Big Bad Beautiful Blogging Borld

It’s amazing! This world of blogging! Too bad, I’ve remained unknown to it for so long. But then, I’ve remained unknown to many wonderful things in the world. Books, to start with. World cinema (Terrible, Monsoon! Terrible! Terrible!) And… Dates (;_;).

My mother just came in and we had this little dialogue…

Mamma: What do you keep doing on computer all day? Don’t you get tired?
Monsoon: (lost in a wonderful blog) Hmmm…?
Mamma: What’re you doing?
Monsoon: (still lost; mumbles) Nothing.

Mother goes away.

I didn’t quite get to notice her expression as she left, but I bet you can imagine it, just as I can. Of course, I don’t keep doing blogs all day [as you would know if you’ve read my previous post]! But for the most part of today, I have. And oh my! There’re so many brilliant writers out there. And most have been blogging for over 3 years! I seriously have a lot of catching up to do.

Of late, however, I’ve found myself wondering just how much or how little of myself must I pour into my blog. Who am I writing it for? Who SHOULD I write it for? Myself, right? But then, isn’t the whole thing about a blog to let others read you? Why WOULD they want to do that, unless of course, they happen to be my friends, lovers, family, or random people I’ve bribed?
Or… unless if I write well enough?
OR… if there’s something extraordinary about this blog or this blogger?

Which is where my next dilemma begins. How right or wrong is it to flash your extraordinariness to increase your number of hits per day? Would it have been better if the likes of Aamir Khan and Amitabh Bachchan had not projected their true identities along with their blogs? [Oh by the way… hehehe… If you’re trying to read between the lines… THIS blogger is not a celebrity!] Yeah, I know, I know! They want to reach out to the public at large and all that. But just how many of the actual number of ‘public’ can they reach through a high-tech thing (it still IS one in India, if you ask me) like a blog?

Well, I haven’t visited any of the celebrity blogs myself. Even from a distance, they somehow smell fake… And much like KG, ‘fake’ is my turn-off.

Coming back to the dilemma of this freshly-baked blogger… How much of me should go into my blog? And how much of my blog should occupy me?

Expert suggestions… opinions… experiences… Welcome! The door to the Comments room is right below!

My First... Visitor

May 10. He enters my life.
May 27. He becomes the first person to enter this space.

Orkut.
G-Talk.
Facebook.
Vodafone.
Gmail.
Blogger.

Checklist!
Male? Mmmm… Y.. y.. yes.
Caring? Yes.
Cute? Yes.
Rich? No.
Tall? NOOOOOO! (;_;)
Sense of humour? YES!!!
Confused? Who me or him?

5-6 “I like you”s in a day.
5-6 G-Talk hours in a day.
5-6 calls in a day.
1 fight in 20 days.
5-6 “Sorry”s in a day.

Trust Psychology issues.
Height Geometry issues.
Sociology issues.
Geography issues.
History issues.
Chemistry – no issues!

The fastest “I love you”.
Actually, “I think I’m falling in love with you”.
Without a single meeting.

Unreal!
Immature.
Foolish.
Nutcase.
INSANE!

Sweet.


P.S The fastest “We’re just friends”.
Status quo.

The Blow

“Kehta tha aap sab majoori karte ho… Main service karoonga. Kehta tha main kuchh banoonga”… {“He used to say – You all may do labour work… But I’ll do a job. He used to say - I’ll become something”}

Not a trace of dampness in them, and yet so hollow were his eyes as he spoke of his son, that they sent a chill down my very bones. Hollow, just like his skeletal structure – eaten from within by the moths of poverty all his life; and now in the past few hours, every morsel of hope left in there chewed away to nothingness… This time, by the moths outside – the ones he doesn’t know, would never know. And there’s one more thing that he would perhaps never know – the answer to one simple question… Why?

As I sat eating a sumptuous lunch watching news on NDTV this afternoon, one after another, came on screen faces of people who I might have seen sometime, maybe passed by them, perhaps bought something from their shops. They had all lost some part of their existence today – a dear one had left them forever, and they had had no chance to hug them or wish them goodbye. One of the most peaceful cities in my country, the city dearest to my heart – Jaipur – has, instead, said goodbye to peace. “Friends, no more!”

7 bomb blasts… 70 dead bodies… 70 multiplied by a diverse range of number of years of LIFE multiplied by 365… days of LIFE, of memories, laughs, promises, cheers, dreams… turned to dust. Nothing left. Not a thing. The universe has a strange way of absorbing the most beautiful things about life. The things which are not things at all. Because… they don’t REMAIN when life doesn’t remain. And yet, they’re all that life is about!

The headline of today’s Punjabi newspaper Ajit reads “Pink city turned blood red”. It shakes my core everytime I read it. The pink city is the city where I spent the pink years of my life. Not once had it crossed my mind then that someone could even think of bombing this place, these people. And today when I know for sure that it has happened, I’m still trying to convince myself that someone DID after all think of bombing that place, those people.

I’m a firm believer in the Ways of God. That He knows best, and that He’ll make sure that whatever happens is for the best. On such days, though, I find my faith standing on rickety grounds. Why? Just why should an old man who doesn’t get enough water to drink have to shed it from his eyes, in the name of a son who was supposed to quench the thirst of his entire lifetime? Why can these people whom we call terrorists not see their own fathers in this man? And just why can they not see that their God, whoever He is, did not give them the right to create dead bodies? – Neither the ones they’ve left motionless, nor the ones they’ve left moving.

Sad Bird. Happy Bird!

I’ve realized that I write mostly when I’m in one of those down-and-out kind of states. Too bad! I must be fair to all my moods… Agreed, the sullen ones happen to be a bit too regular with me, but then, sometimes, I think I tend to be a bit partial towards them too. They think they’re going to be welcomed anytime they decide to drop in… And I’ve given them every reason to feel that way.

But you know what? I’m going to change that now! I’m happy today… and I’m going to make a big deal out of it! Because hey! “Happy” deserves better… She’s a rare occurrence around the world anyway, like one of the migratory birds, and if we do not give her special treatment… forget special treatment! If we do not give her at least equal treatment as “Sad”, the everyday sparrow, then she might decide to fly away altogether… and leave the barren lands of our souls to be inhabited by her nemesis for all times to come! And that’ll be Sad (;_;)

So, while I feed my Happy Bird and make her a better friend, the Sad Bird can try and go hungry for a while… a long while actually, if the friendship develops into love. Now, I do love my Sad Bird too, because she makes me kind-of more realistic about my life, but I’ve realized that she has a way of finding food even when I try to starve her. And more often than not, the Ugh!-thing returns stronger than ever!!! Let’s see what she does this time… and meanwhile, I’m going to tap my feet to the song of Happy (^_^)

Not Always

Sometimes, days begin like this – early, yet purposeless…
Sometimes, they end that way too.

Sometimes, when I sit to write, I end up thinking – What was I thinking?
Sometimes, when I finish writing, I still think – What was I thinking?

Sometimes, when I get gooseflesh, I wonder – Is it cold or is it scary?

Sometimes, when the mirror acts friendly, I can see a breezy monsoon in it.
Sometimes, when it still acts friendly, I can see the summer in her eyes, and then, it doesn’t act friendly anymore.

Sometimes, I imagine myself in other people’s shoes, and realize that they can never step into mine, because I can never step into theirs.

Sometimes, when I gulp my pills, I wonder whether I’m fooling myself or the world.

Sometimes, I find it hard to remember the last time when I was really tired.
Sometimes, I’m so tired of the monsoons that I wish the winter back.

Sometimes, when I look at my mum’s face, I can see that she’s living in the past.
Sometimes, on that face, I see so much fear that I know the thought of future just crawled by.

Sometimes, we know what’s best for us, and we just do it.
Sometimes, when we do it, we know that it wasn’t the best for us anyway.

Sometimes, I think I could have been anybody I chose to, and I made my choice.

A Most Pregnant Issue

A man chooses to become pregnant! A feat biologically impossible, Thomas Beatie has been aided by Mother Nature in the fulfillment of his desire. How? Well, he happened to be born female. Amidst billions of raised eyebrows, endless cries of ‘Freak!’, ‘Blasphemy!’ and much worse name-calling, protests and even attempts of physical harm to the expectant father, Thomas has chosen to do what no man (whether trans or not) would have the guts to do!

Here’s what I wrote about the matter at an online group I am a member of…

I have wanted to write on this issue for some time now, but I wanted to see the video of the much-hyped Oprah show first, and I managed to find time to do that yesterday. I watched it here

Firstly, what matters the most in this entire scenario - the baby. The most important thing in the nurturing of any child is love and care. In my experience and observation, I have seen that every child, while growing up, finds his or her own set of problems and also, along the journey, discovers the strengths within him/herself or in the world around him/herself to be able to deal with them. How much ever a parent might want to protect their child, there is no way you can shield them from sorrow completely. It's a different point altogether that dealing with problems makes one a stronger and more mature individual. So, the bottomline, according to me, is that problems WOULD come because they're meant to, but what a child really needs is a parent who is right there behindhim/her with the reassurance that Hey! If that seems too hard for you, I'm right here - ready to hold you if you fall. Thomas Beatie doesn't look like a man who wouldn't do that. In fact, he comes across as a very sensitive man to me - one of the most important traits we all look for in our fathers.

Thomas has been off hormones for some time now, which is why I guess the feminine seemed slightly stronger in him at the show; however, in the older clippings from home video, his appearance was certainly more masculine. Now, I know that all that hardly matters, but I also know that it's a fact that even a few amongst us look for 'the ideal' in atransman / transwoman. I've had to check myself doing that sometimes and have hated myself for it. After all, 'Perfect' is only a word, because it can never take a human form. It's unfortunate that our world loves to categorize people on the basis of their common imperfections, forgetting along the way, that the only way to a Perfect World is to bring all imperfections together rather than separate them.

So, Thomas is certainly not perfect. But his imperfections in my eyes may be different from the ones you see. While I felt his and Nancy's poses with an exposed belly were unnecessary, you might feel that the whole thing of coming out on Oprah itself was unnecessary.

However, I happen to see the latter as a step towards a new awakening, a new consciousness. Let's not forget that when the media had started covering homosexualand transgender cases/issues, the reactions had been as acidic and those of as much or more disgust as they are now over the 'Pregnant Man'. All the same, somewhere, at least in some small corners of the world, it HAS made a difference. If everybody chooses to not speak out (of course, it's a very personal choice and must be respected most deeply), the world would remain where it is - segregated. Don't we all want a better world? A new world? However far that dream might be today, isn't it worth trying for?

Having a biological child is Thomas' right and at the same time, being identified as male is his right too. Just because these two rights in his case bring up a situation which is unusual in the eyes of the uninitiated, does not mean his rights can be belied, or that he should be denied proper medical care by no less than 9 different doctors.

Now, there's one point that a lot of people raise which I find the hardest to believe... That THIS – what Thomas is going through - is something that a lot of people would have done quietly (and that that’s the way it should be done too). Personally, I don't think so. Yes, it's 'very easy' and whoever wants to do it, CAN apparently go and do it in Virginia, but according to me, it would take an immense will power and an uncanny ability to strike off an image of 'ideal' that almost every transperson remains stuck with. To identify as a 'man' and at the same time, be ready to carry their baby and yet convince oneself (not the world) that they are and would be the father of the child, be ready to answer or ignore endless questions for all times to come - is a Herculean task.

The question is NOT about its being easy or difficult, right or wrong. If you ask me, it's as right as right can be, because it's HIS right to choose. The question is about one's ability to break the shackles of the convention, the norm, the ideal, the Perfect. Before my Sex Reassignment Surgery, when my mother had urged me to save my sperm in a sperm bank for some time in life when I might wish to have my biological offspring, I had battled with the idea for so long. My heart ached to see a child some day who would have come out of my own self... and yet, finally, I decided against it because I remained stuck with 'what is normal'. I couldn't get myself to believe that I would be the mother of thechild, and that was that.

Thomas, apparently, has dealt with that turmoil and come out so beautifully successful. I can only feel pride and respect for him.

Coming back to what a lot of people think. Now, even if such cases were not to be that rare, I think that's all the more reason for at least somebody to speak out on behalf of all those who would be going through a similar struggle with the medical community, refusing to look after them and their baby. That makes Thomas' coming out even more meaningful.

'Advertise' is not such a bad thing, after all. Don't we see a thousand and one public service advertisements everyday? Advertising is about making aware, and projecting the goodness. Let's not use it in a derogatory sense.

I heard on the show that the transgender community itself has not been supportive of Thomas. Honestly, it disturbed me a lot... because what it really means is that we are no different from the others who tell US what is right and what is wrong. When we tell THEM - "It's my life and let the choice lie with me", we're speaking just for ourselves but then, soon enough, we're ready to segregate our own small little community (if I may call it so) on the basis of the norms of 'right' and 'wrong' borrowed from the same peoples who've segregated 'us' from 'the rest'.

My Angel

I’ve been thinking of how to start writing this for over 3 days now. And as you can see, I opted for one of the most unimaginative openings. Well, I don’t write very often. In fact, my writer’s block is my closer buddy than my writing. But never earlier have I had to wait for so long to be able to get the first few words, never earlier have I felt so inadequate in writing about a subject, because… never earlier have I written about a perfect human being!

And mind it! That’s not a tall claim! Perfection has only one way to prove itself – that it should seem perfect each time you come across it. Time, place, mood, notwithstanding. If I calculate, my total number of meetings with this man would perhaps not be more than 5-6 – on an average, a meeting a month ever since our paths crossed the first time – and each time, I’ve found him to be more perfect than ever.

* * *

In Sep 2007, I received an email from a name I couldn’t quite place anywhere in my memory. Apparently, he was replying to my “Coming Out” mail – a mail that I had sent out to a 100-odd important people of my life, telling them who I really was, and expecting a miraculous acceptance from each one of them. [Reminds me: I must put that mail up here sometime…]

I got some 30-40 responses. The rest chose to remain quiet. This man, however, who was not even a recipient of the original email, had got to read it by a mere chance. Co-incidence! – One would think… But today, as I look back at that co-incidence, I can almost see Mr. God winking at me, and almost hear Him say – “Your angel was long due… Co-incidence is what?”

* * *

How else would you describe this? A little girl used to play with a littler boy in her village. The two were very fond of each other – almost brother and sister. But as the boy grew up, he went abroad to study, and as life would choose for it to be, they lost touch. This boy, after 3-4 decades, now writes to the daughter of that girl – the name of the daughter being ‘Monsoon’ – after having read a “Coming Out” email from her, which was not even meant for him!

Sumu, let’s call him! That’s a variant of the name he often gives to those characters in his stories which are or could be manifestations of his own self. By the way, he hates the name I’ve given to myself, and I’m afraid, if he ever reads this, he might hate the name I’ve given him too!

* * *

Sumu is a 53-year-old man – a writer by profession, and beautiful by countenance. I know, I know! You wouldn’t normally use that adjective for a man, but believe me, seeing him, ‘beautiful’ is what you’d want to say too. It’s a different matter, however, that beauty that lives beneath the skin often chooses to reflect outside.

I grew so fond of him in the first meeting itself that subconsciously, I started to look for similarities in the patterns of his and my life. His stories helped me in that analysis. He, like me, as a child, used to pray to God to let him die before his parents, for he wouldn’t be able to bear their departing. I, like him, had left home for education when I was 17 years 4 months old. We both had had our hearts broken (more by fate than by the ones we loved). Of course, his pain was many decades old, and mine, just half a decade.

Yet, looking at him today, I wonder if I would ever be able to be half as successful, as content with myself, and as positive a person, after having lived alone with such an intense heartache for 30-odd years! Sumu is an extraordinary person… And our similarities end here – for I’m too ordinary in comparison.

* * *

He lives with his octogenarian parents. A flourishing career possible anywhere from Delhi to Russia to the US behind him, he doesn’t once turn back to long for what could have been. Apparently, the choice between caring for his parents and an independent life of his own, for him, was no choice at all… His father, somewhere in the second stage of Alzheimer’s now, defines the axis of every subtle movement of his eyeballs. His mother, who is mirrored in the beauty of his entire persona, shares the deepest bond with him… a love that has no space for expression in day-to-day life, but that completely pervades the air around them and somehow, engulfs you into its cozy balmy embrace – as if here, you would always remain protected from the miseries of the world that lies beyond it.

From buying the weekly ration of vegetables to deciding the daily menu, from managing a newspaper office to writing for his own satisfaction, from being a delightful host to an excellent cook, from having countless friends in every corner of the world to being a friend to even his subordinates, from being a son that any parent would die to have to being my dear Sumu, I’m yet to discover a single flaw in this man that I’ve known almost on a daily basis for over six months now!

* * *

If there’s one thing that you think you could do for a stranger like me writing a strange blog like this one, I ask you to pray for Sumu. Please ask whichever God you believe in to send somebody really special in his life – somebody who would hold his precious heart and look after it for all times to come…

And you, Mr. Angel! Welcome to my life! You’re late!... But I guess, I was not worthy of having you before this anyway. Not that I think I am now… but alas! Now that you’re here, I’m afraid you’re pretty much stuck with me!!!