ktravula – a travelogue!

Browsing the archives for the Soliloquy category.

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This is how writing procrastination works: you tell yourself that you have nothing worth saying, and you wait until such a time when you think you do. Usually that time never comes and you stare day by day at the empty page hoping that something miraculous would happen and fill up the page. You could be lucky to have tonnes of other things to do to take up your space and time, but if you have been notorious in the past for writing even under extreme pressures of work, teaching, classes, events and many things else, you would usually not be forgiven for taking any kind of break. Yes, I know the works.

The evil thing about procrastination however is that it never ends. Like the fabled Sisyphus bound to head to the top of the hill with a ball of garbage only to be sent downhill rolling with no brakes, and to be condemned to repeat the same process for eternity, each day comes and goes, and the readers wait, and wait. In some cases the writer gets a kind of cruel satisfaction from keeping them in that kind of wait. Well, I never promised you to publish my everyday thoughts. I keep some of them for private people, or send some of them to newspaper editors in hope that they find them good enough to publish. And well, I’m such a risk taker myself and I wouldn’t mind to hear news that someone actually placed a bet that I would not write as much this month as I usually do. Wait a minute, why am I talking to myself?

All of this make a kind of sense, doesn’t it, and there is a win at every turn. The other thing that could bring a greater fun would be hours spent talking to people about an intending road trip: twenty-three hours on the road towards Las Vegas and California. Now wouldn’t that be something? Yet, it won’t be sufficient excuse to stay off the blog for that period of time. Well whatever, life goes on. 🙂

The Fiddler on the Roof

I have chanced upon a large collection of very old movies some of which I should have seen a long while ago but couldn’t because of inaccessibility. As much as I can, I will tell you my views on them, and the impact they had on me (for those that do make an impact, that is). The last week has been a tour of Guys and Dolls, a movie featuring Frank Sinatra and Marlon Brando (before he became the large framed guy we grew up knowing). The 1955 musical is famous for being the only movie in which the two famous men starred together, and the only one in which Marlon Brando sang. The story is nuanced and playful, but very entertaining, and timeless.

The other new memorable film I saw, also a musical, is The Fiddler on the Roof, a powerful story of family, love, tradition and the departure therefrom, and the story of the Jewish persecution in Tsarist Russia. I am always inevitably drawn to stories that have real life historical background because they constantly remind that we’re not just watching a movie, but learning from the story of a people that lived during a trying period in the larger history of the world. This story, based on the life of Tevye, a poor Jewish man with five daughters, is set in 1905 and tells of the endurance and transience of tradition, the strength of love’s bond, the perseverance of humanity in the face of persecution, the conviviality of family life, and the presence of hope in every dire situation. It was particularly interesting for me to discover that the persecution of Jews in Russia did not start during the Second World War but had been there far much earlier. And when you see a whole village trooping out on their feet in the cold winter out of a place where they’d lived for generations into the outside world to places unknown, your heart breaks. Add to this a letting go of a father of her daughter who had abandoned the faith and family tradition by marrying a Christian secretly, then you get a scene of denouement with a powerful emotional finish.

I can’t tell you more of any of them without letting out the plot, but I must strongly recommend them for whomever is interested in musicals, history, love, laughter and a few teardrops. You may also come off with a strong love for a few of the songs in The Fiddler on the Roof. My favourite is “Sunrise, Sunset.” and “If I were a rich man”, but you may also like “Tradition” and “Matchmaker.” As for Guys and Dolls, watch out for “Luck be a Lady” and a few other jazz classics.

Ten stars out of ten.

The Text Part of Growing

The evolution from picture books to text-only materials was gradual, but memorable. There seemed to have been an unwritten disdain for picture books that manifested after each birthday, each disposed oversized pyjamas and each replaced tooth. It wasn’t self-wrought however, but acquired, either from older peers with fancier stories of intimate relations with the written word resulting in inspiring encounters, or jealousy of even fancier ones with fantastic tales of their reading prowess. Something gave, however, for sure, little by little, and the young reader emerged, ready to take on the reading world without accompanying images.

The most memorable of such recollection could be the singular, but eventually impossible task of reading the first chapter of The Tiger by the Tail during a bus ride from home to school. It didn’t matter to him in the least that he couldn’t make any sense of it yet, never having even applied himself to more than just a few words on each page he flipped. It matter though that people saw him with a book that was bigger than a storybook, had no pictures in it, and moved from page to page as if passing through the patient and critical eyes of an avid reader. “Hey, nice book. How’re you finding it?” Someone would ask sometimes during the day, and he would respond: “Oh, very nice. Chase is such an exquisite writer”, and move on before the probing went far beyond the familiar. Oh the days.

The blog, now splattered with colours and images, flesh and blood, of ordinary and extraordinary people of various places, beliefs and convictions, could only remind of such trivialties; of days when colour meant ordinariness, and a lack of sophistication needed for the rites of adulthood. Now only a smile remains, and a longing for such a not so distant past of innocence and silliness.

Welcome September, and the year of birth.

Of Beliefs and Denials

Living in the America of today, it is unlikely that anyone is oblivious of the raging debate about a religious centre close to the former World Trade Centre buildings. Even those who didn’t believe in anything seem to have something to say about the project. It is like the issue of belief, tyranny and spirituality always manages to bring us together if only to disagree. Last week, I heard a news story of a New York cabbie getting stabbed by a passenger who said or thought he was Moslem, and nearly got him killed.

A few days ago, I heard that a friend of mine had told other people that I was moslem, maybe in jest, or maybe because she was confused after seeing me praise the architecture of the Abuja National Mosque on my blog. Eitherway, it was my response to this discovery that has made my question even my own liberal mindedness. I really won’t mind if anyone thought I was Hindu or Buddhist as long as I am sure that I am not. That’s what I thought, but I found myself vehemently denying the charge on the spot, and later asking a few others if they have harboured the same thought for a while or heard the same rumours. A few days later, after an amount of thinking, I’m wondering why there shouldn’t be a reason for me to have said “Oh, screw it. So what?” It should even have been possible to make stickers saying “I’m not moslem, but I could be if you wanted me to.” and put it all around my living space. The only problem with that would be the ignorant folks, like the New York stabber, who might consider me a good target practise for his bigoted rage.

So I’m thinking, if intolerance and fanaticism are vices, what about a kind of bigotry that might manifest as immediate and loud denials of claims as simple as a mismatching of religious belief? For – as I’ve found out – there is usually more to explain whenever someone in a conversation looks at the other in denial and screams, “Oh me? No never. I’m not a _________”.

Just thinking. It should make for interesting discussion.

Ah, Ah, I’m home.

This is nothing but freaky. I’ve living “under the bridge” for the past one and a half weeks for very good reason. The student accommodation on campus was already overwhelmed with requests when I decided to return here that there was no single spot for me or for anyone else for that matter. Don’t get me wrong. This “under the bridge” accommodation came with free breakfast, lunch and dinner, free laundry, free movie night and a ton of free goodies and pampering that I can’t quantify. It’s been a kind of overwhelming love that is not only rare, but genuine and delightful, and I can not thank the Schaefers enough for that. But trying to get back into the campus, rather than the spoilt student, mode of existence required a space among real students and it became quite an ordeal. By the time I put down my name to the list of waiting applicants, I was on number twenty or something.

What’s freaky then is the call I got from University Housing a few days ago that went like this:

“Hey, is that…”
“Yes,” I replied. “It’s me.”
“I got good news for you. I’ve found you a space on campus.”
“Really? That’s super. Where is it?”
“It’s at Cougar Village.”
“What?”
“At 431.”
“You’re kidding.”
“And at your old room. The same place you were earlier when you came here. You can move in from tomorrow.”

How it happened, I have no idea except that some mischievous spirit has put a hand in returning me to a spot of very many interesting memories. Sitting down here now on my old bed with a view of the surrounding trees, I write a post that has been dying to be written. Ah, ah, I’m home, and it feels good to be back. Now, you mischievous spirit, please show yourself now or forever remain silent. :o.

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