a beginning and an end

I jumped onto the cardboard box to try and clamp it shut, pushing down as hard as I could to tape it all up. Sights, sounds, and sentiments were bursting at the seams, gushing out from my box of bitter memories.

I had broken a sweat using all my might to tape it up. Even used two rolls of tape this time for extra reinforcement. I finally had it all closed, 

only to impulsively rip it open again.

It's nice to be able to look through it all. To know it's there for me to explore if I feel the urge. The part I hate yet can never seem to avoid is questioning why it's all there. I'll find one piece and ask myself whether I could have avoided its arrival into my collection.

bleed scrape bleed itch bleed pull bleed scratch bleed (the soundtrack to my ceaseless gnawing at emotional scabs)

You're forcing me to put you in there, too. You want me to throw you in that box along with everything else that's done, finished, and relegated to my past forever. You've come today with a ribbon for me to wrap it with once you've stepped inside and closed it shut, but I'd rather have you here, alongside me, as we sit on the foot of my bed sifting through all of this together.

I now know how my grandpa feels.

I remember once when I was younger, one of the males in the family cut his hair. That's taboo in the Sikh faith, because uncut hair is supposed to be the physical manifestation of our inner convictions. I never quite understood the particularly dramatic reactions, such as the one displayed by my grandfather. I still don't - especially considering how the decision to wear an article of faith or subscribe to a particular religion is such a positively personal decision. Still, I sensed the disappointment; I can understand how it might have made my grandpa feel dispirited and saddened at the thought of someone close to him rejecting the tenets of a culture which has always been remarkably revolutionary and beautiful. A culture that has always stood up for the oppressed by defending women and those with lesser means. A culture which I find truly remarkable for so many reasons. However, wearing a turban/keeping one's hair is undeniably a personal decision.

Eating animals, however, is not a personal decision. A personal decision is divorced of the sort of ramifications and prerequisites that eating animals in this country currently necessitates. When you eat meat, we're not only considering that an animal had to die - we are considering how that animal had to suffer, physically and emotionally. 

When my vegetarian friend - a close friend - abandoned his vegetarian diet, I felt a sorrow I hadn't felt before. I think I know how my grandpa felt. 

Please reconsider.

Take-aways from the 2013 Animal Rights National Conference

At the 2013 Animal Rights National Conference, I had the pleasure of engaging both my intellectual and emotional faculties during the various workshops, lectures, and social gatherings. It was my first time attending the conference, and it was particularly gratifying because I achieved the one goal I sought to fulfill during the weekend. I certainly hoped to learn more about the movement, acquire some more skills for leafleting, and also make a new friend or two; my primary objective, however, was to leave the conference with at least one paramount piece of insight. As I stated, I achieved this goal, but in quite an unexpected manner.

This year's conference contained a debate between Bruce Friedrich and Gary Francione, two abolitionist vegans who work toward animal liberation - just in very different ways. Francione believes that supporting welfarist reforms (phasing out cages, providing more space for animals, etc) are counterproductive and encourage complacency. Well, that's the diplomatic summary, at least. In my personal perception, I see Francione as the Ann Coulter of the animal rights movement: someone who probably sincerely believes they are right, but due to their extremist views, gets much more attention than otherwise warrants (and consequently thrives off of it).

Friedrich's points were extremely articulate, pragmatic, tactful, and both his content and delivery were quite cogent. Francione, on the other hand, adopted a much less respectful demeanor during the debate. Content aside (which I, personally, viewed as reprehensible), I was particularly struck by the negativity he espoused. We are all working toward the same goal, and that should be a cause for some degree of celebration despite the uphill battle - why leave the audience members with such a sour, unpleasant feeling?

I was encouraged by a friend (a remarkable fellow Humane League activist) to share my thoughts with Francione, which is precisely what I did. I very respectfully approached him and and said, "I know you must be busy, but do you possibly have a moment for some feedback?" He immediately retorted (very briskly) by saying, "What do you disagree with?" I proceeded to courteously explain to him my vantage point. I said, "I feel like conferences such as this one are incubators for future activists. When you emit so much anger, you run the risk of alienating people who find such negativity off-putting." Once again in an undeniably curt manner, he said to me, "there's a difference between anger and passion. Hopefully one day you'll learn the difference."

The major insight I took away from the conference was the value of humility. My father always tells me that the best leaders are those who never stop learning from people around them. My interaction with Gary Francione solidified this concept in my head - that the people who radiate humility will always be the most influential, and those who isolate themselves from any and all opportunities to be better are cutting themselves off from true success. I was truly astonished by the arrogance emanating from Francione, but I feel very proud to say that those whom I look up to most in the movement, including the entire staff at The Humane League are some of the most humble, compassionate people I know who realize the value of always trying to be the best version of themselves possible - for them, and for the animals. 

The Failure of Self-Correcting Mechanisms

Homeostasis: the tendency to move toward equilibrium. Glide straight into place, achieve balance.

I long for interpersonal homeostasis. For our two beings to strive for that steady footing that our individual bodies have mastered so effortlessly. Can not our hearts and our souls master that sense of evenness and stability which is innate in our flesh and bones?

You'll supply what I lack. 

When you falter I'll step up.

If only it were so simple.

This osmosis of love and affection - it exists in the mind of a child whose body works tirelessly on tasks and small missions through her arteries and vessels, never failing to correct an imbalance or mend a scar. But when I try to mend your scars, I am slashed with recalcitrance which my body cannot heal.  No homeostasis. Only hurt.

This osmosis of love and affection - when you feel empty I will give you love; when you feel lonely I will give you warmth; when you are lost, I'll earnestly impart whatever direction I can. Emotional transactions take time.  My alms to you will not be supplanted as quickly as my body gives my thirsty cells water.

You stopped caring.

You always used to show concern when I would listen to Bright Eyes. I would always listen to Bright Eyes when I was sad. Then, eventually, you stopped showing concern. Perhaps because I began listening to them more frequently. My sadness was almost too overt that it glossed over you.

Defying the Odds: A Short Story

Whenever I have a business function where I need to kick off the event with some simple but epic story comprised of some struggling youth, destined to make it big despite having to tackle status oriented barriers - destined to "rise above" and make something honorable of his or her self - I always think of this one instance from my childhood from when I was in 8th grade. The year was 1975. We needed to build a projector, and the standard procedure consisted of utilizing two lenses.

But, I could only afford one.

Growing up, I had two shirts, one pair of pants, two underwear, and a pair of shoes. My small, dilapidated flat in Kanpur housed my parents, as well as me and my little brother. It suited us well. We were never the type to complain. We had what we needed, and we rarely wanted anything we did not have. You hear about so much social pressure these days - this 90210 bullshit - to look a certain way, to emulate certain personalities, even when it doesn't resonate with who you truly are. Looking back on it, I had the important things in life.
I couldn't afford to buy any yo-yos or basketballs, occasionally resulting in scorn from the town bullies, but that was nothing new. I had learned to cope with all of it. My most sacred tool was my ability to make school my getaway. Whatever boredom, anger, or despair I felt, I was somehow able to transform it into the fuel I needed to work effectively and discipline myself. Whenever I needed an escape, I could turn my back on the world and focus all my energy on my studies. I was among the sharper tools in the shed.
So, using my impeccable mathematical skills, I configured a formula that would allow for the construction of my project using one lens. I knew I would be able to successfully make my projector operational; the hard part would be convincing my teacher it was possible.
I had prepared a half-hour long disclaimer I was to recite to my stubborn teacher which consisted of how passionate and determined I was in regard to our assignment, how I admired his outstanding teaching abilities, his conviction in challenging his students to live up to their full potential, etc. He wasn't moved in the slightest. Not that I expected him to be. He merely basked in his enormous ego. As I expected him to.
Finally, I arrived at the part where I was proposing to complete my experiment with one magnifying lens, only to be shot down instantaneously with an adamant "No! It cannot be done."
It was as subtle as a sawed-off shotgun.
However, after what seemed like an eternity, I had convinced him it was indeed possible. In addition to possessing academic excellence, I was quite the persuader.
I went with my mother to the appliance shop where there were wiring materials, computer parts, lenses, bulbs, and old men who should have croaked decades ago lounging around smoking hookah.
I assembled my project as soon as I got home. I needed a metal ring to encase the lens, which I sneakily acquired from the broom lying in the kitchen. (It was the metal binding that held the straw together.) I went to the recycling to find a cardboard tube - all that remained from what used to be a roll of paper towels, and I used this for my project, too. I meticulously inserted the lens into the tube, and then reached for some tape to secure it ----
I made the mistake of working over a concrete floor.

Within an instant the lens had fallen through the tubing and onto the ground, shattering into dozens of pieces, the edges of which were lined with sharp, serrated shock and guilt. The shrill sound of the glass hitting the floor hasn't escaped me to this day. It's one of those things you play over a million times in your head, wishing you had faster reflexes for your hand to swoop in and catch the falling object, like the hero in all those Bollywood movies magically appears and catches the beautiful girl. You play it over a million times in your head and ask yourself why you didn't hold the bottom of the tube, "तेरा दमाग खराब है*?"
My mother came in and slapped me. There were tears all around, and I felt so fucking guilty. My mother reluctantly brought me to the store, again, as I couldn't stop sobbing.
We ended up having to buy that second lens after all. I had replayed the argument with my teacher in my head countless times, thinking to myself that if I was just going to end up buying two lenses, I would have passed on the unpleasant encounter with Mr. Sharma. Most of all, I felt awful for wasting my parents' money.

I got my project in on time, successfully using one lens, as planned. I remember writing my mother an apology letter, and she still has it to this day. I wrote her that letter 38 years ago. I had no idea she kept it until recently when we ended up reminiscing about the incident, among other memories during my last trip to India. I asked her if she had kept my math notes and immaculate schematic in preparation for the project, when she admitted that she had sold it decades ago along with all my other papers and books for recycling money. It just made me realize how far we've come since then. You can really go places when you set your mind to it.

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*Punjabi saying for "are you stupid?" Literally translates to "is your head cracked?"