A Collection of Thoughts from the Motherland

I don't know why I've called India the motherland, I don't think our family has any real hereditary links here, but since I do feel like Indian culture and civilization is so ingrained in the foundation of Indonesian culture, the term seems fitting. The following are streams of thoughts that ran through my head on December 6th, 2014 in Kalasalingam University: an hour south of Madurai.

What will I miss about this place? What will I remember? The quiet rural breeze would pick up and carry with it the scent of sandalwood that is always slightly present in the air. We've spent some 3 or 4 days here, if we didn't have a calendar I would have lost track of time completely. It feels like the day goes by so seamlessly, without too much marking each day with some wonderful adventure. I feel bad for saying that but to say otherwise would be untrue. Time would amble along aimlessly, scrambling the past, present, and future together like eggs in the morning. God, I miss scrambled egg.

The campus is surrounded by rocky hills that's reminiscent of the hills you would find in outback Australia. The red earth that you would find scattered by the roads here and there—juxtaposed by unkempt bush land—further reinforced that feeling of being in the outback. Surrounded by an awesome landscape, there isn't anything for miles. We went to a temple devoted to Lord Vishnu the other day, but it was out of the way, having to drive out around 30-45 minutes from the university grounds. There is limited internet access and phone reception, and all the television programs are entirely in Hindi, there just isn't any distraction, making it an ideal place to study. Of course it’s bugger all for those of us who aren't here to study. But it's probably good that there aren't any of those things to distract my mind with.

I've been trying to read Kafka on the Shore but as I expected it would take a moderate amount of time to read since the theme is so…dense. In the time I'm not reading that, I'm watching Orange Is the New Black (which I've finished watching the entirety of already) or reading What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. So I'm reading a lot of Murakami whose books always deal with some sort of physical or emotional seclusion, something that perfectly describes my current situation (in fact, a series about a woman in prison also deals with those themes but to a rather extreme point).

It sounds like I'm complaining, maybe I am a little bit, but I'm also grateful to be here. It's here that I finally began to understand how precious and delightful a small cup of warm, plain jasmine tea is for me. Mum made it this morning because I could barely swallow any breakfast. It was delicious, like a splash of water in a hot, dry Australian summer (I know I've compared this place to the outback more than I have Indonesia). It wasn't too sweet. It wasn't too strong. It was familiar. That's another thing that I've finally learned to appreciate and grow extremely fond of: familiarity to one's roots.

I'm not like my sister who can up and leave to some random corner of the earth and find bliss where ever she goes. A mentor figure once spoke to me about this philosophy she'd learned in a small café in Berlin, that one should grow wings and also have roots, or something to that effect, I realize that not quoting it verbatim practically diminishes any sense and profundity left to the actual saying. What the philosophy meant was that one should have the courage to grow wings and fly as high as possible to chase one's dreams, but also still have established a strong root that could ground them back home should they fly too far away. Mum also said this morning as she handed that oh so wonderful cup of tea, that when we travel for a long time and to a place so foreign, it's always good to bring something that reminds you of home. I now wonder how she felt about all the travelling she did during the times when my sister and I were too little to tag along and her home was so far away. I used to think that it was extremely cool that she's gone to all those places, I still do, but who's to say it wasn't also extremely lonely at the same time?

I suppose the most bizarre thing about this place is how familiar things are, and yet how absolutely not familiar they are at the same time. The buildings and rural grounds, as well as the chaos of city life is not at all different from how things are back home. When we traveled down south to the coast of Kanniyakumari, I couldn't stop thinking about how similar the scenery was to those we would see on our way to Central Java. It’s the same, but not. It’s like stepping into an alternate dimension when you think you're home but nothing is the same, the people are different, the culture is different, and they have no convenience stores at every corner of every street (I didn't think that would be something I'd miss so much!) And that feeling of being home but that everyone you know and care about, and all the things you've grown fond of have all been replaced by complete strangers just quadruples the feeling of loneliness I feel here. Even though I have my mum, and the tea, and the clothes I love from home. It's still terrible lonely here, and there's nowhere to run to escape that feeling.

On the decision to victimise one's own self

There was a discussion in one of my History of Economic Thought classes that stuck out after all this time. Partly because my short term memory failed me to the point that I could barely remember any lesson, partly because the whole discussion was so fascinating. The question we were supposed to discuss was this:

"How can Indonesia be freed from the curse of corruption?"

Note the words "freed" and "curse." It was as though we had no intention of actually taking responsibility over the culture for corruption that we have cultivated over the years, nor are we willing to admit that there needs to be an active response from our part to stop corruption from infiltrating every level of our social activities. No, the question isn't "How do we rid ourselves of the ingrained culture of corruption in our society?" I thought that was hilarious... Like, how are we even supposed to make any progress if even in the grand halls of our higher education institutions it is implied that people aren't directly responsible for their immoral actions but that rather those horrible deeds are inflicted upon them? To be completely anthropocentric for, like, a minute, we always have a choice. The good and bad of those choices aren't always clear cut, but that's the purpose of education, to help us distinguish which is which.

Also, it shouldn't be hard to decide not to be an asshole, because ultimately being corrupt is just another degree of you being an asshole. Though it does pose the question whether corruption can actually lead to the betterment of society like in American Hustle (we'll talk about that eventually).

"Happiness starts with you!"

See also:
"Where there is a will, there is a way."

More generic adolescent angst

You know that cliché about someone saying they're going out to buy a pack of cigarettes? Where did they go? I mean, where did they really go, like, emotionally? There are places that people will find themselves, places that we won't understand until we've been there or are currently there ourselves. When we're there, we'll think, "ah, of course." But it's also at that very moment that you realise where you really are and you no longer wished you understand.

I'm not intentionally trying to be cryptic, it's just that some things are difficult to explain in a straight forward manner. Apparently this is the reason writers enjoy using metaphor, and through those metaphors is where many readers will find themselves lost. Again, places we won't understand until we do. Again, we might later wish we never did.

I will be on a plane very soon and I don't know where I will find myself when we land.

It's like you want to run over and hold him out of this very strange but genuine version of love, one without undertones or overtones. You want to say softly into his ears that everything is going to be okay, but you don't even know what that meant so you decide to do neither of those things. He says nothing.

An uninformed baseball analogy to illustrate 'Mondays'

Do you know that feeling when you've just struck out? You know it, the pitcher and catcher know it, half the supporters already clapped a sad "better luck next time, pal" but for some absurd reason umpire called ball on all three pitches? And you're standing there, flabbergasted at the injustice that is happening in your favour. Your team is counting on you to make this next pitch. The pitch that shouldn't be. You watch intently as the pitcher swings his body like a perfect pendulum, throwing the ball right towards the strike zone.

Your arms freeze as the ball flies past your torso (it doesn't matter if you swing or not at this point).

You hear the signature thud of the ball hitting the catcher's mitt.

You hate yourself.

"Ball!" the umpire shouts.

You make your way to first base. You make sure to take as long as possible. You look at the crowd and your team mates at the pen. You know you don't deserve to be on first. You think of that kid who got cut that last week of training whose face and name you already forgot. You think of how they would have made a better player in spite of how stats showed how shitty they were at camp compared to you.

You hear absolute silence, even though the crowd is losing its mind over all sorts of different things besides the game. You feel their gazes pierce through your ribs, even though no one is actually all that invested in how you managed to magically set foot on first. And you want to disappear. You want to crouch down to make yourself as small as possible and pretend you can again magically set foot elsewhere, a dimension only you know exists, a dimension where time has stopped and none of the stupid things you've done mattered or reflected poorly on those around you. You think of how you must have disappointed your team and coach and family, and how the opposing team and their hundred supporters must loathe you right now.

You think of all these things in what feels like a ridiculously long time but in reality has only been 3 seconds. You think and think and think of you. You. You. You. Then you notice one of your shoe laces are untied and you scream. You don't know why you're screaming but you are. You scream louder than you've ever screamed before. And you feel like crying but you don't want to because there's no crying in baseball. You feel like crying but you don't want to because this shouldn't be the reason why you would cry that particular day. You feel like crying but you know the fact that you're playing on that field means you're part of a privileged bunch in society.

"Why?" you ask no one in particular as you find yourself crying anyway.

Internal Narration

I lay on the floor with a thin bed cover wrapped around my body. How I managed to wrap myself in such a way that my arms, tight over my chest, could no longer move became somewhat of a mystery to me. Thoughts of self-defeat, hatred and disgust began brewing in my head. Usually as soon as that process started, there was no sense in trying to end it until it decides for itself to stop.

How did it get to this? Fuck, fuck, fuck. What is wrong with you? Fuck!

I was staring at the floor next to me, at the creases of the fake wooden panels, at the shadow cast by the small stool over it, at nothing in particular when the door knocked. Three rapid knocks like any other. I said nothing. Then came three more knocks and a voice. Her voice. My eyes were fixated on the shadow again.

Maybe she’ll think I was asleep and leave in a second.

She kept knocking. More and more and more knocking, each more frantic than the one before it. She called out my name. She’d said it in a way that made it sound inquisitive, like a question. Only it wasn’t a question, it was one word, and I didn’t know what she meant by it. What did the tone imply? What did she mean to ask? What does she want to know? How should I answer back?

“Are you okay?” Her voice called out, this time louder than the previous times, making sure anyone in the room would hear it, asleep or awake.

I said nothing. I felt the shadow shift even though the only source of light was completely stationary.

“Yes.” I finally called back. It became more and more difficult to try to ignore her presence.

What impression was I looking to leave on her? How did I want her to think I was? Did the worry contained in each quiver in her voice give me any sense of satisfaction? What did I think I was going to do?

I said nothing.

She said nothing.

“No.” I hesitated. “I need your help.”

Again, she said nothing but I could feel her against the door, trying to listen. I don’t know how I knew that but I did.

“Please.”

A pause. Silence. The shadow remained still.

“Okay. What do you need?” She said slowly, calmly, in that way one would talk when something was currently in shambles but would eventually be okay.

“I accidentally locked myself in." I began, "And now I really need to go to the bathroom"