It is quite ridiculous for the state to intervene in personal choices like diet. Beyond promoting or (more rarely) discouraging production or consumption of any food products for economic or public health reasons, a neutral, primarily administrative body has no business dictating what people should put in their systems.

Using violent images and rhetoric to shame or guilt people into eating differently. While it is true that we should be cognisant of the actual cost of our indulging ourselves with foie gras or even scrambling eggs for breakfast, and owe it to ourselves as intelligent human beings to be informed about the ways of the world, it is our individual prerogative to find out about this in whatever mode and to whatever extent we find suitable. Clouding news feeds with stomach turning images and stories does not usually do more than just invite "unfollowing."

No, these are not strong arguments:
Any stance that is primarily in opposition to a perceived threat or source of oppression can become self-defeating. To eat or not eat meat in defiance only gives more agency to whatever one is protesting. In short, don't just eat shit because a religion, caste, or colleague you find annoying says you should not.

Equating killing animals with killing plants. (This is where we enter more sensitive ground.) While it is true that plants too are "living" creatures, they do not have the same complex nervous systems that animals like hens, cows, pigs, and goats too. They do not feel pain in the same sense, and they most certainly do not have the same intense drive to avoid being killed that most animals we eat do. Make no mistake, an animal in an abattoir will do everything within its power to continue living. Furthermore, we primarily eat fruits and vegetables which literally exist to be consumed so that the seed of the plant can propagate. Plants are allowed to keep regrowing and not killed in their entirety for food. In any case, eating meat is no answer to stopping plant murder because the animals we eat have been fed vegetarian fodder while alive anyway. The only time this argument holds some water is if one is prepared to go the extreme route where harming any living thing is verboten (and consequently, you live off only what is already dead and so on), but in terms of the extent of violence committed in the two cases, they are really not comparable.

Things I know now to be true:
Animals are more often than not kept in absolutely appalling conditions in slaughter houses. Being aware of this fact is important in our general attempt at being more conscious and deliberate humans.

The concept of "humane meat" is iffy at best. Till about a week ago, this was my go-to consolation. That free range meat and eggs are better because the animals haven't been tormented while alive. While this may be true, the fact remains that these creatures are being reared and killed primarily for our consumption - a consumption that is not entirely critical to our existence.

The pragmatic fact that my turning vegetarian or vegan will not end animal cruelty. Even if I am able to convert a sizable chunk of the population into doing the same, consuming animals and products derived thereof will most likely remain a part of our lives. We can choose to look at this as either doing it anyway because we believe in it, or not bothering because ultimately the animal we would've consumed, someone else will. This interpretation and choice can only be personal.

That there is a limit to how much one can restrict one's negative impact on the world. No matter what lifestyle one chooses, there will be some costs incurred by an uninvolved third party due to the choices we make. We can at best try to minimize the harm we inflict unto others (in all our practices) and remain, true to our name, sapient.

So, which side are you on, anyway?
It is no doubt somewhat hypocritical to be this aware of the wrongs of meat eating and still persist in it. I have been a vegetarian for about two years in my life and will, in all likelihood, return to it in the future. There are also several valid points against vegetarianism that I haven't really covered here (historically meat-eating humans, cultivating corn and soy and producing tofu can be just as damaging to the environment, etc.). But my point is this - if you want to eat something, go ahead and do it. But forcing it on others, or using specious arguments to clear one's conscience, is unfair and lazy. And ideally, the choice of what we ingest should be made on our own.

boojum; or freedom isn't free

Don't have the time for a more leisurely or better thought-out post on this, sadly, but need to note nonetheless. Independence Day greetings this year were, with some exceptions, met with uniform scorn.

Snark being the order of the day, wasn't surprised. But the question remains: granted that inherited soft-core jingoism may rightly be deemed naive, but how less naive is inherited contempt?

Undeniable that the country - and dare I add, each one of us? - has a long and ugly way to walk still before we can have guilt-free celebrations. One would have to be gloriously imbecilic or living under a toadstool to not see why. But still, what is particularly objectionable to commemorating a day to freedom? It is something we cling to viciously, is it not?

Whether it be A. R. Rehman's music or stories of presently unimaginable sacrifice that have worked itself into unconscious; whether it be merely gladness to be alive or to have even this, this ability to question and scoff - Independence Day can mean more than just habit and school-child hangover. History cannot be pretended away. This doesn't necessarily mean one ought to feel anger or bitterness over injustices committed, but there really is nothing commendable about having no memory of it either.

Am sorely tempted to smirk and throw blistering sarcasm right back at these responses. But I think what I'd prefer - if anyone's asking :) - is just ensuring that one has thought out one's reasons and is not merely repeating what immediate social pond seems to agree upon.

Just ties in with larger realisation that time only makes firmer in head. While I would still claim that such a dichotomy does not truly exist and must be resisted at all costs - if it ever comes down to picking between the talkers and the doers, I can safely say I've decided which camp I'd like to be on.

thumbnail

Easy: tucking flower in hair, making three cups of tea after midnight, walking the dog, saying I love you, taking an hour-long bath, laughing.

Not easy: waiting for morning, making it meaningful, drawing it like you see it, saying I love you, wishing you didn't wish you were dead.

unsheathed

Simple can strike like very little else.

Stop woefully fingering stringy grated cheese that was heart, this rainful morning, when phone buzzes to life. It is an ancient friend. Friend so ancient, in fact, that last name eludes me still as I answer at last chime of The Adventures of Tintin opening sequence, with a barely suppressed groan.

How was I, ancient friend wants to know, and knowing now, wants to let know in turn that friend was doing very well. Was in fact, in line for a pretty great promotion, given excellent track record of last two years. Another opportunity waited across seas, were friend to choose to accept it. Already so struck at such unfamiliar sweet and straightforward hubris, that there is not much else to do except congratulate as sincerely as freshly grated heart would allow.

Tu kya job kar rahi hai, asks ancient voice, and I fake mirth and confess to complete and inexcusable hibernation. Ancient voice sweeps aside and only booms out affirmation of how they always knew I'd be one of those big ones, Tu dekh lena.

Conversation ends in another few newsy minutes and before hanging up, friend finds two more generous, string-free things to say, overlooks broken Hindi and ego, and extracts promise to meet this time, pakka. Grateful heart now again one, toasty, molten pile of cheese - if such tedious analogies are to be forgiven - how but to not be humbled completely? Wherefore smug, sullen superiority? What use of beguiling linguistics? Come as you are, with sword naked and ready to plunge into gut.

Once done pulling head out of own behind, take a moment to go down on knees for the existence of peanut butter cups. Of hair that has never been longer. Of this sky right here with clouds rolling in, unstoppable.

hold applause till end

Illuminating friend who has changed much about life and perception often points out the redundancy of, and even harm in, too much and too easily-given approbation.

True, approval is a beautiful and affirming thing - who's above wanting a pat on the overworked back? - but perhaps the recognition is only incidental to the work done to deserve it.

The need to achieve is perhaps not so much a necessity because a source of pride and joy of friends, siblings, parents, lovers, pets, self - but because in it lies the key to our less-small selves. We are made more by what we do because for a moment there is revealed in us the propensity to act instead of not, to take the less lazy route. And every such step is but a step that the flood of feelgood feedback might sometimes cause to overlook.

While thoughts as this might be sponsored by show of extravagant congratulations on news feeds - which in themselves are worthy of apathy - the lesson is not unimportant for ravenous little heart such as that belongs to this writer.

The idea is to turn that twinge of jealousy into something more useful. To not find corner to sulk in and wish to be the centre of such unbridled showers of blessing oneself, but to rein in such futile and destructive longing. To remember never to make desire for recognition the end in itself. For one is unfortunately wont to do so. =)

Timely reminder that must move on not in the hope of that Hollywood Ending where everyone with tears in eyes is all apology, exuding hearty, hearty love - but because this is what we must do, all that we must do, whether or not there is a participation certificate at the end.

adieu, again

Last Sunday morning, last full moon night. Cannot help but note under breath while shifting first lot of books and clothes to new residence.

Room on roof that one always wanted has been dream come true for these last two years. Even with leaky roof and rattling French windows and a hundred other eccentricities, bits of heart will remain here long after we leave.

Daily visitors ranged from parrots - one scruffy veteran; another, a pink-collared young stud - to squirrels that with remarkable regularity dropped from rafters, lay around stunned for a while and later revived enough to make way back up. Being able to step out of bed and straight onto terrace with maybe a cup of tea in hand - Ah, shall miss in earnest.

Outside of one's own world, someone deeply admired is betrothed. Heart cannot help but balloon at hearing of such things. Cold cynic in many matters but whenever see people finding each other and working towards making something bigger, how not to melt into puddle of sentimental goop?

This year, like every fledgling year, is off to whirlwind start and promises many more changes in scene. Will need to pare down needs, wants, habits to minimum if one is to survive this. Must remember to remember that home is where you hang your hat, what will be, will be, &c.

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant 

and whatever a sun will always sing is you 

- E. E. Cummings

gratitude

At having parents who, when told timorously about plans for travelling with friends 'round country at two in the morning, react not with apoplectic 'What? How? Why?' but a matter-of-fact, 'Okay, you're gonna need a thicker sweater.' And Mater, of course, begins knitting one immediately.

At having sister who spies with merciful eagle eye injured dog in the rain and instead of walking on, bundles up in car to nearest vet.

At being able, despite infinite capacity to procrastinate and Carpal's wrist and a thousand, thousand excuses, to make some dough. At being able, in short, to remain relevant. =)

At knowing wise and lovely people who send in beautiful, thoughtful things every now and then, just because.

At having more reasons to love than to not.

rollin' in the deep

6 pm, Today.

Floating on back. Visible: orange-tinged nimbostrati against a violet sky; home-bound flock cutting diagonally across. Ears plugged with water, limbs limp, toes and nose point skyward. Except for sustained hollow sound of breathing, making its way through water, wouldn't know if alive.

Flip around and dunk head in water again. Commence swim. Water yields reluctantly, dragging at arms. First time swimming with long hair. Unfamiliar, this sudden cloud of black; blurring vision, stopping breath, curling around neck. Homicidal, I tell you.

Here, in this chlorinated, buoyant world, how nice to just surge forward like this. To breathe every three strokes (alternate sides), to kick gently but firmly (no breaking at the knees!), to remember from donkey's ears the tricks to optimal movement. How lovely to have instinct (and years of drilling) kick in and not have to think, to think.

Soon, fingers shrivel up, body aches, and head feels marvellously blank. Such prolepsis. Shall, not too long from now, be nothing more than prune, slave to demands of muscles beyond control. But while we have these things to own, let us endure as much as we can, yes? =)

This itchy skin
Time to turn in

shelter

bright blessed day, dark sacred night

Futile, burrowing in like this but need from time to time to remember that despite it all one is quite inescapably alone. Alone and uncertain as to how to feel about this.

Relieved, on one hand, for it to be this simple. Apprehensive, as to what long-term fallout may entail. Atrophied heart? Unexploited potential? Or, that worst of worst, having not lived a 'full' life (whatever that may mean)?

Ah. This is when voices like Ms. Kent's, unavoidable burden of 'work' and ceaseless rain helps. Not to say that the people one loves so desperately mean any less, just to remind oneself of one's complete lack of consequence in the big picture. 

Yes, I love.

So what? =)

---
EDIT:

Since too often only the melancholy registers here and not enough of the content, this merits updating. Serendipitous reconnecting with old friends - sudden phone calls, unexpected e-mails that leave feverish heart even toastier - What can I say?

Alone. Forever, yes, but never really.

four-letter-word

Realise with a shock have been thrown into the deep end. With the kind of lucid terror only midnight brings, see now that I do not walk, I wade.


(When it rains, as they say, it pours.) 


Breaking the easy surface of these shrugs already are clammy fingers that will keep heart enclutched, for who knows how long. Under cover of those casual, casual laughs is bubbling over what shall soon flood into shoes and leave standing, irrelevant. The coolth of the water now, hides how swiftly it rides. 


High time, high tide. And true to nature, it stands not on ceremony. In now for already too long; am soaked. 


The only thing that can be done is to still. Clench stomach, curl toes, grit teeth. Switch the autonomous nervous system into overdrive and pray, pray that when one is done drowning, there shall be air left to breathe, and sense left to let it in. 


Such elaborate, futile caution; hands tremble. Gloves cannot contain it. =)

Squeak

So this morning, there was a squirrel in my bed, nestled in between three mattresses of varying age and thickness.

Room on roof entails frequent run-ins with creātūrī non homo. The floor is littered with string and fluff that no doubt served until then as furniture in the nest of the squirrel family that exists between the blurry lines of rafter and roof. Pigeons of questionable powers of vision that fly right into windows and then sit on railing, recovering. Bats that cling to floor and mysteriously make disappear milk from saucers and then themselves. Bees that hit against lights again and again in buzzing monotone, forcing fans to be shut and windows to be slid open till they return perhaps to hive under balcony. Spiders: green gold, tiny and translucent, glittering, busy spinning, near ear. I leave out, of course, the feline and canine members of the household.

After a few hours of leaving be with multiple points of exit exposed, Bahadur Shah, courageous young son of Lady of the Sparse Tail, had not yet budged far from under the bed. Next was attempted building bridges of milk-soaked bread, almonds and raisins but this failed to inspire trust also. Bahadur Shah had meanwhile grown quite restless, moving dizzily across tabla tops, performing amateur acrobatics between computer wires, with a pit-stop in the gym bag before some rustling through newspapers.

May may well be the month of all change, it holds the key to where these feet will head next. This so planned year, surprise year, year of loss and gain, books and oscillations, shall yield some of its lessons by May. If only patience were all it took. Patience and close encounters with the curious kind.

For the attentive, Young Bahadur Shah took the long route home, the one made of towels tied on end. And all the while, five measurers of destiny, in a rare cameo appearance, glowed grimly above.

Ami Amo

There exist certain persons who are able - with nothing more than inherent light and native sweetness - to turn the heart over and around. Persons who one may meet after twelve years and yet pick up that last thread of conversation that hovered about a rusty gate, a pinching competition, or another Mario level.

One must guard against pride, cocksurety, and ignorance just as hard as against indecision, self-pity and often - what we think to be - love. But when said persons walk back into the daily scheme of things - if only long enough for some ginger tea, some levity - keeping things at bay becomes irrelevant. There is, for a while, no further need for walls, fists and scowls. Said persons remind us of who we were, where we are likely to be, and reillumine that ghost of Ithaca.

This being the right moment to ask you to remember to thank whichever god you believe in or don't, for creating said persons who bring back from obsolescence, that much abused token of

Friend. 

that which must be forgiven

All at once, I miss college terribly. Apart from the early morning visitors - ranging from the hoarding and the weaving to the ultrasonic variety - this room also comes with hyperbolic acoustics. So this song comes on, not one I have ever much wondered about or remarked upon, but it comes on and all at once, I miss it. I thought it would never come.

This oppressive revisiting. Longing for inexplicable things like bus rides at sunset, alone. Like walks in between canteens, stopping for coffee only as an excuse to keep walking, running into old faces from school, from unexpected places. The strange way how everyone seemed to own the campus and be owned by it in turn. Every junkie, every geek, every scowling politico - as if organic growths, rational fallouts of that maze of asphalt and recycled flora. That strange sense of floating through knowing that this was how I would remember it. Aware of the memories hardening, often skewed, perhaps inaccurate, but settling nonetheless for good. Those born under Revati were meant to make an art out of leaving.

The smell of rain, thin coffee, books, ammonia, mulch, cement dust and sometimes skin. Earphones seem to be the refrain in these flashbacks. Sitting on the stairs, not needing conversation but happy in the soft glow of others talking. The easy distance that had replaced the first passionate ardour. Not that I disown the love, the attachment. Never had there been such closeness, such belonging. Not that I don't remember with a shudder the equally disembowelling periods. Times of total discomfiture when people, books, this self skin seemed grossly alien and designed to kill. But keener are these times of neither love nor hate, these times of blessed contentedness spent in solitude, sometimes shared solitude, which only like minds can understand. The absence of guilt, doubt, fear, intolerance. The ballooning joy of everything from a three-and-a-half-legged dog that followed one around the lake to a sudden flower offered. How the littlest of life's touches seemed to brim over.

I had a migraine when I started this. But now the song's over and Ma's just returned with a bucket load of haleem so all maudlin writing must be ended herewith. =)

longue durée

And its ineffability. Not the absence of Foresight; merely its irrelevance. Which is to say, thank you, those who stick around when there's nothing to stop you from leaving. 

dust bunnies

Finally got around to organising shelves today - might I take this moment to echo ancient maternal wisdom and extoll the virtues of domestic chores? If the blog's stopped being therapeutic, take to a broom - the usual run-ins with old photographs, books signed by friends ere Facebook, when departures meant something. One knew that new cities were not merely an update: STD, postal blight made keeping in touch a rare disease.

Hastily sketched, ill-spelled letters of love and tears tucked away to be found at unlikely hours like these. Terrible photographs with half eyes and overexposed teeth. Bookmarks, ribbons from the craftier ones. Each will place heart in neardeath chokehold.

Fondness is now a dubious thing. There are looming godheads of religion, philosophy, even medicine, that question all attachment. Nothing more than maya, narcissistic misrecognition, symptom of syphilis - sentiment has been turned into a tennis equation. Love all. 0-0.

But each such snag recognises the futility of choice. One can agree with ideas and yet be unable to stem the lived experience. Neither invalidates the other, merely makes existence perilous and diamond-edged. Perhaps enlightenment awaits with clear choices, but till then, live brilliant.

In short, there is in life an element of elfin coincidence which people reckoning on the prosaic may perpetually miss.

- G. K. Chesterton, 'The Blue Cross'

rattle