I’ve been going through old songs recently. By old I mean songs that I was exposed to growing up. I had a very eclectic background with music, one could say. Back in my formative years my father and uncles owned giant music players with speakers that were larger than me in some cases. It was the newest and coolest bit of technology for music lovers back in those days, with numerous buttons and sliding equalizers and the sexy dance of the beats on LED. The music pumped through our small apartment as I stared transfixed at the shiny, flat discs called CDs. The sound was clear. No longer did we have to rewind and forward with our gut feeling with cassette tapes to get to the song we wanted. It was a revelation.
We’ve come a long way since then. I don’t think I own any CDs anymore. My ever nostalgic father still owns his old CD player, the one with the big speakers which are not bigger than me anymore. The sound is still clear.
The songs of my youth didn’t go so much as to shape me but did however expose me to a range of emotions. From the pop-sickle boy bands to angsty grunge rock to haunting Indian instrumentals, they were as different as the range of human emotions could be. No matter how many great new songs come up, somehow they pale in comparison to the songs I grew up with. It’s not necessarily to do with the music being particularly overwhelming, it’s just something that resonates in my memory from those turbulent years.
And as is usual with me, I am at a loss as to how to end this post. Bye for now. Thanks for reading.
And just like that, I got some likes and follows! If anything will get me to get my butt moving, it’ll be the sweet ding on my phone that one more person liked what they read on my page. I will do a mental victory dance now and consider that missing the back to back goals in the Argentina v Nigeria match going on was worth it.
To those bloggers who write every day, who religiously preserve their presence by having something to say for their readers, even if it’s just saying hi, I tip my hat to you. How do you do it? Most days I have a hundred things running through my mind that I feel are worth writing about, then I type something up – only to delete it after the second read through. It leaves me wondering why I put myself through this tasking process of coming up with something coherent and at least a little bit interesting.
Now I figure I may as well not bother anymore. My target is to write, to let the fingers form the words before my brain can judge them. To write about an old favorite song coming up on the radio, of the hassles of choosing a better theme for the blog, of wondering how nice it would be to watch a football match in Brazil right now. Just write about anything, girl. So, I pledge allegiance. To my blog. It and I will get along. I will not be scared of the few visitors who happen to stumble across. I will have nothing to say but I shall claim in sans-serif that I have nothing to say. And I will do it often!
My relationships with books have always been turbulent. There were times where I used to read every single day and times when months would go without a new paperback gracing my nightstand. As a teenager I would trudge through the scorching heat and humidity of the second hand book shops in Dhaka. I would brave the lewd looks of the shopkeepers among the tiny alleys. I would search through stacks of old books and magazines in search of a gem. Often I would find old books with writing inside, maybe a note to show a gift, or a name in a corner from the past owner. SInce the books were second-hand they were a lot cheaper and I would often buy books without knowing anything about it just from the cover, with no judgement ofcourse.
As I got older the internet and tv shows and movies took up more space than the overflowing books in my bookshelf. Then started the era of e-books, which actually began before I had access to a mobile book reader. I would sit in my desktop and read PDFs. I read an eleven part series entirely in its ebook format and most people think I’m a little nuts. But that was what I felt towards books I loved, I would be obsessed and I had to read it. Even if it gave me carpal tunnel syndrome.
While I still enjoy books I spend a majority of my time at work with no time to spare. So weekends are the only time to spend some time between the pages of someone else’s thoughts and imagination. This weekend I had a wonderful time being a Saudi Princess (although the story was extremely sad and for the first time I wished the ‘true story’ label was false) and went on to read the life of the Dalai Lama.
Often I complain about the way I have not been able to have different experiences. I live a sheltered, routine life. But I realize that books are the closest way to live a life that is not yours if you have the imagination to be taken away by the writer. So I guess this is my way of thanking all those writers who kept me occupied for days and nights, with a little ache in my eyes and a sad smile when the last page is turned.
There was a time when my life was sorted and resorted through lists. Long lists, short lists, I had lists for everything. From what I wanted to buy next weekend, to what I wanted from my life in the next ten years- my list encompassed my whole life in black and white, in short words and phrases. It made obvious what my priorities are and where my focus lay.
It’s been a while since I’ve made any list of any significance. I feel, pun not intended but can’t be helped, listless. There are certain things on my mind all the time and I can’t rid them long enough to actually have to remember them. I feel confused in a sea of things-to-do, lost in a storm of stuff-to-get-done without the guiding familiarity of a friendly list. Like many posts, this conundrum will not end with a conclusive realization that will make me feel a little better. I can feel it as I type towards the end. I just miss my lists and I need a reason to make one again.
Our car hit a stray dog last night. We couldn’t stop because the dog ran out so fast that stopping would mean the car behind us would slam into ours. After the accident I couldn’t dare to ask what had happened.
As is the norm here, no one stops for a dog. People sometimes don’t even stop for people for fear of getting beaten up by onlookers.
I wouldn’t have been able to do anything. But I feel sick thinking about it now. I feel like I have to know what happened. And whether the answer is that it died or it lived, either ways I won’t feel better. I just feel this horrible need to know what happened.
This post has no ending. It’s a way of me to tell someone, anyone how I’m feeling now because talking about it makes me sick.
26 June 2012
There were a lot of umbrellas out there today. Its right in the middle of ashar, and it rains all the time.
Surprisingly people in Dhaka have shown a fairly interesting side to them by the umbrellas they carry. You however cannot be too optimistic and think the average Dhaka-ite has become uber fashion conscious and has decided to accessorize appropriately with the season. But even without considering it, the plain everyday umbrella adds a flicker of interest to an otherwise dull spectre of an average Dhaka-ite going about their average life on a weekday morning.
I’ve seen many types like the most common plain black, the free-bee umbrellas with logos and slogans of their respective sponsors, and the random patterns and colors. And shapes and sizes too. Many a smart pedestrian opts for large umbrellas that protect even the person walking 3 feet behind them. These are more suited for garden tables, but you can’t deny the social service that they seem to do.
So here’s to the humble umbrella. And now for the metaphor. We are all plain and good for a certain thing. Not many of us pretty. It doesn’t matter if we serve the purpose. But all of us together, with our different personas can brighten up even the most mundane rainy Monday morning.