Indira Ganesan's Blog

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Lately I have been thinking about my dad. He was a cerebral sort, and while my mother actively pursues local and global news, watches talk shows and various kinds of tv, my dad preferred Nature, preferably old episodes he had seen before. But my dad and shared a love for silly British comedy, and nothing made us laugh more than Mr Bean. The show had us on the floor, loudly guffawing at poor Mr. Bean’s antics, at his attempts to fit in with society, and abjectly, completely failing. Maybe my dad and I saw ourselves in Mr. Bean, hapless in our environment, trying to imitate as best we could social mores that were beyond us. My dad came to this country as a graduate student with twenty dollars hidden in his sock. He was assigned a blind man as his roommate at university, who duly taught him how to operate a coke machine. I imagine the university must have had a laugh, the blind man leading the super-shy Asian mathematician, but they probably never looked past the set-up, and saw the humanity. Later my dad had a fellow Indian as a housemate who blithely vacuumed up the cockroaches in their apartment, never understanding why they kept returning to the kitchen. There were many adventures in my father’s life, including the tattoo he acquired in Calcutta, the first of many defiances against the rules in a Tam-Bram’s life, the tattoo we were never allowed to ask about. In my life, too, I defied many rules, but probably not enough of them. And when we were pretty much tired of fighting the world, and each other, my father and I bonded as adults, laughing uproariously at the misadventures of Mr. Bean, the indefatigable misfits.

It has been a long while since I’ve posted here. I give a one- day workshop at Wellfleet Preservation Hall, and so far three people have signed up. My numbers are small, sometimes just one person, sometimes nine, though mostly it is often three or four students. What always surprises me is the alchemy that occurs when a group of shy writers take a chance on themselves and their writing, trusting the process, the appeal of an indie class. Trust happens almost magically, as I see it, as work is shared and received, creating paths for change, for new views. A conversation begins about work, about confidence, about lives lived. Each session runs for three hours, and lately I have been offering either one-day workshops or three- days.

I will also be teaching a Graduate Fiction a workshop for Emerson College on zoom, as I have been doing most summers. An intense class of a dozen MFA students that meets twice a week for three hours for six weeks is a dizzying difference to my local workshops, but alchemy occurs there as well. Here, students are responsible of two stories of up to twenty pages per term, which means we can cover about eighty pages a week with a hour devoted each story. We start late May, end in July.

Today, the campus was closed in response to the arrests of dozens and dozens of students protesting the killings in Gaza. The number of people arrested was 108, that potent Buddhist number that signifies a microcosm of the microcosm. When students protest, the result can be democratic change or military brutality. At Emerson, all arrested people were released, and classes will resume tomorrow. I no longer commute to campus, so my connection is not through conversation but from newspaper accounts, and official emails. I am a part time faculty as well, which further distances my connection. There is an aching guilt in me that I am removed from this crisis, watching from afar from my rural home on the edge of an ocean, but I am made confident by the amount of students all over the country who are moved to act, which statement, I am aware, like much of this paragraph, is an over-simplified generalization of the kind I warn my students against writing. Still. Children are being killed. That is the truth in this world now. And it is in this truth we write.

from The Key Reporter

Indira Ganesan, Vatican, 2023

I am reminded now in this very cold day in January how a friend of mine prayed in church. We were at the Vatican, after four or maybe five hours of being on our feet, first waiting outside to be organized into our small group tours, then on queue to enter and retrieve headsets to hear our tour leader as she wove us through the crowded corridors of wealth and gold of the Holy See.

We saw the Roman statuary, the galleries full of maps, the ornate gilt and embroidery, until finally we saw, almost anticlimactically, the Sistine Chapel. God was much nearer than I’d imagined, hovering over my head as Adam reached towards Him, as we were routinely sushed by the priests.

My friend and I rested, waiting to reunite with the group who may have gone to other galleries or gift shops—my memory gets murky—when she announced quietly that she was going to go pray. Somehow, in all the ample luxury and baroque riches of the place, I had forgotten it was also a place of quiet contemplation. So my friend sat at a pew and prayed for her sons and her family, prayed for her friends, and the troubled world. She also quietly prayed for me, a nonbeliever and tourist.

I am remembering all this, nine months later, when the world is an as awful a fix as ever, and the wind is bitter. I am reminded of how often my mother also prays for me, how many coconuts have been offered to Ganesha in thanks for prayers answered. How steadfast is this faith of mothers who wish the best for us, who believe so profoundly. I send a prayer to them.

A New Year. The day is sunny, with blue tinge to the sky. Yesterday, the town set off firecrackers which my friends and I watched from the balcony.

Went to the marker, and bought cooked noodles, tofu, broccoli. Also kimchee, humus, and the hearty sunflower seed European bread that is vacuum packed. I was filling up the cupboards with new year intentions.

Finished a chapter, finally getting back to the neglected work.

Started four new tv serials, with three to yet finish.

Taught a one-day workshop, and planned for a few more.

Snow came at last, and I scraped off the car, shoveled the steps minimally.

My thoughts are notes, jots, fits, and starts. January, wintery.

Happiness for this fragile New Year.

Plot 43, 2023. December

This last week of December has brought in much rain. A lone pansy bloomed out on the balcony, and there are still surprising green stems on the clematis and one rose. I left the dahlia tubers in the ground, without expectation. It was a poor year for the dahlias, with only two plants blooming out of the dozen I planted in the spring. It was a good year for bidens, though, and the alyssum is still going strong.

Out on the veg plot, the autumn carrots never materialized, but the tomatoes grew well. A thick layer of compost is feeding the sleeping garlic, and feeding the ground. The apartment complex I live in had its full day blast of leaf/blowing, which occurs a few times a year, especially on the days you hope to spend quietly at home. On went my headphones as the soil was violently freed of leaves, killing insects and their homes, leaving a sad sheen of black mulch that will act like astro-turf, coloring the ground in sterile uniformity. This is the essay by Margaret Renkl to read about the hazards of gas/powered leaf blowers. If it was summer, I’d run away to a library, but as it was, the headphones helped, and I did not blindly curse the universe.

Those curses rarely help, and the universe needs no further trouble. 2023 brought us at least one more war, inane politics and policies, and a bruised earth battered by our excess. I write this, knowing full well I continue to contribute to waste, and waste with a conscious is still waste. Yet there was do much brightness in the year as well, stolen moments of joy, outright laughter with friends, an excessive amount of entertainment, a little writing, too, suffused with love.

I think we need to hold onto these small pockets of happiness, catch what sunshine we can, even as we stay informed about the world. I continue on my K-drama adventure, having finished a serial called Daily Dose of Sunshine which deals with the stigma of depression. It was wonderfully acted and plotted, and listed as one of this year’s best television series Culture Whisper. One observation it offers is the need for quiet joys, like daily sunshine.

I raise a cup to you, dear reader, and hope the new years brings blessings and cheer.