On Acceptance

While completing a segment of the course that I am currently teaching, spontaneously said to my students, “How you carry things forward is completely your prerogative from now on. I was here not to give you the text, but just the context.”

A student asked me before I could complete the segment: “Ma’am, why is it so, that many of the lives of these great writers or poets or singers are so dark? Why does it happen that they live in pain?” My response was : “See, reading literature, enjoying literature, and living literature are different things. These people “lived” literature. Anxiety for acceptance and the lack of it are probably one of the reasons. These great writers, poets, musicians, sculptors, etc. kept on struggling with the anxiety of being accepted by themselves,the world, by peers, and by a lot of people. For them, money and livelihood was also important because they had chosen a profession which did not pay a lot, they also were struggling for love, or else an intellectual acceptance by peers”. I hope this interpretation made sense to people. I have been thinking of a few questions that come along these lines — How is it that we are accepted or rejected by people? On what basis is an acceptance or non-acceptance? It might be intellectual in nature or emotional in nature. When I thought a little in-depth, decided to bring a slice of literature and life to Iris for you all.  Thought of carrying some parts of my discussion “how popular is popularity?” from the last article in a new form in this article. I am drawing a few threads for this article from my classroom experiences, from personal conversations, and from life in general.

I was in conversation with a friend and asked him: “How do people deal with rejections? I mean how do they deal with or possibly live with something like a ‘break-up’ or an emotional ‘un-acceptance’ in personal/ professional circles or among peers? When a paper gets repeatedly rejected or when people don’t consider your views seriously? He had an interesting response to share. He said something like the following: “This happens when people keep things repressed. They struggle with rejecting the emotion in the first place. They think of ‘growing out’ of it soon and for them the ideal is the greatest source of agony or joy. The simplest solution is to ‘accept it’ and live with it, until the scars are wiped out and whenever one recollects, it is not bitterness but happiness that brings back memories of the moments spent.”

Have you ever come across the following lines from William Wordsworth’s “Lucy” poem series?

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

         Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise

         And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone

         Half hidden from the eye!

—Fair as a star, when only one

         Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

         When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh,

         The difference to me! (my emphasis)

When I was very young, I used to enjoy reading these lines a lot. Now, when I think of these lines, I feel that the anxiety of acceptance is so potently present in the poem. Possibly, I personally associated with the lines very much because had a strange story with places — was in general unrecognized in the places and by the people with whom I lived or contributed to.  The anonymity which Wordsworth writes of was the kind of anonymity that I have always existed in. 

“Fair as a star, when only one is shining in the sky”.

And now when I am enveloped with many varieties of students, I have bitterly felt the truth of these lines. There are those young boys and girls who need no push or drive. They are deeply motivated by themselves, these are the achievers who make it big both professionally and personally. On the other hand, there are those stars that wait to twinkle only when the rest of the sky is getting dense and dark. They cannot shine by themselves, because they wait for a push, a polish, a drive for being accepted, and often get lost on the way. Academics calls some of them ‘the poor students’, but possibly the fear of ‘un-acceptance’ is so deeply grounded in them that it makes them passive, and un-interested. Some of them can be nurtured back with a real push or a constructed acceptance, while many have to be left behind because life and time do not always give a chance.

A moment’s acceptance/rejection can be life changing. Citing a story again from my personal experiences. Was in the Undergraduate classes. We had a course titled “The History of English Literature“, where one had to read and analyze the entire history of British literature from  Chaucer to the twentieth century writings of Eliot, D.H.Lawrence, Virginia Woolf, etc. I was pathetically poor in that subject. Too afraid, too nervous. The subject was itself notorious in the University for giving the maximum flukes. One day, I wrote a long essay on the history of ‘The University Wits‘ (Marlowe, Kyd, Nash, etc.) and took it to Usha Ma’am (Prof. Usha Sundari) (she is no more) for review. Like me there were many others who had submitted their own write-ups. When she came the next morning with our edited write-ups, she encouraged each and everyone with good comments. When it was my turn, she threw the notebook at my face saying: “You people are good for nothing. As girls you all know that you are in demand in the bridal market because of a degree in literature. You think that any rubbish you write makes ‘History of English Literature’? Go and change to some other Arts subject which will fetch you marks. My dear, literature is the toughest bait of the world and I do not want students like you ruining it.”

I was devastated by this dramatic, utter, pure rejection. Thought of  seriously changing my subject. Living in this claustrophobic atmosphere was tough for me for a long time. One day I decided to meet one of my favorite Professors with whom I shared my trauma. She laughed out aloud and said, “If Usha said this to you, then be rest assured that if you put the hardwork, then you are going to top the University. She is not a goldsmith, she is a diamond-smith — that is her style. However, that also means it is your HARDEST work to prove her wrong — lets see who wins when a challenge like that is presented.”

These moments of acceptances and rejections do prove to be dramatic and life changing.  For instance, a “yes” or “no” in the hospital marks the thin line between life and death. Or take day to day lives, we post pictures, posts, thoughts on Social Sites for not only ‘sharing’ but also ‘acceptance’.

I stop here today. Let me grab a bite for lunch. Till then, you enjoy reading and look at the ‘Pie-Chart’ that Panapatti has sent as a gift to Iris on its 30K mark.  Bbye! Take care of yourselves! See you very soon

Iris

From My Closet…

Recently, I was dusting my cupboard at home.  Papers, pencils, birthday cards, notes, school diaries, textbooks, teachers’ signed examination papers tumbled out of the cupboard. I was actually thinking that how stupidly sincere and stereotypically ‘good girl’  I was over the years. I was flooded with texts and small things that took me back to school days and early college years.  Hunting through the dust, grime, and brown-pages I was rather surprised how your past gets preserved in some closet of your present. It also amazed me how our own handwriting changes as we mature through the stages of life.

While cleaning up these stuffs, I came across many birthday cards that were given to me over the years by friends at school, college and university. One of the cards possibly given to me in class 7th or 8th has a picture of the kids in the then popular series ‘Wonder Years’. Came across the first Friendship Day card that I  got  possibly during college years — was trying to remember the name, who it was (the card was anonymous as expected) who gave the card, but just couldn’t recollect the name. Found an old CD with a calligraphic handwriting, mentioning in zinc-laden pen, ‘It’s only words and words are all I have…’.

Some of the gifts wrapped in the covers also kind of amazed me — a writing pad with water-mark of roses still remains unwritten, a small scrap-book with signed statements from friends regarding how bright our future will be and the forever-ness of our friendships; some of the junk earrings given to me by friends at school remain so carefully wrapped, that they have got dark and soot-laden with time but are still beautifully preserved.

School uniforms, hair-bands, dolls, all tucked up inside the closet tumbled at me one after the other, filling me with a strong desire to re-live my past, with a wish to set those things right that I have possibly messed-up as a part of growing-up.  But, time as and when it goes, remains irretrievable.  What did I do with these things that came off the closet? Well, this time I donated a lot many of those that could be used and the rest I just destroyed them — memories in the form of materials and objects can be disposed off if they are causing you pain.

One of these days, I was back in touch with an old friend, a very close friend of college years with whom I had been out of communication for years.  After a few days of happy reunion and old-timer recollection, we realized that it was not working out — we all are very different people now who should lead our lives and keep ourselves as memories to be cherished in each others’ thoughts rather than  as real people trying to be present in our present.

From the old closet, I found a poems diary of my school days. Those were the times when I seriously dreamt of being a poet — while friends were dreaming of IITs, engineering, medical, I lived in the dream of being a poet, and seriously took-up the task of writing. In fact, in 10+2 when the rest of the class was struggling with coaching and preparations,  I sat dreaming, of what, I have still not been able to figure out, and those dreams found an expression in my diary through poems.

Feel like sharing with you, a poem that I must have written during my class 12th summer vacations. If I look at it now as a literary and linguistic expert, it would appear plain silly. However, what struck me in that poem is the feeling of a search, which is strikingly similar to my inner-most search even now.  It was possibly titled as ‘Unseen Presence’ and following are the lines:

When the rose like red lips of the last sun-rays,

Give their final smile and close over the darkening horizon.

When a strange fragrance of summer flowers,

Weighs heavily in the air.

When the dark night,

Plaited with moon and stars,

Shows its mystery and magic.

When the light breeze,

Sings to an unknown music-

In an evening as such,

I dream of You so much!

But You! Who are You?

I’ve neither seen You,

Nor have I ever heard You!

But who are You,

That is my hidden strength?

You- who are always hidden in the darkness of the night,

And in the glamour of the hot day.

I can see You not-

But can feel You,

Like the perfume of incense in the air,

And like the sweetmeats,

Sold in the village fair.

You! Whoever you are!

Whether very near,

Or too far-

I crave for You in the temple of my heart….

I must have been only 16-17 years when I wrote that poem, but the feeling seems so organic and  unsullied. Interestingly, am yet to figure out the ‘you’ that I was searching for from those years.

Recently, a student mentioned that I should be writing some spicy-masala blogs, not the usual boring things that I write — something that has sports, love, scandal, movies etc. as its theme. He suggested that the TRP of Iris needs to improve with time and there should be a change now with an emphasis on the commercial appeal of the blog. What do you all say? Should we change the track of Iris? Add some commercial stories? Let me know your thoughts.

Monsoon

Through the seams of the cloud-laden skies

Blurring visions and dampening sights

A new monsoon comes

Softening the vacuum of  life and time.

 

The fragrance of the  freshly-ruptured greens

Melting the blinding dust down the leafy screens,

A new monsoon comes

As the soul searches for its lost reasons and lose rhymes.

 

Through the hums of beaten cassette-recorder melodies

Tired eyes feeling the heat of a cup of ginger tea

A new monsoon comes

Igniting passion when thunder plays the mime.

 

Through the smell of old novels in tattered book-cases

Struggling to be heard through the rattle of the computer’s key-board

A new monsoon comes

Soothing the soul when it regrets time.

 

Lashing through nights on the tin roof of neon-lit homes

Misting glass windows and misting eyes

A new monsoon comes

Mixing desires and dreams as the rain drops tinkle and chime.