Friday, February 25, 2005

Bar'ay be-aabroo ho ke tere koochay se hum nikle

Three years of friendship, sharing and living together culminated into three bags (a briefcase of paperwork, a sleeping bag and a suitcase full of broken promises), as I exited 2011 and called a cab.
A friend, who had sought help from me at a time when I could offer none, came to the rescue, making arrangements (and freeing up floor space), so I could crash with him for the night. In the evening I spoke with the owner of the place, a kind-hearted fellow, who realized that I had no explanations to offer. We haven't finalized the rent, but looks like I'll be here for March, too.
They call this place a 'musallah', which is maulvi-speak for a space to pray. The living room has no furniture, just a plain grey carpet, where the people from nearby come to say their prayers, five times a day. There are four rooms. One for the owner, the other three are rented out to singles. For now, I am sharing the room with my friend.
In the last two days, I have met all the regulars, those who live here, and those who live nearby, coming and going as they please. They respect my privacy, and I respect there's. There was a time when I would have cursed at the idea of living in a masjid, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
The evenings are sullen and pass slowly. I keep myself busy with my books, keeping my mind off of the immediate past. Sometimes it works.
For two days I waited for the dreaded speech, for the invitation and the initiation into their way of life, into their shared prayers and tableegh. I tried to make up arguments as to why I don't pray, and why I don't look forward to prayer with the fervor that they do. But the logic keeps falling apart, and I have nothing to say.
But the invitation hasn't come and I don't think it will, until I take the first step.
A part of me wants to confess, to my past mistakes, to come in from the cold and be greeted by someone... anyone. And another part wants to shout out obscenities at the slightest thought of what I have suffered at the hands of some of my dearest.
Inspite of so much to say, my lips remain silent. In prayer and in person.
And I wonder, if this is the silence of the mathnavi, or the silence of paralysis?

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

A few things

1. I love Nora Jones voice. If this is jazz, I'd like one more to go, please.
2. Snow again. its pretty good right now, while its snowing. But soon the wind will take over, and I'll take cover somewhere in my shabby little space.
Yesterday it was my roommates birthday, and we had a sombre party. I have a real tight budget this month (nothing unusual about that) but I am trying to discipline myself into spending what I have, rather than what I think I will have in the future. So, the planning started at 9pm, and I had all the supplies in till 10pm, and then the music went on till about 2am. By then the whole scene had died down, everybody looked guilty as hell. I hit the sack thinking this was a good one. I read my horoscope in the Eye magazine this morning, only to find out that it mentioned my money problems AND my partying.
Uncanny is the word I was looking for.
Have to call home tomorrow and I wonder if this will be one of those pleasant calls about weather and cooking or the dread of my life calls regarding career choices and lifestyle and money and marriage and what not. Some of it is bound to pop up, and as usual I will just be dodging issues rather than communicating the impossible, impractical, career ruining moves that I am dreaming up in my head.

Monday, February 07, 2005

Confession time

Today might be the day that all the lies that I spin around in my life, finally entangle me. I wonder, why do I tell these small white lies at the workplace? They aren't worth it, and end up causing me more trouble than they were worth in the first place.
Why was I scared of my boss? Why did I not give him the exact truth in the first place? Why did I have to find a scapegoat when I am the one who chickened out? And it wasn't even my fault. But instead of coming in with what I believed was not my fault, I spun a cockadoodle story about the misgivings and bossy behaviour of another person, tried to play the boss against a senior worker just so I could be in my own comfort zone.
The manly thing, the brave and honest thing to do now would be to accept that I lied (for whatever reason) but I don't have the guts to do that. I will keep on doing the same, insist that I have the right story, and blame one person who has no idea I am tossing his name around.
And I tell myself, this is vengeance, for some earlier shit that he gave me. Now, its my turn to play politics in the office, and get some good will going. 'Trust me, I have my reasons", I tell myself each time. But it sounds really hollow, really weak.
And as always, I promise myself that I have learned my lesson, no more comfort zone, no more bullshitting people. Lets see if Murlizee, dismissed for breaking promises he makes to other people, can keep a promise that he makes to himself.
Oh God, help me out on this one. Seriously, I could use it right now.

Friday, February 04, 2005

Bored or busy?

Oh man, I wish I didn't have this many problems at this time in my life. I have no idea how to handle them. And self-doubt, the complex neurosis that only humans can go through, is taking toll. I haven't done any writing in days. And I wish I had something new to say, but my mind is preoccupied and I can't cut through the glut that seems to surround me.
But the weather has been better the whole week. Nothing below -5c, which is a blessing. And I have been eating well enough, so I guess I shouldn't complain.
As I write this I realize that either I loose myself in the bigger picture, or loose it all in the daily. I can't seem to figure out how to divide my time (and effort) to both. Hopefully, I'll learn. Soon.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

Getting paid for poetry

I have a part time job these days that is taking full time hours. But the good thing is that I just sit there, read and write poetry. Ghalib couldnt get his pension restored and I am getting paid for this: life is so cruel.
A few bright and sunny days ago I decided that, not only will I complete my fiction project, I will also publish poetry. And I don't have poems to put in it, but I have a title.
Next thing is, I have to find more South Asian writers in Toronto. I could use their help. Or maybe, I should complete the first draft first, and then proceed. The reason being that it would be really difficult for me to network in the kind of personal and job-related environment I am in. But I need the feedback. And no matter how motivated you are, self-doubt is human; specially if the weather is gloomy.
So, I went through this anthology called 'Her Mother's Ashes' by south asian women in North America, only to note down where they were, and what they were doing. I need to find out if some of them are still here, and willing to help a newbie shoot his first hoops.
Lastly, my paycheque hasn't arrived. It was due on the 27th, and I am on my last $20 bill. Need to take care of that as soon as I am done blogging.
Which means right now.