I cannot believe that there are actually 2 people on Earth who think I am talented enough to write. Well, the only problem is that I haven't written anything since High school English composition (which they haven't actually seen). So, what could this opinion be based on? Talent evaluation is an art indeed and the aforementioned two are ill-qualified at it.
When do you decide someone is talented in a particular area? In my case, my Father-in-law wants me to write, completely based on my opinions on things and possession of a small degree of command of the English language. Is this justifiable? Does having an opinion - albeit strong - necessarily imply writing talent? I think not. Having an idea is one thing, and efficiently putting it down on paper is completely another. But one thing has been proven. A little encouragement can be a dangerous thing: I now want to write.
So, if I have something to say and want to put it down on paper, what should I do to do it well? Read about writing? But wouldn't that change how I write? Am I supposed to have my own style or shape my style based on others? I am caught between the horns of a dilemma; one faced by every single aspiring writer.
As a reader, I do have my own opinions of what constitutes good and bad writing, and I will write true to that opinion. For instance, I hate reading long, wordy, confusing sentences that will get an average reader nuts. I am not writing for the MENSA crowd; rather, I am writing for the average person who I want to reach. "The Portrait of a Lady" by Henry James comes to mind as one style that I will never ever follow.
Writing this blog is my way of taking the plunge. I think the secret is to write anyway, and have people critique it at different points in the game. My wife has started a blog for the express purpose of helping me along in this process. Three cheers to her for this :D
I joined the writingindia mailing list - which required writing a bio to get in :P - which will help me learn by doing exercises and watching the purveyors of the art showcase their wisdom. It seems to be full of people who have had their work published. Enough credentials to fill a room.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Monday, January 31, 2005
In a land of milk and honey...
Immigrants always face terrible dilemmas. On the one hand, they move to a new country to better themselves and allow themselves better opportunities, but their mind constantly dwells on what is back home, what price they are paying for the privilege of all the fine things their new home has brought them.
I am one such immigrant. The son of a welder-father and a headmistress-mother. My brother and I were always told the education was the only ticket to success, and that I had neither family prosperity nor ancestral wealth as a fall back option in case things didn't work out. I can remember a lot of Deepavali's where my parents got nothing for themselves in the way of new clothes, but my brother and I would have the best of clothes, and firecrackers to fill a warehouse. When I finished my baccalaureate education, I was encouraged to do whatever it takes to take the next step, either a Master's degree in some foreign institution or a work permit in the US. There was never ever a thought given to what I would be leaving behind.
I seized on that motivation, and left India shortly after my graduation, the proud recipient of my brother's kindness - and influence - in arranging for a work permit for me in the US. California, here I come, I thought. My parents, sent me on my way, tears in all our eyes, the heart burning with the sadness that comes with parting with two people who have been your everything in life. I have never felt such powerful emotion in my life.
But, leave I did. I landed in California, and apart from the odd visit to India, haven't spent any more than 6 months with my parents at any one stretch. I moved to Canada after I got married, partly to bring my parents over permanently, but my parents refused to come; after all, much of what they know and consider important is in India.
It is 10 years now since I left my hometown in search for top dollar and a better career, and I shudder to say, better environs. I have all, but I constantly wonder at what cost. How many times have my parents fallen sick and not told us about it? How many times have they felt our absence and cried over it? How many times did they have to ask somebody else for help, when they wouldn't have had to look anywhere if I had stayed back? I can only wonder...
As I sit on my recliner today, I reflect. I think about all those that are all those miles away, that are so dear to me. Those that shaped me, made me who I am, gave me the strength and the education to go out and make something out of myself, and I am miles away from them. Connected but by a stupid phone that works only 25% of the time, thanks in part to the wonderful efficiency of the Anna nagar Telephone exchange. I digress. I am constantly beset by thoughts of of how I have ditched my parents, of sucking the juice out of them and leaving them with nothing but their skins, of taking the best years of their life and giving nothing in return. My offers to come back are rejected quickly; so quickly that I am forced to question the seriousness of my own offers, when I cease to counter these rejections with more than a token fight.
An immigrants life is so rosy to everyone back home; "He has got it made", they say. They know not the anguish that courses through us, or the pain of paying such a huge price for our ambitions, our desires to have a better life for ourselves, or the embarassment of being so utterly selfish, or the self-beration that inevitably comes from leaving behind all that is known and trusted for a measly paycheck, and the constant self-examination about whether the price we are paying is really worth it. Some times I even wonder, why I even moved away?! If I had known nothing better, I would have stayed in Madras, near my parents, taking care of them. A fat bank account is overrated. Have mercy on us, dear relatives. Understand that the weight of our wallets is indicative of the weight of our hearts.
If all one eats is porridge, and then tastes Ice Cream, whose fault is it that Ice Cream wins out? I think the best thing I can do is go back and take care of them, when such a time comes that they cannot reject my offers anymore. That way, I can partly quiet my own demons. But until such time , I would have to bear them with a grin, Ice Cream cup in hand.
I am one such immigrant. The son of a welder-father and a headmistress-mother. My brother and I were always told the education was the only ticket to success, and that I had neither family prosperity nor ancestral wealth as a fall back option in case things didn't work out. I can remember a lot of Deepavali's where my parents got nothing for themselves in the way of new clothes, but my brother and I would have the best of clothes, and firecrackers to fill a warehouse. When I finished my baccalaureate education, I was encouraged to do whatever it takes to take the next step, either a Master's degree in some foreign institution or a work permit in the US. There was never ever a thought given to what I would be leaving behind.
I seized on that motivation, and left India shortly after my graduation, the proud recipient of my brother's kindness - and influence - in arranging for a work permit for me in the US. California, here I come, I thought. My parents, sent me on my way, tears in all our eyes, the heart burning with the sadness that comes with parting with two people who have been your everything in life. I have never felt such powerful emotion in my life.
But, leave I did. I landed in California, and apart from the odd visit to India, haven't spent any more than 6 months with my parents at any one stretch. I moved to Canada after I got married, partly to bring my parents over permanently, but my parents refused to come; after all, much of what they know and consider important is in India.
It is 10 years now since I left my hometown in search for top dollar and a better career, and I shudder to say, better environs. I have all, but I constantly wonder at what cost. How many times have my parents fallen sick and not told us about it? How many times have they felt our absence and cried over it? How many times did they have to ask somebody else for help, when they wouldn't have had to look anywhere if I had stayed back? I can only wonder...
As I sit on my recliner today, I reflect. I think about all those that are all those miles away, that are so dear to me. Those that shaped me, made me who I am, gave me the strength and the education to go out and make something out of myself, and I am miles away from them. Connected but by a stupid phone that works only 25% of the time, thanks in part to the wonderful efficiency of the Anna nagar Telephone exchange. I digress. I am constantly beset by thoughts of of how I have ditched my parents, of sucking the juice out of them and leaving them with nothing but their skins, of taking the best years of their life and giving nothing in return. My offers to come back are rejected quickly; so quickly that I am forced to question the seriousness of my own offers, when I cease to counter these rejections with more than a token fight.
An immigrants life is so rosy to everyone back home; "He has got it made", they say. They know not the anguish that courses through us, or the pain of paying such a huge price for our ambitions, our desires to have a better life for ourselves, or the embarassment of being so utterly selfish, or the self-beration that inevitably comes from leaving behind all that is known and trusted for a measly paycheck, and the constant self-examination about whether the price we are paying is really worth it. Some times I even wonder, why I even moved away?! If I had known nothing better, I would have stayed in Madras, near my parents, taking care of them. A fat bank account is overrated. Have mercy on us, dear relatives. Understand that the weight of our wallets is indicative of the weight of our hearts.
If all one eats is porridge, and then tastes Ice Cream, whose fault is it that Ice Cream wins out? I think the best thing I can do is go back and take care of them, when such a time comes that they cannot reject my offers anymore. That way, I can partly quiet my own demons. But until such time , I would have to bear them with a grin, Ice Cream cup in hand.
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