Identity - stereotyping the culprit

The space to share publicly every little aspect of our lives is one thing; for random people to host a discussion around it, speculate and draw conclusions, is quite another matter.

There was this young mother from India whose post went viral on Facebook sometime recently. All she did was to publicly acknowledge her son's effort and talents, and say she is extremely proud of him.

Something so basic - such as a mother congratulating her son for having done his best in high school academics (although many would disregard 60% as an achievement) - an act that any mummy would do naturally, can become talk in 'newsworthy' circles, caused me to frown. How we are all into stereotypes! And, why could we have become this way?

IDENTITY is the culprit - I rationalise. Bear with me while I try and explain how this could be.

We are conceived: they call us a 'fetus'.
We are born: they say we are 'boy' or 'girl'.
Then they add colour - dark, brown, fair, and some other shades I'm sure;
They give you a name.
And somewhere hidden (you don't know it yet) is a caste and religion;
A community has branded you, owns you - even before you know them.
As we grow: they say, you are pretty / beautiful / ok-looking / (don't know if they even say 'ugly');
Then they show you what to wear, how to dress, what colours suit you.
What to eat and drink, where to sleep, how to walk and talk;
Every aspect of YOUR life they frame and re-frame for you,
All in the name of preparing you for the 'world outside'.
In the end: you are what they want to see in you, what they decide you should be;
You are now 'standardised' 'labelled' 'conditioned' (take all or pick) - you seem to know who you are.
The answer to the question: What are you - comes so easily, naturally even!
You could never realise how your 'identity' has been built from scratch, even before you were a fetus...
You think you know you.
Purpose achieved. You are now 'defined' as belonging to society. You have an IDENTITY.
You were it on your sleeve, willingly most of your life;
Not to blame, you don't know better.
Then one fine day: a new dawn perhaps - and you awaken to the question:
'Who am I?' really.

I suppose one could/would argue that I'm over-thinking, and that there is no other way because that how the world works, and people need to fit in, be part of the system, know who they are and what they come from, etc, etc.

Sadly this is true.

I don't have an alternate pathway to all of the above - of course not. But I have come to realise that all this 'fabric' we use does not serve a better purpose, let alone meet the larger good - except to divide, and foster comparison, then build unhealthy competition, hasten to form a hate that manifests in ways shocking us as humans, and finally leading us to search our hearts - where does this all come from!? Nothing is as it seems, isn't it.

My seventh heaven!

Roughly every five minutes I would hear a familiar roaring noise surround me. Large shadows of aeroplane after aeroplane covered the city’s vegetation. I watched as the aircraft’s shadow brought a swift, moving shade -- respite from the blazing summer sun for those trees, I thought. The seventh floor does offer an interesting perspective!

Kathri maasum in India -- the hottest days of the year according to the Hindu calendar has passed. The 14-day Agni Nakshatram (the worst of Summer) is believed to be over now. Temperatures have dropped a wee bit, but not enough to say: 'no sweat'! 

The seventh floor of a public library has been my refuge for the Spring-Summer months. I'm perched on a corner chair watching the winged-shadows move like floating clouds. The trees that shield us from harsh sunlight have a chance to receive some shade, it seems. 

It couldn’t have been by chance that Kabbalah regard the Seventh Heaven as the highest of heavens, I'm sure. God is most exalted here -- it is believed -- and angels dwell. It is THE place to be peaceful, and think, then write – the ultimate heaven for doctorate pursuers.

I could have chosen any floor -- entry to the eighth is disallowed -- I settled with the seventh -- among historians, geographers and biographers. I spend hours (up to ten some days), in the rarest of company, besides a glass window that overlooks a grand part of Madras city.   

It never even crossed my mind to enter the first and second heavens – the first is always the most crowded and gloomy, and the second ‘heaven’ is supposed to have ‘fire, snow and ice ready for the day of divine ordinance’ -- so, it's kind of crampy really. 

Tried the third and the forth for a day each -- they host ‘armies’ of subjects that complicate the ‘spirit’. The incident of a zombie-like character seated opposite me at the fourth-heaven study table was persuasive experience -- enough to consider moving to the higher heavens rather quickly! Simply skipped the fifth heaven; peeped through the glass doors of the sixth just once -- there were ‘angels’ and they were (noisy) busy -- going about their business not really caring how it affected other heaven seekers. 

So, seventh it was -- here is the ‘great glory’ -- far above all heavens. The Keys to Kaballah #librarylife here I’ve found!  

And suddenly, so much hate becomes visible.

Well, this blogpost I had written-up soon after the ChristChurch attack but decided not to publish because I believed I was too emotionally attached to the incident at the time. Now, a month later, I read the piece and find my point of view unchanged.

So here's what I think:

It is still about race and colour, birthright and religion -- all man-made, only to divide and to have power. We know this. We’ve read about this dominance time and again. Even us - the educated - in our tiniest ways, we don’t seem to have the inner strength to denounce this social conditioning. Centuries of 'force-feeding' have gotten under some of our skins. Every now and then, a virus erupts causing fear and panic eventually shaping a narrative that builds to a visible dislike for fellow human beings.

How does killing off your own kind using ethnicity to validate the argument become justified in our minds! I won't dare take the heart-route because I think we (people) have long lost the ability to feel for our neighbour. Call me a skeptic, pessimist even, I wouldn't care. The events of mid-March -- ChristChurch, London, Utrecht -- prove that the epidemic of fear and panic worries us all. The narratives these confused minds spin seem to attract, and I’m thinking it’s probably because the human mind does enjoy complicated plots. But this is an unpleasant spin -- spurring hate and inciting fear have never won!? Good has always found its way, even in the darkest of earth times. It will, even now.

There are several lessons to learn from the experiences of bad behaviour – there always is. First, we have ourselves to blame. As a civilisation, we seemed to have encouraged hate-filled wars, ghost wars even, and connected it to some kind of triumph -- a trophy always waited in the end. Second: I don’t recall admissions of failure to protect the human race. Oh yes, the Pope did apologise for the crusades, Germany for the extermination of Jews, some American Presidents for the Vietnam war, and maybe even some other wars (too many to recall here) -- I suppose there are some other occasions where apologies are recorded for the benefit of peace and closure. Let them rest in peace, I say. What has changed but?!

As an individual, a lowly one at that, I can’t see the overall good in society at all. Statistics will prove to me that all this ‘hate’ always existed, and one is more aware of it today only because communications / connectivity has allowed us this privilege. Data hardly lies. But truly, that is not how I feel. Intolerance among us all is growing everyday, and communications has a large role to play in all this. 

With every communication device invented we become more self-centred and clued-in to ourselves. The gradual cut-off from the world next to you happens the minute the headset reaches ears. Research has published time and again the perils of not relating to our surroundings, yet every company that manufactures communication devices (although their taglines speak to being connected ‘forever’) hardly match the techniques and methods of real communication. Systematic disengagement is now a habit, and habits do die hard, don’t they. No wonder the de-addiction centres are a thriving business!

Could we not pay attention at least now, after ChristChurch, after London, after Utrecht – take a ‘call’ on how to interact and understand the other side before we jump to hateful conclusions. This is not a ‘castle in the sky’, more a very basic, utility hut on hard ground for ourselves to come to terms with ourselves.

Disclaimer: The cartoon is borrowed from the internet.

The ‘blackness’ of cream #IWD2019

Today is March 8 – the day people around the world commemorate International Women’s Day. I’m not especially thrilled that WE need a day to recall our greatness and celebrate our femininity. But I suppose, we share a man’s world and it does take a visual exhibition (most times) to get noticed for stuff already due to us. Having recognised this, I’m saying: why bother! 

Dear woman -- be comfortable in your skin – literally, first.

Some months ago I was in Accra, the capital of Ghana, and I saw the most amazing hoarding on the walls of a market-place building. It said very simply: ‘Get back the skin you were born with’ – it is the nicest thing I have ever read. Can we even dream of a cosmetic corporate in India thinking-up a campaign like this, ever? I don’t think so. The ‘Dark and Lovely’ branding captured my attention, especially since I have had, and still continue to have questions put to me because my skin is too light for a ‘South Indian’. Usually, these clarifications come from curious adults (who should know better), but when I was asked by young children, it upset me. Is ‘fairness of one’s skin’ a discussion topic among the young school girls too!? 

I was in Madurai -- the famous temple town in TamilNadu, and we were shooting for a global documentary film on food security. The team was from Germany, and I was the stringer for the India part of the film – their location assistant -- helping out with location, translation, interpretation, etc. It was November, but the Sun was still sharp and I had on a bright red cap to keep the afternoon glare from hurting my eyes.

The Director of the film, the DoP (Director of Photography) and the Boom Operator climbed a ladder to the Corporation school terrace and were busy setting-up the drone for some exclusive shots. I could have climbed the precarious ladder to join the rest, but it would have turned out embarrassing if I developed last minute jitters while climbing down. Instead, I volunteered to remain near the van for any assistance the team might need.

It was a Saturday; the school was closed. The two-roomed building wore a festive look though -- Banana trees tied to each doorpost and decorative palm-mango leaves strung together running across the door mantel. Guests were dressed in glittering finery – all smiles, and straining to hear each other over the loudspeaker volume. The Tamil cinema song va va va, kanna va filled our heads -- the engagement function was happy, and there was a sumptuous lunch waiting.

A group of school-going girls, curious to find out what the firangs were up to on their school terrace building, walked up to me. Girls, the ages of 13 to 17 years, are usually gusty and enjoy the attention their actions receive – it is a wonderful age! I remember my teenage years fondly – bold, when I rebelled at almost everything. They asked the expected questions and in English: Who are these people? What they are doing? and so on. We got talking, and I spoke to them in Tamil, and they were surprised.

‘We thought you are from some other country or at least from North India’ – one girl says. ‘Why,’ I ask.

‘You are fair aka (elder sister),’ another responds, ‘you have reddish-colour skin; not like us.’ I’m translating the Tamil word literally here: they meant light-coloured skin.

I smile – ‘I am from Madurai; I was born here,’ I tell them.

Then a little girl – she was the youngest in the group, not more than 11 years -- says to me: ‘What soap do you use aka?’ The question threw me off-guard; no one had ever asked me that before.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I want to be fair like you, so I will buy the same soap,’ she responds without hesitation.  

Disappointed that a child would think that colour of one’s skin mattered so much, I explain: ‘I was born with this skin colour; it has nothing to do with the soap I use.’

She looked straight at me, and I could see she wasn’t buying my answer. So instead I tell her: ‘You look beautiful; what soap are you using?’

 She is shy, ‘Ordinary soap only.’

‘Don’t change that! Your skin is perfect.’

This couple-of-minutes exchange happened in 2013, but the relevance will always be important to me. As long as women do not appreciate themselves for who they are in the present, the little girls of the future will not be able to do that either.

‘I am Dark and Lovely’ is not a brand or a campaign; it is a feeling.  Congratulations on another March 8. 

Journalism and three lessons for life

Journalism is not a mere profession to involve words and genius storytelling. I believe, it is a discipline that sets your brain to an absorption mode for life-long ingenuity.

I've moved on from the adored profession, nevertheless, 'once a journalist, always a journalist' - I distinctly remember an editor-speaker say this at the World Editors' Forum 2009. Awestruck I was when senior editors made clear how the journalism discipline works. There was no magic; just simple, basic rules. "You don't need a journalism degree!" an editor-in-chief told me once, "just a nose for news and decent English to get by." He was speaking more about print, than the glamorous electronic media.

The wordcloud has been created using content from this blogpost

If you've been following television and social media news out of India very recently - there was so much willingness to unanimously 'sacrifice' news anchors at the borders in exchange for a well-respected package. Sad. Very true but. The journalism I once knew is becoming a rarity; the sheen is now gloss; investigation is now in tune with interrogation; moulding public opinion is now blast freezing for shelf-life.
I could go on, but it is rather depressing. Instead I would tell you the three lessons I have picked up -- engraved in me so deep, they've become the rules with which I lead my routine life. Should this not bring back a flicker of hope for the esteemed profession? Perhaps the time is ripe to build a castle in the sky for journalism.

Lesson No 1 - never assume, always ask. Assumptions are the mother of all fuck-ups.
I must have taken this a little too literally, because I ask (too) many questions, and people don't have answers most times. Silences speak too, and the pauses -- pick up on these and you will gain much more insight than the words reveal. You can't report all that you sense, and it is definitely these 'extra' things you gather in the profession of writing that broaden your perspective of the world around you. As you see it -- or, rather -- as you think you see it: is the best form of education one can hope to receive, in my opinion. I remember the sudden awareness that came to me when I began writing - an overnight feeling actually, a quick bloom at first and then gradual opening up. My mind's eye saw clearer -- the world of connected dots became obvious just like how John Muir - the 19th century mountaineer, observed: 'When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.'    

Lesson No 2 - stories surround you. Everyone has something to say about everything.
Lucky journalists we are! Everything, absolutely anything can be told and retold several ways and with a variety of mediums. We simply need to use our discretion. Easy indeed. The audience -- your readers, listeners, viewers -- are paramount. They trust you, and thus tend to see the world through your mind. Listen to everyone and watch everything, only because you are surrounded by fact and fiction, mostly woven into thinner fabric than you could have ever imagined. I've been caught in this fabric of fakness a couple of times. It feels rotten when you find it out; guilty that you didn't apply enough caution; but grateful that it came to light before causing much damage. Gosh! The responsibility weighs heavy for those who choose to stick to principles and not dramatise every time the curtains part. Who would have guessed that the pressure of sifting propaganda from journalism could turn out to be an exquisite art in the 21st century! Fakeness now engulfs your stories more than ever -- the need to be genuine has never been so much in demand, I think.

Lesson No 3 - never be married to your words. The editor knows best.
'A journalist can be a journalist only to the extent his or her editor allows' - read this someplace and it has stuck in my head ever since. My first copy was thrashed - I've told you the story. A subsequent news report was reduced to three lines -- it carried my byline, and I was totally embarrassed. I learned slowly and rather painfully, not to be attached to my copy -- the words that I took a couple of hours to put together as a cub reporter were precious, but editing in the end did make my story look much better. I suppose it is the same thing for anybody learning an art form for the first time. A cub painter (don't know if they call them this in the artist world), must love the strokes he or she creates, must be very attached to the canvas of the first decent piece of work according to him / her, must want to believe that it is a master-piece until of course the 'master' walks in and trashes it. The point is however, not to drown in disappointment but to reach higher and perform better by learning the ropes. Building 'castles in the sky' after all is about trusting in one's ability to dream bigger and better things, keeping in mind that there are good souls in this world -- they mean well even if they are rough around the edges. 

Spring brings many gifts! Courage to change, is but one

February has always been a bitter-sweet kind-of-month for me. My 'Monalisa moments' -- I love to call them. The best taste for the soul does arrive in Spring! February also happens to be my birthday month, and no matter where I am in the World -- I know when they come. Fortunately, in the end, you stay rooted, usually grateful, and remain humble when welcoming change.

A little throwback to offer for not publishing my thoughts on building Castles in the Sky: I've been spending time at the hospital, not as a patient -- thankfully, but as an "attender" (they call me this) -- taking care of my mum, and now at home -- as she recoups from total knee-replacement surgery. Weak in the knees -- all the family suffer from it, especially the women! Not sure if I must make an attempt to decorate the family-men folk here? I suppose it is safe to say: genetics should be crowned instead.

Be prepared to simply forget sleep when there's a loved one on a hospital bed. Most of it you lose worrying, and a quarter goes out the window with nurses, and ayyas and doctors checking-up on the patient. No blame to them, please! We won't be up and about if they don't sacrifice their sleep to rejuvenate us. But the point of this blogpost is not about hospitals or patients or attenders; it is about what wonderful Spring does to you!

Seasons really haven't been a thing for Chennai, but if you've travelled enough you come to appreciate the distinct nature of each weather-season and the moods they bring with them. When harsh winters melt away, sweet-smelling freshness greets you and I bet it takes a particular strength for delicate beauty to push through. Well, the hot, hotter and hottest style of weather in Chennai offers little variation, but one can still appreciate the subtle transformations.

It is that time in the year when cool winds begin to feel like warm breeze; when Chennai's green gets a rather dry, yellowish tint, and yes -- when bougainvilleas begin to burst out into a riot of colours all around you. The changes leave you second-guessing -- 'Are we headed for Summer already'! Spring might be a short-stay guest in Chennai, but she does bring delights when passing through. Isn't it always the softer, fleeting moments that give us pluck and spine to deal with big loads of crap? I think so.

There's this one birthday Spring I spent in the UK, and the image of a single deep-yellow daffodil swaying in the gentle breeze I cannot forget. Something about the colour and the movement of the delicate flower has remained with me. Imagine the effect on William Wordsworth when he saw 'a host of golden daffodils'.



I have come to realise that restlessness always wiggles its way to the surface to make sure you know that something MUST change. It usually takes me a while to figure out what / when / how, etc. Yet somehow, the Universe knows what to take from you and how much to replace. You just need to muster-up enough courage to checkout the unknown -- that's the terrifying bit. With hope for the better, just a plunge is all it takes, honestly. And then, you always have an image of something nice from Spring to keep your sanity intact, like I do with the solitary daffodil!

Mostly just remember: February's Spring air seems to have something in it that brings back your courage to change, gently.

My tryst with writing. Credit: carnatic music

A reader very kindly pointed out that I didn't do justice to the Ghatam in my Pot belly and gun throat blog post. I joked it off as 'collateral damage' but it got me thinking. The truth is: carnatic music is how I came to discover the writer in me.

It was frustration that drove me into the warm arms of sa re ga ma pa dha ni sa. The dear Mylapore Maami was a kind soul and took me on as a student pronto. She had the widest smile and was frankly amused that I didn't know how to read and write Tamil despite being born in the cradle of Tamil culture - Madurai. At 30, I could manage to speak the language, but couldn't string a decent sentence without grammatical and gender errors. Mrs Maami would dictate the classic hymns because I couldn't write Tamil either. Phonetics helped me write what she would call out. She simply smiled every time I goofed up with the lyrics - delighted at my interest.

Sitting with little kids, even younger than my children were at that time, I learned many valuable lessons that have shaped my attitude. The experience humbled me - there is never a wrong age to learn, and one can learn from anyone, especially children.

Mrs Maami would show me off, telling them: "See this Anglo-Indian is interested in our music!" I would get those looks from the 'people' - I hated being on exhibition. But I suppose fair skin and brown hair is a let down, and rather impossible to come off as typical 'south Indian'. Sometimes, Mrs Maami would ask me to sing a Keerthanai for the visitors - oh, she was so proud she could train me to sing carnataka sangeetham! 

I worked with a daily national newspaper at that time; I was in advertising, but Mrs Maami said: "Everybody in the newspaper company can write! You write this article about Shri Thiruchy - he is a famous musician; it is a blessing." Shri Thiruchy could not speak English and I, Tamil - we were ill-matched from the start. If not for my friend from 1994, I could never have managed the very first interview that got me a byline in two editions of the popular English daily. She was my interpreter, my stenographer, my translator, and my Tamil-to-English-to-Tamil dictionary! A good friend, she remains till date.

Took me days to get the copy in a narrative-style-like shape. It was 2004 - did not own a computer at that time, and had only worked with pre-designed templates on terminals. I sat behind my office table (counter number 1) with one-sided paper, a pencil and an eraser, and pieced together the bits of information I thought were interesting. Must have made a least twenty hand-written copies before I decided the article was presentable. Still wanted expert opinion, so a close friend introduced me to one of the editors of the newspaper I worked with - a serious-looking man, but one I respected very much, still do. I gave him my hand-written copy and he thrashed it to bits.

Never had I seen so many red-inked corrections on handwritten work - my school exam papers did not match-up. Not good enough for publication of course- that was clear. But what I appreciate most and am grateful for to this day, was that the editor sat me down and explained why he did what he did with my copy. I went back and reworked on it; submitted a type-written copy - that was the first time I used Microsoft Word at an internet cafe - to the Bureau Chief. He liked it. The article was published in two editions: Chennai and Trichy, without a single change.

I went back to learning to sing carnatic music. Mrs Mylapore Maami began to show off the article, not me. So grateful I was.       







   

Nothing is as it seems. Period.

"Or, so you believe in conspiracy theories, do you!?" a renowned professor of science asked me one frosty winter morning in Brighton. He wore an amused look borderlined with cynicism on his face, and even though most facial features were covered-up with long white beard hairs, I could still make out a hint of a smile that gradually reflected in his eyes. One releases a little piece of themselves in the most obvious places, always - but believe that it is the obscure that frees them.

It is, for me, these conversations you have with people while seated in simple settings or along the fringes of some high-profiled conference that remain tucked away in the brain some place, rather than profound statements from lectures or presentations you are privilege to in glamour-lit banquet halls almost always organised in precious locations. 

Words have a way of sticking to you - with them, the emotion. I bet your memory can dig out - if you will allow it - words and sometimes even sentences from as far as kindergarten! The subconscious is probably the most feared thing for this very reason, isn't it. Pretty sure science has an evidence-based theory for all this - I really don't care though, because there are some things that cannot be reached by science. They are felt. Science can't feel, or sense - it can detect of course.

My pure Camomile afternoon tea is turning cold under the gentle fan breeze, but I just had to write this blog post first. The rush to pen down thoughts are so strong, you can't stop for anything or anybody, leave alone 100% natural pure Camomile! I dig into my inbox to pull out the words that give me hope to begin this year - they are my inspiration - the reminder of my life's contribution to the world (so I believe).

'Again and again in history

Some special people wake up

They have no ground in the crowd

They move to broader laws

They carry strange customs with them

And demand room for bold and

Audacious actions

The future speaks ruthlessly through them

They change the world' - Maria Rilke Ranier

But, nothing is as it seems now, is it.

"It's like writing your own obituary. I suppose, to look back at it and say, you know, I cared enough to go to these places and write in some way something that would make someone else care as much about it as I did at the time, part of it is you're never going to get to where you're going if you acknowledge fear. I think fear comes later when you've - when it's all over." - the words I closed 2018 with - I heard them, watched the woman speak them and they struck a chord, deep - a place I didn't bother acknowledging, until now. 

The celebrated war correspondent, Marie Colvin - resonated with how Rainer describes special people. Nothing is never as it seems, and special people know this too well. 

Pot belly and gun throat

It started sometime end of November, and I've run out of patience. I left my work desk, told a colleague that I'm going to give the guy a piece of my mind, and did just that with undertones of diplomacy on the very second day of the New Year. I returned, relieved. This is how 2019 is going to be for me perhaps... I'll be pleased with myself when I can pull it off for the 51 weeks to follow.

A particular middle-aged man had been monopolising the road just outside my office window, bellowing his guts out. He is supposedly talking over a smart phone, and I'm guessing to someone who is definitely stone deaf. Every morning around 10.30ish, he will park his scooter on side-stand, lean on the little thing, his back towards my window, pull out his bigger-than-palm rose gold phone to begin a day of yell-talking. The New Year came, no electric blue lady's scooter, instead a white car arrives. This time he shows off his pot belly (he was dressed in full white as well!) to start a conversation so loud, I couldn't hear myself think. 

Let's call him Mr O - comes close to his body shape, at least a perfect fit for his pot belly. He's barely above five feet, but seems to carry his figure with what I'm going to call the 'push-factor' - it's when the backside pushes the front of you - get me? You would have noticed that every person carries themselves differently, of course - otherwise too, it is not very difficult to appreciate this posture. Imagine the pelvis driving the rest of the body parts and you've conjured-up an image of Mr O. Now back to his gun throat - the focus of my ear-drum cum brain waves for over a month.

Initially, I marvelled at his ability to keep such a monotonous tempo - sometimes for 60 minutes straight. Was even entertained by the sentences that the wind carried to the ear, especially remotely coloured words. All Tamil he spoke (may be a good thing I don't know all special words in the language) and I could make out these were personal conversations, nothing business-like about them.

Wait, would it be coming from the power of the pot-shapeliness? Could be, you see! Because, I've been to a few carnatic music concerts during the Chennai Margazhi festival season and the Ghatam sound did reach balcony ears albeit microphone - being a simple, ancient percussion instrument, you can't escape its instinctive metallic pitch. This is exactly how Mr O sounds! Except that there wasn't palm-slapping and fingers hard-tapping against smooth firmness (assuming here - haven't honestly felt-up a pot belly).

If you think this blogpost is funny already, let me tell you - Mr O, his pot-belly and gun throat never left my window in spite of diplomacy-coated piece-of-mind-receiving on January 2nd.

I suppose the improvised lesson for 2019 now is: Speak your mind, and not care two hoots how the other reacts, whether in your favour or not. Pour yourself some hot tea, kick-off your sandals and get the heck back to work!








  

Does curiosity really kill the cat?!

Lucky goes crazy at the crack of dawn. She's the calico kitten my husband rescued from scavenging crows little more than a month ago. It was curiosity that came to her rescue, is it not? If he didn't suffer inquisitiveness, and not investigate the racket of cawing coming from an abandoned house two plots away, Lucky would have been very 'unlucky' - pecked to shreds indeed!

She's the boss at home these days, I'm only allowed to serve, and fuss with her when she craves it. Probably deserving of this worship she is - fending off hungry beaks is not easy for a three-week old baby. Call it instinct if you will, but Lucky has earned the black 'n' brown fur stripes. Lessons from her escapade she holds in wise eyes - I watch her challenge the crows these days with new-found confidence. Got me thinking - this kitten. Is it curiosity-led confidence she's found, or does confidence in fact feed inquisitive inventiveness?

I have found over the years - new confidence that is - around every blind corner I've turned. A tad bit wiser every time from throwing yourself into an abyss of the unknown - new awareness comes from where I don't honestly know - but several leaps of faith have grown me like a germinating seed eager to sprout forth green. Had I not trusted my gut even if it meant biting off a little more than I can possibly chew, the reward could never have been mine to savour. Could never see it but, still can't sometimes - the reward waits though, and it is mine. The problem with this blind-corner-reward-habit is the inability to say 'no' to virtually anything that crosses your path. Everything becomes opportunity.

"Thinking is man’s only basic virtue, from which all the others proceed" - Ayn Rand makes clear. If it was not for our ability to reason and contemplate, our curious instinct - sixth sense - might have the animal-like sharpness. Preparedness and caution would be less planned, and we will give in to our adventurous spirit, I believe. Of course, Ms Rand writes in a different context, and I'm pulling out a singular line to dwell on here. She also says: "The question isn't who is going to let me; it's who is going to stop me."