Live life like from a 'Library'

http://www.scert.kerala.gov.in

  One of the pleasures of growing up in a non internet enabled world; a wonderful place called a ‘Library’.  A Mecca for someone pursuing technical education, a convenient  place of shelter for few. for those interested in reading, there were many in those days, it was a fascinating place, with so many windows to explore, shelves upon shelves of dreams and knowledge, little windows from the world of “Alice in Wonderland” which could take you to cities vast and minds of great thoughts.

The indescribable smell of freshly bound volumes, silence enforced so well mutually by its occupants, broken occasionally by the high pitched exclamations of a anorexic librarian being bothered by non compliant youngster, or by the clicking of her stiletto upon the wooden flooring as she went around rearranging books onto the shelves.

There were libraries and then there were libraries. Large institutional ones carrying the burden of educating its young readers and old professors, research associates and deans pouring over volumes, engrossed to even notice the coming and going of people. A choir could pass around tables without the occupants even noticing, not that the librarian would let one enter the serene surroundings.

Then there were the community libraries, dingy one room affairs, with everyone vying for the morning newspapers,  the papers crumbled beyond recognition by late afternoon. The college going youngsters trying to grab the latest sports and movie updates in a jiffy, the older gentry trying to lay their hand on the prized possession so they they could fold the sheets into eight folds and hold it close to their myopic eyes for hours together. children vying for the cartoon of the day, and the ladies standing no chance in all this melee. These sheets of newspaper would get separated soon, the central editorial grabbed by the old man in lungi, the ‘appointments’ classified sheet shuffling between the unemployed youth who could never afford a newspaper and the retired school teachers and post masters hunting for a groom for their aging daughters.

Of course beating them all in terms of liveliness was the local college library. Where samosas hidden in handkerchiefs could be smuggled in, leaving their telltale oil prints on the dog eared pages of the popular magazines. Young love trying to bloom among the many volumes of sanity lined up on the shelves. Naughty youngsters trying to giggle watching cupid in action, being shooed down by the librarian. Nerds pouring over volumes large, desperate examinees looking for that one book which would save them from failure that year.

More popular were the lending libraries,  you could become a member and own a card, each card entitling one to draw one or two books at a time, each borrowing having a time limit of a week or ten days within which to return the book or a resultant penalty to be paid. Borrowings in exchange for a small fee in commercial libraries, or for free in the libraries being run by the local government authorities.

But they all had do’s and don't’ to be adhered to,

• Do return books on time so that other could use the books, magazines, especially the ‘in demand’ ones,
• Don’t dog ear the pages, use a book-mark instead, any torn sheet of paper or comb, would work fine.
• Don't underline or doodle on the pages.  
• Don't forget to return books before proceeding on vacations, the resultant ‘fines’ could cost you a packet, apart from depriving others of the precious volumes.
• You could withdraw only one book at a time, one which you have already selected, and you choose to hide other rare books in wrong sections so that they remain out of circulation ;  another crime in the library world.
• Don't try to steal a book out
• Don't hoard books at your home by using multiple cards borrowed from your classmates.
• Finally handle them with care,  don't use open books as paper plates for parking samosas, or pry open tightly bound books to keep them from flipping over.  

That brings us to the joys of borrowing from the libraries,

• Hunting for the book so much in demand for months together, not finding it protesting to the librarian, shrugging in helplessness.
• Finding the book in question one fine morning and jumping up in joy before realising that , you have to sacrifice it for another interesting book which you need for your forthcoming exams.
• Half way through your favorite book, your parent giving you task to be completed which would keep you away from your book for few more hours.

Finally the love for the book borrowed, the feeling of joy of holding it tightly against your chest, feeling the threads from its hard bound cover, the sweet smell of the fresh glue staying with you for much latter.

Knowledge that the book is going to be yours for a short while, enhancing your value for it many times over.

Is life not to be taken like a borrowings from a library !!!

The knowledge that nothing is permanent, something that comes your way has to be returned to its rightful owner, this feeling can be juxtapositioned against all possessions that come on to you  in this world. The duplex flat that you bought with most of your life earnings, the car that you purchased which cost you the moon, none of these are permanent. The land that you say is owned by you stands millions of years old, owned by thousands across the ages, and thousands more in years to come, thou shall savor it for a few decades, not more, your kin will squat on it for some more, before the intensity of your genes dilutes and your kin remain your kin no more.

The joy of loving something that is not yours,  the care and sense of belonging it brings you, can be compared to life too. Should we not treat our possessions as borrowed things, relish the joy it gives us, and return it unblemished for other to savor, instead of mindlessly ravaging it with a sense of total ownership.

Should your possessions be stamped with your ego reflecting the spoils of a conquest, the blood it carries of multiple warriors who fought on either side of the battle and sit as a mantelpiece as a mark of your battles,  or should these be the reflections of borrowings from life experiences, to be savored and worshiped as gifts from the universe.

The anticipation and hunt for books, representing your hunt for varied experiences,  the disappointments when you don't find the books, the joy of discovering the favorite title hidden behind some boring literary compilations, the joy of grabbing it before someone else takes it away, represent your journeys and explorations of life.

Not many people today would relish the joys of borrowed joy. The world has moved on, people want absolute ownership. Affordability has meant, that the student is no more grateful to the ‘Neighborhood Trust’ which runs the community library, today he can afford to own may copies of the newspaper or magazine that the library professes, so what if he never even bothers to read even the headlines thereof.

The speed of today's life means that the headlines are at your beckoning, landing up hot straight from the newsroom,   a speed which cannot be matched by the erstwhile libraries. No more lazied afternoon's stroll to the nearby library, the kids are zooming to their Zumba classes, secure in the knowledge that information is only a click away. But the billboards scream at you on the highways “Speed Thrills but kills”, but who cares anyway, people are chasing the thrills in their lives.

If only saner sense prevails ‘the art of living in a library’ could possibly enhance your palette, widen the scope of your choices, you may have great affordability but nothing could compete with 2000 books lined up in one place, nothing could provide you the solace, the peace of shuffling pages, the smell of the wood converted into pulp, organic stuff that which is biodegradable waiting to go back to its roots, yet forming a doorway into worlds unexplored.

Live life like in a Library, take but to return, enjoy the collection, admire the magnificence of the storage so tall, don't rue  that you don’t own the library, cherish that you are a member, for that is enough to enjoy every moment of its vast treasures.

Live life like from a library.

Lessons from Spring Cleaning

Image borrowed from https://vegetarianirvana.wordpress.com/page/2/

After years I took up the duster again, the demands of my job,  the reliance on hired help, ensured that the cleaning chore was no more required to be shared among family members. But hired help have the habit of giving you the slip once in awhile, and this time around it was a ‘marriage in the family’ for the maid, gone as she was for a week. She went on a Friday, so come Sunday it was my time to wield the broom and the duster.

Years of regimentation at work played on my mind and I had to ensure that the project I took up was done professionally. I had to score higher than the maid, to prove my prowess and  also  keep the management (you guessed it right !) happy. That’s how I started with a flourish and ended up learning lot of life lessons from a simple job. Before I started the cleaning, I ensured that I shifted the entire furniture askew to access the remotest corner, this also ensured that I opened up old storages and rummaged through them. initially the intent was to set them right but encountered so much clutter that it became a herculean job, one which made me all the more wiser.

Avoid Clutter my guru had told me :I came across so much clutter that I could not think straight, trinkets, gifts that did not remind us any more of the giver, outdated items which were in good condition but could not be used, shrunken pants, and expanded elastics, you name it, it was all there, kept safe for a rainy day. The problem was that come a rainy day, one does not even remember, where one had kept the expanded elastic which could have been used to tie a window shut, a window banging in the wind with its latch broken. Had I stood firm to throw away all the old stuff, it would have meant convincing two women in the household, but I let it pass. Peace has it price to pay, and here the price was quite affordable.

Then it set me thinking, why so much possessiveness, should we not let go and be free instead of being tied down to so many lame logic's and be pulled back by such heavy baggage. What about me ? I was buying peace at the cost of so much clutter in life,  was it worth it ?

I discovered buttons : Tens and hundreds of them, under the sheets, in the drawers, in little boxes meant for buttons, unique buttons, suited to a particular garment, when one popped, you had to save it for future use, for one could not throw away the garment for the need of a button could we ?  I learnt that with new found affluence one could throw away a garment with a missing button after all, because, for none of the button that I found, I could locate the garment. But the buttons stayed loyal to its owner, and remained where they were kept, for years to come.

What a wonderful contraption a button, which partners with the button hole to protect your modesty. But the day it breaks from its moorings it has no value. If it pops off in public, you could pay a dear price, on top of that you loose the button too to the crowd, never to show its face again to you, after having failed in its duty of keeping the garment together.

Similarly in life we carry so many buttons. Buttons which saved your modesty once upon a time, but don’t mean anything at all in the present. Buttons of behavior, buttons of beliefs which have been proven wrong, buttons which held together relationships, ones which don’t exist any more. Buttons of faith, Buttons of false hope.

Discard those buttons, when things change, some buttons lose it, it’s easier to discard them and move on, rather than have them cluttering up your life.  

 

I found my fiddle : The old chest heaved, the lid immobilised by years of dust and disuse. The hinges creaked as I lifted the heavy lid. Sitting there in the garage it looked like the proverbial Pandora box. The plume of dust that blew into the air, made me sneeze, as the first thing I found underneath was the Wren & Martin’s Grammar book. I picked it up gently, the dog eared pages reminded me of my childhood, I opened the hardcover, the first page announced “ with love to Venkat” signed ‘Thomas Wickfield’ Nov’1932, it announced, the ink still radiant on the page gone brown with age. Thomas was the Englishman, who commanded the tea estate to which to my Grandfather, was a caretaker.  I remembered the difficult times at school, struggling with English Grammar, trying to differentiate active voice from passive voice, identifying nouns from a verbs, a pursuit which would in those days prove to be a difficult puzzle difficult to solve. English Grammar still remains a nightmare, compounded by its American usage.

I dig deeper into the chest, books and more books, an old box with the ceremonial dress worn by a relative in world war -I, a coffee bean roaster, a Kummuti (Tamil charcoal stove) and underneath all that stood a satin fiddle box. My grandfather’s Violin, snugly sitting there, waiting for someone to lift it, cradle it in one’s arms, and make it sing in deep pathos.

I lifted it up like one would pick up an infant, and gently tightened the strings. The knobs creaked in protest, yet complied with my nudge, I picked up the bow lying alongside, and gently played a sombre note, it purred like a cat woken from slumber. From one note to another I moved up the scale and speed, and was soon playing the ‘English Note” to a fast tempo. Lost to the word, unaware that wife and kid had come hearing the wafting notes, and were silently drinking from the gentle stream of music I was playing in my now dirty pyjamas. ‘Papa, you play the ‘Violin’ so well, said my son, that when my memories came tormenting back, my childhood dream of becoming a musician, the prizes and appreciations that I received as a child for my exploits with these strings, all came back, flooding me with tears.

Somewhere along the road I had lost my connect with the instrument, and went in pursuit of larger things in life, things which seemed so small now, compared to my larger than life dreams of making it big in music. Today with other priorities in life not so relevant, the discovery of this Violin meant a new hope to me, a straw to clutch upon, to fulfill those unfulfilled desires, pursuits which will make complete me, but may not be getting me great rewards in life..

There are many other fiddles lying lost and buried in everyone’s attic. Do revisit them,  and find out what it actually means to you now, strengths on which you dream of building those wonderful castles, are they still with you or lost somewhere in some meaningless pursuit. How about picking up the strings once more.

My old briefcase : was lying underneath the fiddle, pushed to the background, its numerical lock tightly in place,  since the number lock was configured to my birth date I still happened to remember the password, I twisted the tumblers to complete the combination and the lock dutifully clicked open. I opened the briefcase and found testimonials  from my early career. certificates, letter of appreciations, (there were no e-mails in those days), diaries, journals and so many things that was ‘me’.

Symbols and significance lost to time. Confidence and resolves dissolved with a few drops of turbulence called time. Revising these reignited the old ‘Me’ and brought in new meaning to my pursuits, recharged my batteries. I have a comparison now in front of me,  the erstwhile ‘me’ and the new ‘me’. Some of the shades seem better, the others seem to fade in comparison, time for another course correction ?  Quite likely.

In two hours time, I had cleaned up the place, rediscovered myself, set my place in order, discarded a pile of baggage,  dusted away a lot of dust from essential pages of life, and come away successful in one more project given to me by my ‘Superiors’. My faith in the management now strengthened, I looked up to them for the reward. “Besh Besh” ( 'great' an expression of delight in Tamil)  she smiled ‘what a great job you have done”, you now truly deserve a hot cup of coffee, she crooned. How could she have known that I have rewarded myself multiple times over by a simple act of housekeeping.

Let not the dust settle, when the hoofs beat the trail, dust is but natural, to avoid the dust means avoiding the pursuit, that does not warrant that one should not polish the saddle.

“Where is the brasso” ? I yelled eyeing the mantle piece gone dull.

The Milestones in your life.

‘The Milestone’ complained to ‘The Road’ in self pity, "look millions use us, yet we remain struck at one place, come let us progress, lets also go places and see the beautiful world out there, instead of standing here rooted at one place".

'The Road' smiled, it’s white teeth painted fresh, a new coating of tar, making it look dark handsome, and radiant.

It replied " dear ‘Milestone’, what you mistake for stagnation is in fact our basic character, my purpose in life is to take people places, a role of which I am proud of and that which I have been faithfully doing all these years. You regret being rooted at one place, but is that not your primary role? to be at one place so that you can guide the world around to its  destination. People look up to you to know that they are on the right path and it gives them real comfort to know that you are around somewhere out there. A reassurance of their own purpose in life. So have a heart, we go a long way back in time together and as a team our journey shall indeed be successful. Saying so the road twisted and turned and gave out a fluorescent smile in the gathering darkness.

As the darkness gathered around the sky, ‘The Milestone’ became gloomy and morose. Vehicles passed by, people looked at ‘The Milestone’, cheering kids and sombre workmen passed by. One could hear some exclaim, “Yes we are almost there”, and some sighed in relief from a journey about to end. Everyone acknowledged the Milestone, but no one gave it another thought, one more stone, buried knee deep on the kerb, it was a common sight, they expected more to come along on the way.

“But what about my own journey?” the Milestone protested to the road.

“I have a large number written on my forehead, “20 miles Agra” it says, but I have never been to Agra myself, I heard that one of my cousins was used for constructing the Taj, I want to visit that place at least once.

“Mathura 40 miles” says my cousin standing further up the road. You know Mathura the birthplace of Lord Krishna, I have not been there either.” continued the Milestone.

“Have you heard about the “The kingfisher calendar photo-shoot”, it happened few months back, just few hundred meters down the road, and I could not even cover such a short distance, because I was ordained to be standing here for life, with my face painted, rued the Milestone.

‘The Road’ was in splits by now. “Look, why do you have to think so much? You are performing well, the world respects you, they notice you, and they will miss you if you disappear, don’t you realise that standing here you can watch the world pass by you. People come from far away to look at you, they may not remember you, but then it’s a bitter truth of life that people's memories are short, and no one is remembered for long any way. Go to sleep now, let’s resume work in the morning, and look at the bright new world going around us, said ‘The Road’.

It had been a hard day’s work, letting so many people, dogs, bovines and vehicles walk all over you does no one good. The traffic ebbed and ‘The Road’ was soon asleep.

The screeching of tires woke up ‘The Road’; it opened its eyes to complete pandemonium. There was a huge ‘pile up’ on the highway, people were honking loudly, and the traffic had come to a halt. Trying to find reasons for the chaos, ‘The Road’ turned towards it colleague, ‘The Milestone’ and halted dead in its track, the ‘Milestone’ was nowhere to be seen, where it was last standing, there was a gaping hole. ‘The Road’, turned towards his colleague's cousin across the road, and was shocked to note that the cousin too was missing.

The Road was in a state of shock now.  It had not taken the Milestones ambition too seriously, never imagined that it too had a life of its own. Having always believed in true ‘Dharma’ the ‘’ Road  had tried its best in counseling  ‘The Milestone’ but alas the stone had woken up from slumber and decided to move on in life. The Road stood there in tears, a lonely road, laid out for miles together, without a milestone to help travelers onward. It felt sad indeed, in a way incomplete too. Life was not fast anymore, vehicles ambled slowly, unsure of the distance, stopping every now and then to enquire the way forward.

In the meanwhile what happened to the ‘Milestone’ itself? One does not know! People say it had moved on in life, realised its own potential and gone to see the world. Did it gain any satisfaction from its abandoning its post, was it successful in exploring the world, did it see the Taj, or the leaning tower of Pisa. Did it miss its past role of just being rooted, or did it draw power from its new exploits. There are no answers.

Some say good riddance, ‘Milestones’ are not needed any more, fresh pastures, hill tops, valleys and mountains, no one finds them anywhere. They have now been replaced by flashy neon-painted sign boards in green and some digital ones too. But the elderly swear by it, remember its rotund shape, cherish its colours, sometimes stark black and white, and sometimes yellow and cheerful, remember leaning against one tired from an evening walk, or sitting on it and waiting for the daily bus to college. 

Everyone remembers them by the assurance they gave us, the sense of permanence that they connoted. Will that permanence be missed in the fast changing lane, or do they not fit in anymore, because it’s the age of individual trips, not of group excursions anymore.

Was it the Milestone’s fault that it had stopped believing in itself, stopped taking satisfaction from ‘being’ there day after day, or was it that the crowd on the road that no more acknowledged milestones, too busy trying to hop from one journey to another.

How many Milestones have you had in your life, solid stones which were always there for you, sacrificing their own comfort, to help you accomplish your goals, dotting on you all the time?  Did they ever set off on their own journey, abandoning you? How often did you lean on them? Did you give them a proper closure, or did you leave them behind on an empty road, yearning for ever for a sight of you. Introspection and amends will do you good.

Milestones I have had many supporting me, always there from me, themselves taking a different path, because I had to traverse through those roads, My mother to start with for one, my wife for another, My sister, my kin, so many have I encountered that I have lost count, today my destination would not be measurable without their penance for me in the afternoon sun, their vigil as it grew dark, and their hope that I would reach somewhere in life.

I bow down to each one of them, them ‘Milestones’.

@ Calligrapher V Arun