And it was at that age...

I have always wondered what makes poetry tick. It's such a drab art form- nothing concrete, nothing tangible. Every verse, couplet, sonnet is open to interpretation. Poetry stretches the phrase “to each his own” to the max. You can take whatever you want to from a poem. Can you ever guess, come even close to taking a pot-shot at, what a poet was thinking when he penned a line? For someone who’s been brought up on a staple diet of literary fiction, poetry baffles me. I find it a tad difficult to appreciate its various forms, the myriad genres, the numerous meanings.

What, though, one cannot deny is that poetry is beautiful. You just cannot escape it. It’s everywhere and so really, there is no point in running away from it, and that’s exactly wherein the splendor of poetry lies- that it will find you, and as Pablo Neruda so wonderfully puts it- And it was at that age...Poetry arrived in search of me.

He, of course, was talking about how poetry arrived for his writing; I’ll just change the meaning, to my convenience, and apply it to my reading.

Pablo Neruda was the pen name the Chilean writer and politician Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto. If all it takes to write soulful poetry is a long real name, am changing my name to Niyati Revarto Reshmaiyyes Budhvaro!

Neruda was the winner of the 1971 Nobel Prize for literature; he was an accomplished poet who skillfully handled many poetic styles. I came across Neruda quite late, to my dislike, but then when one has never really made an effort to be acquainted with the field of poetry, one can’t really complain enough or much!

It was, in essence, like a rush- the rush of discovering Neruda. Below are few of my favorite lines from the little that I have unearthed of Neruda:

From the Book of Questions:

What does autumn go on paying for with so much yellow money?
In what language does rain fall over tormented cities?
Tell me, is the rose naked or is that her only dress?
Why do trees conceal the splendor of their roots?
Is the sun the same as yesterdays or is this fire different from that fire?
How does rumor of the sky smell when the blue of water sings?
What did the tree learn from the earth to be able to talk with the sky?
Where did the full moon leave its sack of flour tonight?
And at whom does rice smile with infinitely many white teeth?
Why don't inanimate things do something?
What will they say about my poetry who never touched my blood?
Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?
Whom can I ask what I came to make happen in this world?

Personification is something Neruda is a natural at. And with just questions, he conveys half-hidden answers, long-lost conversations, and implied, unsaid feelings. My question to you Mr. Neruda is: What can I give to have an imagination as yours?

From Statues:

May whatever breaks
be reconstructed by the sea
with the long labor of its tides.
So many useless things
which nobody broke
but which got broken anyway.

From Too Many Names:

No one can claim the name of Pedro,
nobody is Rosa or Maria,
all of us are dust or sand,
all of us are rain under rain.
They have spoken to me of Venezuelas,
of Chiles and of Paraguays;
I have no idea what they are saying.
I know only the skin of the earth
and I know it is without a name.

When I sleep every night,
what am I called or not called?
And when I wake, who am I
if I was not while I slept?

I have a mind to confuse things,
unite them, bring them to birth,
mix them up, undress them,
until the light of the world
has the oneness of the ocean,
a generous, vast wholeness,
a crepitant fragrance.

I particularly like these lines above- a mind to confuse things. Maybe that’s exactly what the mind is good at, at getting confused and muddled. Mine certainly is, and I’m happy that my mind has been brilliantly described by Pablo!

From I Like For You to be Still:

And let me talk to you with your silence
that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
One word then, one smile, is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it's not true.

Neruda is wickedly famous for his erotically charged poems. In fact, Twenty Love Poems and a Desperate Song, is his most critically acclaimed and best-known work. His passionate love sagas are set to love’s yearning, its loss, its damage, its death.

From For Everybody:

It's nobody's problem
Not for them, nor for you,
And if you listen well, in the rain,
You will be able to hear
That I come back and go away and stay.
And you'll know when I must leave.

If my words aren't heard
Don't doubt that I'm the one I was.
There is no silence that doesn't end.
When the moment arrives, wait for me,
And let everyone know that I'm coming
To the street, with my violin.

There is no silence that doesn’t end. Can this be true? It’s so difficult to believe, easier said than done. But then that’s what the maestro is so good at- at filling you with an all-consuming hope that maybe, just maybe, all silences will break.

From here and there, still all his:

They may mow down all the flowers, but they can't stop spring.
Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life.
I don't have a never, I don't have an always.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

All I can wish for is that this rush lasts a lifetime!

P.S.- My favorite poem has not been listed here, Neruda, after all, does deserve some privacy!

Hi there!

It’s always nice to say a big Hi to one and all. Well, not to one and all- a big Hi is generally meant for only those special people who deserve it, who are close enough to understand the warmth behind the greeting, the love and affection behind the salute.

They are also the same people who will unconditionally forgive you even when you extend the courtesy after donkey years, who will warn you and perhaps sometimes threaten, though always good naturedly to keep in touch, who will break your neck and your nose when you do manage to meet them, again amicably of course but then to what extent does a broken nose underscore a benevolent disposition is open to debate.

Now these deserving few, as they exist, belong to different categories, varied domains and distinct time periods. They have become a part of my existence under diverse circumstances ranging from the mundane to the bizarre.

I have known some for years, since my school days, when those dreaded and disastrous red ribbons were excusable because they looked worse on them. These mates who still keep in touch (God bless their souls and may he never give them the ability to realize their mistakes- Amen) made me cognizant of so many things- of how to smell affairs- that is so say between teachers- a certain Mr. Tommy and Mrs. Daisy (both married- not to each other), of how a stream like Mathematics could be subjected to cramming, of how deserving students were taught the viciousness of life at such a tender age by denying them positions of responsibility, in other words by not being made prefects, of how these undeserving students who were made prefects subjected fellow humans to inhuman unspeakable tortures, of how it was okay to wear the same clothes for the entire week (for the record- I did not do this), of how every morning one learnt the lesson of humiliation in the form of weird and painful drills to the tune of Japanese enumeration and most importantly of how it was illegal and criminal to go AWOL, the possible exception being a death bed which of course wasn’t all that often.

A handful of acquaintances turned into lifelong relationships during the years I attended college. College life teaches you so much- the most important thing being unity- of bitching together, of attending classes together, of bunking classes together, of gossiping together, of falling for the same guy together, of getting through heart aches together, of bitching together, of 8 people eating a single dosa together, of skipping examinations together, of flunking subjects together, of experimenting on rats and frogs together, of bitching some more together.
Another very critical aspect highlighted during this period is the consequence of messing around with authority figures. Unity again figures prominently in this arena, when you, backed by well-wishers without doubt, incessantly crib about everything and anything. The result of this innocent and harmless blabbering is that it reaches the ears of the commanding personality whose not necessarily just ears were being talked about. What follows is a harrowing, agonizing, distressing, excruciating, nerve-racking and terrifying period of subsistence that is worth chronicling and of also easily being recommended for the Guniess book of world records.

Enter the workplace- suddenly the dynamics of friendship change- but do they, really? Technically, associations in the workplace are meant to be a little restrained, a tad formal. But then I’ve never really been strong technically so all cautions, considerations and inhibitions were easily thrown out of the 5th (now 6th) floor window. Amity in the professional environment involves preparing each other for future interviews, spending endless hours in and around the canteen, trying to learn to play the guitar in organized free guitar classes and failing miserably, participating in company wide competitions and failing miserably again, sending bulk and junk mails and consequently being forever marked a felon by the HR department, happily organizing lunch/dinner treats, drinking gallons of horrible beverages in the break-out area, criticizing the company’s policies, censuring the Manager for even breathing, relishing office gossip (there exists no immunity for the bitching virus) and finally helping one another sometimes with something referred to as work.

Some bloke once said “What’s in a name?” I’d like to believe quite a lot and hence I like to give my friends names and no it’s not the same thing as calling them names. It’s just meant to be a little less rude. So I know a ‘jhelu’, an ‘amma’, a ‘squeaker’, a ‘salo’, a ‘casper’, a ‘pretto’, a ‘flakes’, a ‘cyclops’, a few ‘rajputs’ and lots of ‘jerks’.
These terms of endearment could mean a lot of things for e.g.:

• You have an atrocious or mediocre or irrelevant appellation. Please change it.
• It is irksome and perplexing, not to mention embarrassing to be affiliated with someone with such a nomenclature. Please change it.
• It appeases my ego to address you such, so I have changed your label as per my convenience and that’s that. Please learn to live with it.

Despite all that’s there to friendship and its associated complications, I think I cannot thank each and every buddy of mine ever- completely and fully. For putting up with my idiosyncrasies, my tastes and my ideas, for being the first to make that opening remark which probably you knew would never have come from my side, for patiently listening me narrate stories from books/movies/TV serials (I promise someday I’ll narrate my own story- not that actually anyone is waiting for it- but we’ll leave it at that for the time being) and for always being there whenever, wherever, however required. So, just in case you thought I had forgotten all about it- HI!

My Big Fat Sweet Tooth

Well I don't really have one. It in reality runs in the family and I am waiting for that dreaded day when it will be uncapped and take over my existence and transform my life once and for all. The only sweet things that I like are chocolates, cakes, pastries, penalty with vanilla scoop, gajjar ka halwa just to name a few. I have not for example inherited my parents compulsive habitual need to taste and relish all kinds of sweets prepared by the 'around the corner' Aggarwal. Also I'm famous in the entire family as the one who does not appreciate the sugar coated varieties offered by life, so the extent to which sweetness has percolated down the family tree can be estimated. There is also this unexplained habit prevalent amongst the relations to try out every new mithai that one comes across and to take upon oneself the responsibility to publicize the same to as many people as possible, especially to the ones suffering from diabetes.

They say everything happens for a reason. So for some time now I've been trying to figure out the reason why diabetes runs in my family. I have not been able to fish out anything concrete except mind-boggling readings and everyday a new family member who had or has the dreaded disease. Just to signify the gravity of the situation, I'd like to state for the record that my grandparents till a little time back had their blood glucose levels around the 350-450 mark, a score that would put even a certain Mr. Mathew Hayden to shame.

Everybody in India, of course, knows or rather, should know about diabetes, because in the next five to ten years this country will be playing host to the largest number of diabetics in the world. Well if you have diabetes the operative word is not "Sugar" but "Carbohydrates". The former is one of the two types of the latter, but there existed this notion for quite a while back that consuming anything sweet would lead to diabetes but this of course is not true. Once one is diagnosed with the disease a whole new world is brought into focus; it signifies the dawn of a new era. It's an amazing transformation. Food that was earlier shunned and discarded is now to be worshipped and eaten. And those edible eateries that were popped in without a second thought can now not be popped in so easily because hidden within those seemingly harmless goodies lies waiting a microscopic monster that is going to shoot the glucose level up, up and away, much to the envy of Superman.

I still remember that one glorious morning when my father announced that he was going to the neighborhood diagnostic clinic to get his blood sugar tested. He tells me it was an instinctive thing to do, in all probability it's-high-time-I-got-it-checked kind of a routine, but there must have been telltale signs all along. His appetite had considerably increased- put simply he was turning into a glutton; apart from having his three course meal he was actually munching something or the other all the time; also he wanted dessert after every meal or rather after every snack he had. It was quite frightening when I now think about it and the incessant pain in the calves was like icing on the cake (no pun intended) and that ultimately made the way to the clinic clearer and nearer.

My dad walked in triumphantly after the check-up, smiled mischievously and announced proudly "Now, I'm a sweet man!" The result was expected but still disheartening. My mother geared up big time to take the bulls by its horns. Big plans were drawn out to minimize sugar intake and everybody who's anybody in the family, were not really asked for their respective opinions, but they were given anyway. We all readily agreed to the changes that were now going to take place in the so-called lunches and dinner that were going to be served. With a concordance rate of more than 90% between identical twins, there appeared a more than 100% chance of we three kids developing the disease, so we all decided that there was no harm in starting too early in life. In addition to a well-planned balanced (read fat-free, sugar-free, less-calorie etc) diet, a strict exercise regime was also proposed. Someone great once said 'Ambition is a very important thing'. Well, I'll take it at face value that he/she was great.

Avoid fruits and nuts. You are what you eat. -Jim Davis
Avoid fruits, nuts, potatoes, rice, anything sweet or starchy. You are what your parents are, and what their parents were- Diabetic. -Me

The mornings were to be started off with a long walk, which I think was ardently followed for three days. Breakfast was to be light with either cornflakes or a lightly buttered toast. The morning tea of course was to be taken without sugar and also every subsequent cup of tea after had to follow the same course. Big changes, however, were introduced during the full meal routines. A mix of channa and missi roti ka atta replaced the normal roti ka atta. Yes, it is as cool as it sounds, though I've never really tasted it before but I'm pretty optimistic. I'm, in fact, relying on the verdict given by my father, who on the first day of his new diet plan assured me about the extent to which he was relishing this new stuff. As far as I can recall, I think he had tears in his eyes but those were readily dismissed as an overflow of emotion over the prospect of eating such a wonderful meal for the rest of his life. Potatoes were to be boiled before they could be subjected to any further treatment. Rice was to be de-starched. Most of the fruits were banned except some; the most prominent fruit that survived the onslaught of the war against diabetes and gained its entry on the shelf of the refrigerator, day after day, was papaya. My mother has a very interesting theory, which she never ceases to drill into me whenever I try to shrink away from the sight of the dreadful fruit. She tells me that papaya is the only fruit that will bind your tummy in case you're having an attack of the trots and will loosen the inner contents in case you have constipation. It seems too contradictory and a figment of her imagination so I've always been too scared to experiment when I'm passing through either of the two conditions.

Another very important ingredient that was deemed fit to be included in the revamped diet plan was soy. Since the preparation time is just a few minutes, it seemed all ready to acquire the status of the new kid on the block, the new sensation to hit town, the new rising star on the horizon. A few weeks later, however, I received this forwarded e-mail, a true story to boot, lamenting the use of soy in food and highlighting the dreadful effects it could have on the body, including dangerous diseases like cancer. The box of soy was as a result, duly shown its correct place- the dustbin around the block, the dump at the end of the town- as the drowning star at the horizon.

Lots and lots of home remedies were suggested by lots and lots of people and my mother in her responsibility as a good housewife noted everything in her diary that was aptly labeled 'My Sweet Fight'. Jamun powder, meethi daana, neem leaves, paneer doda are just few of the weird and probable viands that I came across while flipping through the pages of that battered diary; the additional reason behind these being mentioned is that they happened to be the only ones where I could comprehend either the whole or a part of the word. The rest seemed to be in Hebrew.

My parents were also told that if one were to eat the niboli, or the fruit of the neem tree, one would be able to conclusively control the glucose level and thereby get rid of diabetes. But like all good things in life come in ugly packages, there is no exception in this case too. Chewing the niboli is the hardest thing to do, even moving a mountain would prove to be child's play. The problem multiplies when appearances become deceptive. There are quite a number of trees that resemble the sacred Neem, and as a result the fruit of the tree can easily be mistaken for. We were recently informed that the tree under which we had spent a considerable portion of our time collecting the nibolis was not the correct one but some distant relative. With a heavy heart and a squashed spirit, we took it upon ourselves to relay the same to as many people as possible. Much to my mother's dismay an acquaintance refused to believe her and argued that since the brother-tree's fruit was benefiting her she would continue to use the same. This just goes on to prove that it is quite dangerous to suffer from a disease. Not only are the physical aspects compromised, so are the mental faculties threatened.

The most important vegetable that was actually considered to lead the way to a normal healthier better life was bitter gourd (karela). There is something about this particular work of nature that makes one despise it even before it is reaches the mouth. Something also needs to be said about the way karela tastes. It's like multiplying the taste of the niboli by a factor of 100. And I think I'm correct in my observation since a considerable portion of the Indian population tends to hate this particular delicacy. But the first and golden rule to be followed by a diabetic is not to hate any from of food and especially love the food that one has always hated. Therefore it became imperative to consume the most loathsome denizen of the entire vegetable family.

It's been close to eight years now and I won't say that the situation has worsened though it has not changed for the benefit of all either. My mother has diabetes as well. Dad wakes up early in the morning every day and resolves to walk at least for 5 miles, but inadvertently ends up scooped up in the blanket fifty inch deep. We got a Gluco-meter to save the time, blood and energy spent in going to the close by clinic. But a little while later, its ineffectiveness was realized and the concerned doctor suggested a better clinic that is now not so close by. So much so for technology and innovation and their cumulative efforts in making our lives simpler. Ironically enough when my parents' respective sugar levels do turn up near the normal value, my dad suggests that we celebrate by preparing or buying sweets! Both my parents' sugar levels are not actually very high yet are also not in control, so constant efforts are put in to not allow them to exceed beyond dangerous levels. These so-called efforts involve the very challenging task of popping in tablets before and after breakfast and meals, a task, which my father almost always forgets. A recent visit to a renowned endocrinologist was dismissed as unnecessary because the doctor didn't treat patients with such abysmally low sugar levels. Only when the glucose level should touch the 300-350 mark will the doctor consider a patient as an aspiring appetizer.

The moral of the story is life with diabetes is not easy. Also life without food is unimaginable and to an extent impossible. George Bernard Shaw once said, "There is no sincerer love than the love of food", which echoes the sentiments of every human being. The catch therefore lies in balancing the scales to as to achieve a healthier longer life.