I think it is in my father's family normally to think too much when one has free time (or time when nothing can be done) to think. Think too much, to brood, that is. I've seen my grandfather, who's now in his middle 80's, sitting on the porch in his wood-and-cloth easy chair in the afternoons, on rainy days especially, seemingly looking through thick glasses (I am told the thickest possible prescription) into nothing at all with his eyes glazed over with the reminiscence of times past. The man has ironically gone through much in his rather uneventful life, through much embarrassment, much suffering, and certainly much disappointment. The only reason I think he has lived this long and is as healthy as he is,— and his being alive today is a great surprise to me— must be his deep faith.
But I think like my grandfather my father is one who thinks too much, and at my age, young though I still am, I am starting to detect this quality that I once used to think came with age and experience. I think it is my very being to think about things, to regret, to hope, to simply brood on life. Now that I think about it, even as I child, my favourite (though I admit that it was not a conscious choice) pastime was brooding. I would spend endless hours in my room, especially after the death of my maternal grandfather, thinking about the future, thinking about the past and thinking about nothing in particular. Of course, with age, this habit (or should I call it instinct?) has only become worse. Now, it is not merely a passive occasion, especially as the time that I have to myself (in commuting, where one cannot do anything else) has increased in amount.
Indeed with age, the content of my thoughts has changed a lot as well. Once, I used to think of my joining my father, far removed from me by circumstance. I used to think of my grandfather, who loved me and spoiled me with gifts. Now, I think about friends, about all those wrong turns I've made with them, about all those missed opportunities to have asked a girl on a date. I feel rather like every teenager, and then some. Indeed, most teenagers don't have the added curse of thinking about ethics, which I do. I think on dating — I mean that I actually dissect the merits and demerits and the implications for myself. I worry about my parents, I worry about what it would mean to them I were to date, though their point that it could potentially ruin my studies through distraction is a valid point. I think about this, I think about this and a thousand other things. 'Cogito, ergo sum.' — 'I think, therefore I am.'
Friday, March 31, 2006
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Long Night's Tale
I remember that time when I went to the opera. I was tempted by the offer of free tickets to balcony seats (and they were really good seats too) It was some stupid thing in French, and though the orchestra was amazing, the plot was disgusting — like that bad coffee you get from some cheap bodega, it left a bad taste in my mouth.
Outside, it had been cold even before I went in, as I had not thought that November in New York could be this cold. I had worn my dad’s blue wool pea-coat, that blue one he had gotten a few years ago from Gap or some similar store for one of his three birthdays (don’t ask, it’s a long story, maybe one I will treat later in another couple of pages). It was cold and windy, I felt stupid not having worn that raincoat in addition to this seemingly threadbare pea-coat. The condition was made worse by the fact that rain had been predicted by some television weatherman and so I was forced to carry my full-length umbrella, leaving one hand exposed to the cold. I was really quite glad when others from my school had come and we went inside to see the opera.
Anyway, after having borne through the two-and-a-half hours of operatic singing and the incredible knee pain, I was glad to leave the opera. My parents had come to pick me up after seeing some movie of their own, as they were unwilling to let me brave the long subway ride with the ten-thousand transfers. It was a blessing on my part too because if I had taken subway, I would have had to wait for another forty-five minutes for that bus. But the killer was none of this — not the burning hunger, not the knee stiffness and pain, and not the torrential flooding rain that was falling outside, which reminded me not of the typical New York rain-shower, but the monsoon rains that I had for years borne in tropical South India. For each first day of school, June the first there, the new uniforms, the new shoes, and the neatly combed hair and powdered faces of all the students for their first day would be ruined in the rain that broke umbrellas like an elephant does long stalks of sugarcanes and heavy cocoanuts. But it wasn’t even this rain that was bad.
The fact of the matter was, that though my leather shoes were getting wet inside and out as I was making a run across the flooding, bowl-shaped courtyard of the opera house, the worst part of the night was a sight from the next block. It was that homeless man, very likely insane, sitting in that rain, screaming ‘Won’t somebody help me? Please!’ The man was just sitting there crying, a cup in hand, filled with either that rainwater or his tears, but who could tell in that rain? Everyone was just rushing by, trying not to get wet, the cars and yellow cabs trying not to ram into each other. Everyone was just trying to get hell out of that rain as soon as possible, and this man, unknown, unnamed was crying for help. As it were, with the other half of the world rushing to get somewhere, I too ran across the street, annoyed by his cries, and sought the cozy, warm comforts of my parents car.
As we drove away, I tried not to think of him or that disgusting opera. ‘Think happy thoughts,’ I said to myself inside. ‘Think warm, cool, happy thoughts.’ The rain outside roared on as ever, falling in torrents. I still wonder sometimes when I am in subway, stuck between two heavy sleepers and my arms pinned down, what happened to that man. Whatever happened to thee o’ nameless one...?
Outside, it had been cold even before I went in, as I had not thought that November in New York could be this cold. I had worn my dad’s blue wool pea-coat, that blue one he had gotten a few years ago from Gap or some similar store for one of his three birthdays (don’t ask, it’s a long story, maybe one I will treat later in another couple of pages). It was cold and windy, I felt stupid not having worn that raincoat in addition to this seemingly threadbare pea-coat. The condition was made worse by the fact that rain had been predicted by some television weatherman and so I was forced to carry my full-length umbrella, leaving one hand exposed to the cold. I was really quite glad when others from my school had come and we went inside to see the opera.
Anyway, after having borne through the two-and-a-half hours of operatic singing and the incredible knee pain, I was glad to leave the opera. My parents had come to pick me up after seeing some movie of their own, as they were unwilling to let me brave the long subway ride with the ten-thousand transfers. It was a blessing on my part too because if I had taken subway, I would have had to wait for another forty-five minutes for that bus. But the killer was none of this — not the burning hunger, not the knee stiffness and pain, and not the torrential flooding rain that was falling outside, which reminded me not of the typical New York rain-shower, but the monsoon rains that I had for years borne in tropical South India. For each first day of school, June the first there, the new uniforms, the new shoes, and the neatly combed hair and powdered faces of all the students for their first day would be ruined in the rain that broke umbrellas like an elephant does long stalks of sugarcanes and heavy cocoanuts. But it wasn’t even this rain that was bad.
The fact of the matter was, that though my leather shoes were getting wet inside and out as I was making a run across the flooding, bowl-shaped courtyard of the opera house, the worst part of the night was a sight from the next block. It was that homeless man, very likely insane, sitting in that rain, screaming ‘Won’t somebody help me? Please!’ The man was just sitting there crying, a cup in hand, filled with either that rainwater or his tears, but who could tell in that rain? Everyone was just rushing by, trying not to get wet, the cars and yellow cabs trying not to ram into each other. Everyone was just trying to get hell out of that rain as soon as possible, and this man, unknown, unnamed was crying for help. As it were, with the other half of the world rushing to get somewhere, I too ran across the street, annoyed by his cries, and sought the cozy, warm comforts of my parents car.
As we drove away, I tried not to think of him or that disgusting opera. ‘Think happy thoughts,’ I said to myself inside. ‘Think warm, cool, happy thoughts.’ The rain outside roared on as ever, falling in torrents. I still wonder sometimes when I am in subway, stuck between two heavy sleepers and my arms pinned down, what happened to that man. Whatever happened to thee o’ nameless one...?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)