The Maps of Cabbage

And about writing

(Emerging from my pupa after a long time. This essay was written in January. I could find it within me to publish it only today.) 

This morning, I had been reflecting upon Alfred Korzybski’s famous statement “Map is not the territory...the word is not the thing” when something funny happened. D, the lady who helps me with cooking asked me what she should make for lunch.  

“Cabbage...” I told her, “And add that new masala which we purchased the other day.” Nodding her head, D disappeared into the kitchen with great enthusiasm. An hour later, I went to the kitchen to check how the vegetable was coming along. I lifted the lid of the casserole and what do I see? Wisps of steam rising, potatoes nicely cut and browned, coriander sprinkled generously, and nestling among all these veggies was...cauliflower!!!  Yes, cauliflower cooked to just the right amount of perfection, crisp and tender.  

“Cauliflower?!!” I gasped, “I told you to make cabbage!!!” 

“Cabbage??? Amma, you only told me to make cauliflower...” D insisted.  

I became doubtful.  

Did I... really? How old was I actually becoming? And what else does menopause do to your brain? I distinctly remembered seeing the cabbage in the fridge early that morning when I was taking out the milk for my morning tea. That was my, “Let me have cabbage for lunch” moment. And I went and told D to make cauliflower instead? How? Really? 

I continued to stare at the vegetable. A faint aroma of ginger hung in the air.  

“Really? I said that?” I asked her, tossing a piece into my mouth and letting the coriander linger on my tongue for a little while.  

“Amma...didn’t you tell me to use the cut cauliflower pieces in the fridge?” D asked, adding more flesh to her story. 

I did? 

And then it struck me... I didn’t. 

I can’t 

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for the simple reason that 

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 I had totally forgotten that I had those cauliflower pieces in the fridge!!! 

“I said no such thing...you do talk to yourself a lot,” I said playfully tapping her on her shoulder.  

The second moment of epiphany happened after that.  

It was not about who was right or who was wrong. It was about how D and I were representing cabbage and cauliflower in our own maps of world.  

In D’s world, the word “cauliflower” does not exist. It is either “Leafy cabbage” or the “Flowery cabbage”. She started using the word, “Cauliflower” only when she started coming to help me.  And when she heard the word “Cabbage”, she had immediately mapped it to the flowery cabbage that was lying cut in the fridge—the cauliflower! Phew! 

 Korzybski's full statement goes like this: 

“A map is not the territory it represents, but, if correct, it has a similar structure to the territory, which accounts for its usefulness. “ 

Clearly D and I were communicating with two different maps. Were they useful? Well, it was a chilly pleasant morning, the vegetable turned out delicious, and D and I ended up laughing over what happened.  

However not all communications end in light and playful tones.  

What happens when people start thinking that the map is the territory? What then? 

My niece (let us call her Swati), a bright young woman of twenty as a part of her assignment was asked to write a detailed letter to a philosopher whom she greatly admired and discuss the issues pressing her mind. It was a 1000-word assignment and the tonality had to be personal. When Swati told me about the assignment, I was excited. What a brilliant, creative way to help young minds explore! As the days passed, Swati showed me each of her first, second and final drafts. With every draft that I read, I became more and more excited. The essay was turning sharp, incisive, funny and deeply reflective. Swati had chosen “the parasitic relationship between man and beast in an industrial setup” addressed to Plato. In the letter, not only was Swati conversing with Plato, but she was also asking him questions that provoked and challenged. I felt excited at how much of herself she was pouring into the piece. The essay turned out to be an act of love. I was curious about how her professor would respond.  

This morning, Swati called.  

“He asked me what Plato would do with so many facts...he commented that Plato was no economist!!” she sobbed over the phone. 

Do with so many facts?! What does that even mean? 

“He said, ‘average work’ and just scribbled 12 on my paper...” Swati continued, her voice heavy with sorrow.  

Oh! poor child! 

The thing is it is not about the grades that Swathi got awarded. It is about how interactions like these inform the future choices that a child/writer/artist makes. The act of learning is precious. A baby holds on to whatever they can hold, and over a period learns to walk. The desire is to explore, to become a part of humanity which to their tiny beings looks vital and promising.  It's not about conformance.  It's never about conformance.  

However, Swati’s professor is not the only one.  

This morning, I received a newsletter in my inbox where the author said they would be sharing the “formula” that successful writers have been using for years. This creator has more than 1T+ subscribers on their list. Interesting, no? 

The other day as I was browsing LinkedIn, I came across a post where a young man was bemoaning about how when he was not following his usual template and talked about something that mattered deeply, his page views would plummet to an all-time low.  

Swati’s professor was only mirroring what the giant corporations had been doing all along.  

Swati and many like her become eagles, squirrels, whales, when they create—swooping out, taking a deep dive, leaping here, pausing there, but every time they do that, they are jostled rudely and ordered to bury their noses in instruction manuals. Conformance is not tragedy; penalizing the nonconformance is. 

I remember many, many years ago when I was in sixth grade, I had won the second prize in a district level essay writing competition. The “achievement” at that time felt big. It felt good walking up and receiving the prize in the morning assembly. My elation was, however, short lived. I came to know that a boy in my neighborhood was spreading rumors about me. Apparently, according to the grapevine, my mom had written the essay for me, and I had won! The cheek of that boy! For many years after that, I continued to feel angry with the boy. The prize was one achievement I had, and he had spoilt it for me. I was too quiet, too mousy to put up a fight. And so, I continued to live with the memory and all that it represented. Now when I think back, I don’t feel angry with the boy. I feel a deep empathy for him. The poor boy...all he wanted was to walk to the stage and receive the prize.  

Competitions have their own maps (or scripts) just as schools and report cards do, just as teachers and parents do. That day when Swati called, this is what I told her, “Look Sweetheart...it's not about writing the perfect essay. It's not even about getting an A+. It’s about exploring possibilities, sitting with them, letting them compost over a period, making an offering of all that emerged for you, and share it with the world with faith and care.” 

I think Swati understood. I sensed an ease in her being when we spoke next. 

We are all multilayered beings. We communicate in diverse tonalities and textures. The stories that we tell each other do not belong to that moment alone. They have spread their roots across many soils, across many generations. 

That scares me. And yet... 

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 fills me with immense hope.  

What is hope to you dear friend? To me, it is a word filled with endless possibilities.  A young girl riding on her bicycle for the first time without the training wheels, a rush of adrenaline coursing through her. A baby pushing lumps of rice into his mother’s mouth and both falling into fits of giggles. A bird perched on the old branches of a nameless tree.  A bird communing with its flock. A young boy matching his steps with his father’s as they climb up the steps, the sound of their feet creating a rhythmic thwak, thwak, thwak on the floor. A woman leaning on the shoulders of her friend. The sweet hum of breath.  A sudden whiff of cool breeze on a hot, muggy evening. Movement. Stillness. Flow.  

The thing is writing is not one single thing. It is hope infused with the messiness of life, dreaming, desires and living. 

Dear one, why do you write? 

Why do you hope? 

Tell me your stories. I am listening.