The Ground Level

Because I am Bloody Pissed...

2012-01-22T07:04:00.000-08:00

With the entire world and its uncle telling me I am setting myself up for a huge disappointment by daring to believe in a beautiful life after marriage to my boyfriend of several years. They warn me of disillusionment and predict high chances of V turning into a monster/dragon/male-chauvinist/inconsiderate bloody pig and foresee events of absolute doom considering my tolerance towards the above mentioned categories.

Yes, I do know that – all of 24 – both of us are young and excitable. And this marriage is probably happening in a surge of emotions and excitement. Some people might call us raw and naïve. Yet it would only be too true to say that I am enjoying every second of this naivety.

And that is why I want to capture this moment. So that, ten years down the line, when V turns into a crabby old man and I am an inch away from murder – I can pull this out to remind myself exactly why I married him!

Turning back time, it was on a crowded railway platform – that we first met. V was a self-obsessed (still is!), comically arrogant nineteen year old with the worst possible taste in dressing. If I remember right – he was wearing a baby pink ill fitting tee-shirt and an old, faded, holey jean paired with a sandal that was clearly past its heyday. When I look back at old pictures, I am amazed that I fell in love with the messy-haired kid in florescent green shirt. And then I catch his full smile and I am reminded.

It was that full laughter, his easy confidence and absolute lack of tact which was my undoing. At nineteen, I was bookish, dreamy and grave, reminiscent of art movie heroines. I could have bored you with the details of the pseudo-intellectual book that I had just finished or tire you with my grand plans to change the world (!)

But it so happened that the upbeat and the passionate had a lot in common. From sunsets on Marina beach eating molaga bajji, whispered conversations while watching nonsensical movies, heated arguments in coffee-days to even an uproariously catastrophic attempt at learning Salsa – V and I managed to annoy and infuriate each other – all the falling irresistibly and naturally – in love.

You know you’re in love when you suddenly catch glimpses of the other in yourself. I found my wardrobe full of mauves and peaches suddenly specked with splashes of reds and yellows. I found myself turning to the sports section in newspapers. And attempting to eat Pongal (which I still hate). I saw V acquaint himself with Salman Rushdie, Vikram Seth and Amitav Ghosh. I laughed at him gingerly speaking out his first few Malayalam words. I watched as he attempted to understand poetry (unsuccessful till date).

Five years of laughter, tears – much craziness and a whole lot of fun bring the kind of comfort that allows daily life to settle around you, yet permit sparks to fly at a stray touch or an impromptu compliment.

I have come to love the man V has become.

The boy-man with a temper that hangs precariously at the tip of his big nose. The illayaraja lover. The Beatles fan. The movie buff. The book lover. The cricket devotee.

But most of all my very own version of Salman Khan who thoughtlessly jumps at a crowd of six just to salvage the hurt ego of his sensitive fiancé!

I love the way we have grown together and I love the way we connect so seamlessly. Almost like breathing. Involuntary. It is merely in our nature to be in love.

We are beginning our life in a brand new city in an empty apartment on the seventh floor – with a lone beanbag for furniture! I cannot see the future from this vantage point. Maybe we will have a big car and lots of money or maybe not. Maybe we will both go high up in our careers or maybe not. Maybe we will have a lot of friends or maybe not.

But as long as we share what we have now, we have nothing to worry.

Here’s to us – and a lifetime of togetherness!

Why Marry?

2012-01-12T22:38:00.000-08:00

These days I am showered with questions -

Why are you still in office?

Is the shopping done?

Are you excited?

I smile and shrug.

You’re honestly the coolest bride ever , they say.

“Only if it had been my wedding, I would have done SO much , wish my parents woud hurry up and find someone ” says a female colleague ,

I look at her, amused and puzzled.

The only reason that I have consented to marriage is love. I am getting married because I met a fabulous person; we fell for each other and wish to treasure this beautiful companionship forever. I truly cannot fathom the reason why an independent and intelligent individual would choose to tie herself into a lifetime bond if not for love?

My biggest complaint with this “arranging” business is that the parties involved miss out on this beautiful experience of falling in love. The headiness, the excitement, the pure unadulterated bliss and this strange energy that pours out from some deep sacred place within you. The joy of discovering a person who fits in marvelously to every curve of your personality. The simple bliss of allowing love to transform your world.

Oh…how can you have lived fully if you haven’t fallen madly, deeply in love?

Yes, I have seen couples born out of the confines arranged marriages being deeply in love too. I do not judge the sincerity or purity of their emotion, but I do believe that it is vastly different from the affection born out of free will. Once the marriage is solemnized, the couple must compromise and learn to love each other. Why! If you possess a material thing long enough, you develop a emotional bond to it, proximity to a person for years together cannot, but end in love.

But why would the strong opinionated women I see around me , who do not let their parents choose even a costume for them – settle for a compromise with regard to the most important decision of their lives?

They say that marriage is a risk and at the end of the day. Love marriages break down as much as arranged marriages. So, while you’re taking a risk anyway, why not take the risk with a fighting chance? Why not take the chance where you’re wholeheartedly accepting the full responsibility of the consequences?

I bounced these thoughts on my favorite sounding board – my fiancé. Surprisingly, his response was a tiny bit hostile.

Yes, love is beautiful, He said – but not everyone is as lucky as you. How many couples do you know who have had a long-term relationship out of marriage? It is very difficult to find the level of compatibility which allows people to stay together for long, out of free will. Moreover, not all Indian parents are wonderfully open like yours who would openly accept a son-in-law from a different culture. Sometimes people just don’t have a choice – and you must not judge them.

Yes, I agree that I have been lucky. Lucky to have been blessed with the most understanding parents and lucky to have found V. But I do believe that even luck is self-made. If I had broken up with V , I would have been upset , very upset….but I would have picked up the pieces of my life and moved on. I would have loved again.

I do believe that we always have a choice.

I look at my colleague – so beautiful and brilliant - and wonder why she would even consider giving up on love ?

Marriage is a milestone in all our lives , a special moment that we would want to treasure forever.

How would that moment truly every be special if its not lit by the glow of love?

Personally, I cannot even imagine the scenario of me being a forlorn bride stepping into a whole new phase of my life holding the hands of someone I barely know for a few months.

I have written about the heartache of getting married here. I know I wouldn’t go through with it if not for the dream of a future with V. I know I might have many challenges ahead – but I know it wouldn’t matter quite so much with him by my side.

As for all my kutty cousins reading this – at the risk of being killed my their respective parents, I say – go on kids , fall in love – and then fall in love again , but marry – only for love.

On Marriage..

2011-12-25T04:45:00.000-08:00

Blood red. Flourescent green. Sunny yellow.Shocking pink.

I fondly cradle each coloured bottle , drawn by the beauty of each - unable to pick one.

I turn inward and scold my heart roundly for being such a fool - for having been captivated by the multplicity of beauty . for having given itself away without a thought , for wanting to burst to smolders when asked to choose.

My wedding saree lies spread on the bed , yet to folded and neatly packed into its box - to be taken out only on the day of the wedding. I imagine myself   in the saree - the paleness of my skin against the depth of the luscious magenta saree.

Wine Red - the eager salesman had corrected me. Beautiful work , madam . He had said , fingering the jari with tender affection.

I wonder if i would look beautiful in the saree standing on the mandapam - flowers in my hair and the glitter of gold on my neck , as the rhythmic beats of    the nuptial music rises higher and higher.

I bristle at the sudden rush of tears. Tears that dance merrily within the rims of my eyes each time i think of my wedding. Tears form a liquid outline to my heart even when i smilingly respond to friendly teasing.

Kalyana Kalai - some people say.

Look at how she glows - some others gush , even as i wonder at my own forlorn reflection.

No - do not get me wrong. I am not marrying a balding old villain from an 80's flick. My groom is the love of my life . The only 24-year old i would dare to marry without the fear of mutual assassination. While i might imagine myself to be most stunning and desirable - there are not many who can stand my often unreasonable arrogance and stiff stubbornness. Not many who take kindly to sarcasm. Not many who gives space to sudden bursts of dreaminess. Not many who offer love peppered with wit and companionship.

Yet i doubt if i might be a smiling bride at my own wedding.

No , it is not that i am unprepared for marriage.I see so many of my friends declare that marriage would stifle them . They say they wouldnt give up the freedom of their single life for anything.Marriage is one step closer to aunty-dom , they declare. But I can only imagine the joy of finally living with him.Through the five long years of our relationship, we have hardly ever been in the same city - only catching snatches of time together over holidays or over  hour-long phone calls. It would be beautiful to have the pleasure of his company. Honestly I do not mourn the end of my single-dom. I am happy to  be taking the first step to the incredulous aunty-dom !

Yet , my heart sinks at the thought of the wedding.

I sound like an emotional fool even to myself as i think about the real reason for my unreasonable phobia. At the risk of being judged as an unstable idiot of the top order , i must admit that i do not feel ready to let go of feeling of being the sole property of my parents. Yes, i do realise that i - like many young girls before me have spent their childhood and teenage trying to gain this elusive thing called independence and chase after this mythical thing called love.

Yet here i am - holding down a job , having found the love of my life - wanting to desperately hold onto the last bit of dependence , wanting to accept the very same limitations that i had resented my entire life. It pains me that i am going to be a separate unit now - a new family.It is somehow heartbreaking   that i will no longer be the constant worry of my mother or my father's major concern. I resent the fact that my life will not now be nonchalantly thrown  open for my parents to correct. I hate the fact that my parents and my brother will have to share me.

And again , i am caught by the foolishness of my heart.The stupid , stupid heart that knows to give away freely - yet refuses to share. Selfish, selfish  Love.

Why does everything beautiful always have to be bittersweet?

I pick out the deep red coloured bottle - and begin to paint my toes a deep , blood red.

And convince myself to a glowing bride.

So that I dont forget...

2011-04-10T13:34:00.000-07:00

So that I don’t forget…

1. Sometimes life seems unfair – that’s only because life does not come fitted with binoculars. If only you could see ahead, you would realize how every single thing happens for a reason. I know it belies your rigid rationality, but accept it – perhaps the universe does have a plan for you.

2. So most people think you’re weird – its time you stopped taking their statements like little arrows into your heart that you need to painfully pull out. They probably forget you the next minute.

3. Stop judging with such brutality. The world is not filled with clones of you. People are different –accept them for what they are, for almost everyone has something worth admiring. Everyone is made up of such beautiful specific details.

4. Do not compare. Everyone is on a journey of their own and not on a race with each other.

5. Be flexible. Others are allowed to have an opinion – there is really no glory in arguing for your part till you’re exhausted. If you truly have reasoned out your beliefs – you will never find a compulsive need to make everybody accept it.

6. So you have problems, your job sucks, you’re lonely and you’re ready to drown in a sea of self pity. But think about the ones that have it worse – the tiny child that offered to carry your luggage at the railway station – does your suffering come even close?

7. It’s ok to be confused – it only means that you’re thinking.

8. If you do not know –ask. Half-baked knowledge is the most dangerous thing ever. Even if it means letting someone into your weakness, ask. A bruised ego is better than a screwed up task.

9. Don’t let anyone make you feel insufficient. Nobody is ever good at everything.

1 0 And finally – realize your own insignificance. In the limitless universe, you are but a speck of dust , Let every star in the sky remind you that you're stardust.

In your arms..

2011-02-13T20:59:00.001-08:00

I stretch my arms and hold my breath,

Pour eternity within my grasp.

I long for the tune of your sacred stillness

Find silence in my chaos.

I am a speck of time untold,

The tiniest grain of sand.

Sweep me into your bursting void

Let me die gently, in your arms.

I am a Racist

2011-01-13T11:19:00.000-08:00

The eternity stretches before us. In the whisper of the turbulent sea, and the sigh of the glowing stars, and in the loudness of the string of neon lights that illuminate the length of the great big coconut tree in the distance. In the humdrum of conversation around us, in the headiness of alcohol and in the slight tilt of your accent, the eternity brims over.

The evening breeze is a stranger from across the seas, just like you. Yet its trembling fingers seem vaguely familiar as it brushes against my cheeks. A little bit like the vaguely familiar humor in your eyes. As I watch you gingerly pick at the food in your plate and complain about the potholes in our roads and the noise of the horns and the absence of toilet paper, my heart beats a little faster.

Blame the impulsiveness of my youth, or the gentleness of my soul, so in love with the intensely complex simplicity of my world, your words sting. I yearn to show you the rationale that underlies this chaos. Words belie description of the sacred white light that is a blend of these beautiful colors.

It is a bit like the spiral that springs from a deep silence, I tell you. While you begin to scale the spiral, the world may look blurred, but as you move towards the center, you realize the beautiful order in which it works.

You only smile slightly and take another sip from your glass.

You must come to Europe, you say. You describe your country on the shores of Atlantic Ocean, the country that’s a page on Wikipedia to the uninitiated and naïve me.

Racism? I ask, my heart burning over slightly at the reminiscence of the humiliation at my only experience with racism. An incident that left me bitter and a little vengeful.

You laugh.

You can, for you; I assume have never born the brunt of being treated like a second class citizen. You do not know the pain of being subjugated to a different set of rules and the helplessness of not having the freedom to react. You haven’t known angry tears and bitter remorse.

You can laugh.

In my country, where you are right now…its racism of a different sort. In the legacy of our British-led past, your white skin is a jewel to us. You’re revered for being white. The shopkeepers fall over themselves to serve you and the privileges you’re offered double by the sole virtue of your skin color. It hurts to see ourselves being turned second-rate in our own country, sometimes.

You face clouds over.

You call me white skinned? You ask. For all your theories and philosophy, you’re as base as others. You’re a racist.

I fall silent, yet a million thoughts fill me.

My inherent hotheadedness and the acid taste of a bitter memory has given rise to an ego that blocks good sense.

In a sudden vision of clarity, I see myself in a sea of humanity. I am the worker, who turns communist in the sheer agony of helplessness; I am the naxalite that bombs the rich man’s house in an insane moment when inequality burnt his heart. I am the terrorist who believes that his religion is at stake.

Our life is only a balancing act between giving in to the insaneness of our egos and listening to the good sense of our uncorrupt subconscious. Some of us are better Gymnasts and some of us fall off the tight rope.

I slipped a bit today, my dear friend.

Now I hold my breath and walk on , and with infinite sorrow at the agony of the ones that fall deep below into the girth of their own ignorance.

With love..

2010-12-10T12:52:00.000-08:00

Dear 2010,

Here you stand, at the tipping point of time, dangling dangerously towards the vast hollow of eternity. As I watch you slip away, I am consumed by the irresistible desire to hold on to you with all that I am worth, for farewells have never been easy for me.

I can still taste the chocolate cake that I had saved with much excitement and devoured at the stroke of midnight, alone in my apartment in Chennai, as the fireworks announced your arrival. I remember watching your birth wishfully, impatient to unravel the mysteries within your fold.

I was a thesis student then, counting days off you, for I couldn’t wait to be finally termed an architect. In my imagination, I would be a stellar architect, an elegant and sophisticated working woman…only if I could just manage to finish the thesis on time!

You must have had a hearty laugh at my fantastical delusions and must have rubbed your hands together in glee. It must be entertaining to watch unassuming people make a million resolutions and then watch them break each one, justifying each broken resolution with the burden of a million others.

I did finish the thesis, and though my final review was a horrific experience and tears were wasted over the catastrophic review. They were genuine tears, though ….the bitter seeds of disappointment. Ruminations on almost everything is often a borne out of a disturbed mind, grief and distress are often the best teachers. I lived through the disappointment, but it taught me that the only competition one must have is with oneself. Sometimes you’re ahead; sometimes you’re behind, in the end you're alone anyway.

However, when I look back at you...i will not remember the thesis and the tears , but that day at the beach. The rocking boat and the bright orange life jacket. The group hugging and the excited screaming as we jumped out one by one from the boat into the clear blue sea, far from the shore… hanging on the rope that dangled off the boat, holding on tight as the waves lashed against our bodies, insisting on carrying us with them. The Catamaran ride.

The fear, the excitement, the recklessness and the. warmth of friendship. That’s one memory I want to hold on to. I would always want to remember how awesome it feels to step out of your comfort zone, break your inertia and do something different. What is life, without the occasional adrenaline rush?

You taught me that there is a bit of truth in what they say about ignorance – it sure is bliss. For in my ignorance, I had imagined that getting a job is the easiest thing to do. As usual , I was wrong , and the one month and half that I spent after mailing the resume to the selected few offices was perhaps the most frustrating period of my short life. The absolute joblessness coupled with my unique ability to foresee doom in every possible situation made every day a struggle as I imagined the worst possibilities and felt unaccountable sympathy for the large unemployed segment of youth in our county.

Regretting is almost a habit with me, for now I regret that precious one month that I could have spent satiated at home, relaxed and peaceful. For the job came to me at the right time leaving me to mull over what I consider one of the biggest flaws in myself. The incessant worrying, the uncanny pessimism. Worrying is one activity that gets you nothing, except for lost time. If something is beyond you control, do not worry about it….Nobody has mastered luck with worry.

2010, you saw me transform from a student to a professional. From an arrogant senior in college to the junior most staff in office. You must be laughing heartily watching the headstrong and haughty me slink around the office and develop a fight or flight response to the long-haired boss. Every day the office is a new story of my wonderful capacity for stupidity and exceptional ability to speak the exact thing that does not need speaking. The making of the professional that I am is a learning process that might just make me immune to the feeling called embarrassment.

That apart, my thirst for the written word is threatening to drown me in its fervor and many books were my companions as i walked with time. Your hands must be hard, for they have smoothened my edges. I am no longer of the sharp, steely edges. An atheist to an agnostic, a die hard capitalism admirer to a grudging socialist. From judgemental to compassionate, from idealistic to flexible, from impulsive to thoughtful…..

You leave me a little wiser; you have been a wonderful teacher.

Farewell my friend , you will be remembered with love , for you came to me an empty canvas and leave smeared in the colors of my life.

With love ,

Gymnast.

Lines of Stillness -II

2010-11-17T02:36:00.000-08:00

She never learnt to walk; only to float, an inch above the ground and flow effortlessly like a river. A limitless river that would only flood if limited, for she was far too vast and far too deep to be contained.

She looked at the checkered paper in her hands. How can a stream could be contained in a simple box of irregular lines? She colored a single box in a deep black.

When he held her hands that day, she had pried her hands loose only letting him drink from her eyes as the intoxicating rhythm of the nuptial music arose bonding them in a sacred union.

My sweet alien, he would whisper on starry nights as they travelled with time that put silver in their hair and bitterness in their hearts. The arduous path that he chose to travel drowned the music in her soul for the chaos of life was far too loud. She put away her dreams, each brick of it building a dam around the passionate surge of longing in her soul. She walked the path of life lost in a trance of a forgotten self.

On sweaty nights that she would lie awake listening to a low mumble in her head, she would hold her heart for the fear of it bursting into a smolder of flames from its pitiful longing. She would close her eyes for dreams were her only refuge from herself.

And when the house wore a festive garb that day, as her daughter’s eyes sparkled with the glow of youth and eagerness of love, as the sacred scent of a brand new beginning filled the air, she felt the familiar fire rise in her heart.

The animal force that broke the dam in her heart came as welcome respite as she laughed with abandon of a free fall, her eyes ablaze with a brutal glow. A spark that was ever so gentle in its brutality. She felt alive and the life that cruised in her veins filled her with interminable joy which echoed in every peal of laughter and every trail of tears. She was insatiable, she was content.

They say they found her crumpled at the foot of her bed, her reflection on a million pieces of the broken mirror that lay at her feet.

They looked at her again, as she slowly colored the cross-cross on her paper with a million colors, her open window bringing in the scent of the first rain.

“Does not look good, she’s drawing again. Perhaps you shouldn’t go in now”

He looked at her with infinite tenderness as he opened the door to her cell.

My sweet alien, he muttered as he kissed the sole of her foot, you’ve walked a long way, into the wrong world..

Lines of Stillness

2010-11-14T10:25:00.000-08:00

The dying sun glittered through the clouds even as the sky blushed at the sweetness of his parting kiss. A gentle wind knocked at her window pane, its whispers unheard as she bent over the paper, her hand moving evenly as she filled it with the black irregular lines. Lines that began at a loose end of her mind and ended at some forgotten point in time. Lines that were stacked close, each following the other in an almost spiritual trance as her hand moved over the paper calmly, methodically with a mechanical precision.

Lines of stillness, she had called them when he had once asked, turning the pages in her notebook, his eyes tinted with incredulous amusement.

“They engage the sensible part of me” she had explained “these magic lines”

“They trick my senses into guiding the journey of the pen in my fingers, leaving a beautiful, musical silence behind. A magical peace that awakens a deeper, irrationally lucid self in me. Have you ever known the freedom of a million thoughts that spring out of thoughtlessness?” She’d asked.

He had only smiled slightly and lit yet another cigarette, blowing rings of smoke that lingered doubtfully in the air.

She smiled to herself as she put away her pen, looking at the plain white paper now filled with horizontal lines that crawled on it like worms. Every curve on the body of every streak painted with a bit of her soul.

A Cuckoo sang from its mysterious perch in the distance. A cry of loneliness, she thought as she opened the window and sang back to it, letting in a little bit of the early monsoon. Cold fingers of rain tapped against her outstretched palm, raindrops glinting at the tips of her fingers.

Black vertical lines like threads of rain, she thought as she drew them over the worms of horizontality.

Do they hurt like they did on that rainy day as she sat behind him in his noisy bike as the raindrops pelted on her soft skin? She had smiled through the angry rain that day as they stood in the tiny thatched tea shop blowing on hot cups of tea in steel tumblers.

Was it then that he had locked his fingers in hers and told her that he was lost in her land of dreams? Would she teach him the subtle art of levitation, for he was so weary of living amidst the laboriously banal world….Would she draw him into a magical reverie?

A criss-cross of lines, she looked at her paper, much like broken dreams, she thought.

To be continued....

The First Job - By the water cooler Contest!

2010-08-29T11:59:00.000-07:00

Submitting this one for "By the water cooler contest " at Parul's who is an extremely clever writer and author of the hilarious " Bringing up Vasu". By the water cooler is her second book , of which i hope to get an autographed copy!

Edited to add : I won the contest and have recieved Parul's book!!!

The slight drizzle is a misty shroud over the road that stretches to the end of the horizon. Shades of green spill over to the sidewalks, tiny droplets of rain dangling dangerously from the tips of the leaves. A tall minaret piercing the abundant blue sky languishes in the mid-morning shower. A lone girl teeter s slightly as the wind snatches her colorful umbrella. My eyes glaze over as I gaze out through the glass wall, reveling in the sudden moment of quiet as the clutter of thoughts in my mind pause for a second.

The office with its with its plain white walls, huge windows with cane curtains, the quiet wooden furniture and the whirring of the fan above , seemed weirdly familiar as I walked in first, a strange flutter in my heart that hung between nervousness and excitement .

It seemed like yesterday that I stood amidst the miling crowd in the colorful campus, wondering if I’d ever fit in among the confident, careless pack whom I eyed with genuine admiration. Time was a blur and I transformed from the innocent and gentle eighteen year old into a stubborn, arrogant and most irritatingly smug twenty two year old that I am now.

Yet, as I stood at the door of the busy design studio, life came to a full circle again. I looked at the busy architects, the bright computer screens and the bustling efficiency, and felt the familiar pang. I wondered if I was truly the missing the piece in this puzzle. Would I fit in?

I was shown to the workstation at the far end of the studio, right next to glass wall that looked out at the road below. The view that was soon to be my refuge and a source of endless fascination in the days to come. The long road to which I would ask directions, to which I would speak my fears and which would calm me with its almost mystical silence.

I am slowly getting to know the people that create harmony within the bustle. From the sarcasm of a good humored cynic to the deep silence of a thoughtful mind, my colleagues fascinate me. The work, unlike anything that I have seen in college, baffles me. Most often, I am left most helpless with a bruised ego and a new challenge.

Perhaps it is only well, that my edges are smoothened, for only smooth pieces fit in perfectly. Maybe the magic wand of time will transform me again, for I realize that the only antidote to the craftiness of the world around is wisdom. And just maybe, I will turn into the graceful, sophisticated lady that my ideal life plan intended me to be.

For now, I will just gaze out at this road for a little longer and learn the ways of reality.

And in real life, caterpillars always turn into butterflies.

Electric Love

2010-07-23T03:08:00.000-07:00

My wings bustle,

My eyes burn,

I fly again,

To the magic glow.

Too hot to touch,

Too bright to see.

I scramble back,

In dizzying pain.

My heart is a fool.

Drugged by hope,

It longs for the blaze

Of distant joy.

A lonely moth,

I fly away.

To an electric light,

That I dreamt was,

Love.

Lost in Time

2010-06-28T02:28:00.000-07:00

The Future must laugh,

At the fancies of the present.

The Past must smile,

At the follies of its schemes.

I lost a dream at the doorstep of time,

And now I tread softly,

Gently, with care.

Perhaps the winds of time,

Has laid it on my path.

Losers of the world - Unite!

2010-06-09T03:05:00.000-07:00

So one is now an Architect.

After five years of surviving it, I have good reason to believe that Architectural education must surely have been used as a third-degree torture measure at some point in History. As a successful victim (!) , I exhibit my battle scars to one and all – yes, of course, I mean the decreased level of sanity.

This can be the only plausible reason for my rather delusional belief that the family can only be beaming with pride as I come back home, bag and baggage. And so , I brushed my hair and practiced my winning smile and stood back to be showered with rose petals and such , as the taxi took the familiar turn towards home – an architect at last!

‘Miss Architect, stop right there ‘said the mother, interrupting my march up the staircase to enquire the reason for the brother’s refusal to be on the receiving committee for the new architect in the family.

‘What do you intend to do next ‘asked the Father.

‘Work, I guess ‘

‘Somewhere. There are quite a lot of firms out there and we architects are a rare species. Cant be tough’

‘Oh, that’s very well planned. How much do you expect to earn’

‘I don’t know. Probably xxxxx INR, that’s how much they pay junior architects these days “

My innocent reply which led the parents to instantly go berserk.

“The Janitor in my office earns as much. So does the driver. So does the peon. So does the sweeper. So does the garbage collector. So does the maid. So does the lottery-ticket-seller.”

That’s my place in the world, I think. Just below the Lottery ticket seller and right above the Janitor.
(Even the internet seems to agree. In this list, I am just above an industrial machine repair-man )

Now that my moment of glory was finally over, I sank down into the sofa to consider my exalted position.

“I told you right then to take up Computer Science engineering, you could just get a job with Infosys or TCS or CTS or xxx and live happily ever after , like cousin #6789”

“And even marry somebody from the same office”

A light bulb moment.

“You could do MBA” Says the mother.

“Like Cousin 9876”

I think of Cousin9876, her blackberry and her business suit.

“Or perhaps write the IAS examination , you read so much “Says the doting father.

“Oh yes, the brother-in-law’s sister’s cousin’s son’s second cousin just cleared the IAS examination – AND he was an architect “The mother finishes with a flourish.

Think about it, they say.

Architecture must be male , I think. You give it so much and it never loves you back.

And then , i sketch again.

Good bye

2010-06-06T02:26:00.000-07:00

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Regret

2010-05-09T01:33:00.000-07:00

I am hypnotized by the shattered glass of my window pane. The jagged edges, the sharp corners, the pointed angles. I feel the tip of my finger twitch at the sight of the lone piece of glass that sticks out, inviting, intimidating.

The victim of an unsuspected blow from the rock that pierced through it, only to land in my heart, which beats away, nevertheless.

And in every little glass piece on the floor, I see echoes of broken promises.

Letter to a friend

2010-04-05T09:09:00.000-07:00

In the time honoured tradition of all thesis students , i was whiling away my time on useless facebook activities when a good friend R popped an interesting question. He asked me for my take on life. He asked me what i made out of twenty two years on this planet.

I was stunned and a little taken aback. I informed him that i was not much of a philosopher and was often confused and lost..but he insisted. And so , i took upon myself the task of wirting out the few lessons i have learnt from the experience of living.

I do not know if they're going to make much sense , but i have decided to share my letters to R , here as my readers , i am sure , are used to reading all the wonderfully weird things i write about.

So here goes -

My dear R,

It was a little bit of a surprise for me when your words sprang out from the little facebook window and asked me for my take on life. Twenty two years is too short for a lifetime, yet long enough to make a person. Each shaped and crafted by his own encounters with the only true sculptor, Time.
It was not very long before that I was a little girl; memories of the days which make me cringe and hang my head in shame, for I was not a very admirable little person. I was arrogant, head strong, proud and snobbish. Most of which arose from ignorance. Arrogance is only the second cousin of ignorance.

You might argue that I am still all those, oh well.

Growing up, for me, was all about building up the little law book inside my mind. Some call it principles, some call it ideologies, some call it philosophy, and I call it values. The stuff that defines a character and makes a person. The torchlight that shows the way in this increasingly maddening world, that tiny beam that lets you read the signboards as you travel the path of life.
To me, life is all about the degree of clarity that you possess in regard to your values. It’s all about your ability to see in black and white and to forego that fuzzy grey area of confusion. And when you ask me about life, I think I can only share with you a few of those tools, ideas, values that helped me gain a little clarity.

Faith.

Something central to everybody’s existence. I took a long stride towards clarity when I refined my ideas on this. I was born into a specific system of beliefs and been educated in the many rituals and laws of a religion, which I followed unquestioningly in the early days of my childhood into teenage, when I had to leave home for a brief period to be in a hostel.
The new life in hostel gave me strange new independence, but with it several challenges. For a person, who has known nothing but the doting care of parents, the sudden need to acclimatize into a new environment, and fit into a whole new set of people seemed a herculean task. It was during these times of intense loneliness that I started my true journey in understanding faith. I refrain from describing the several ways I explored, but suffice to say that I found no solace or logic in the conventional religion. It just frustrated me and soon I could not stand a single moment of this logic-less faith. It took several years for me to turn an atheist, but the god-less world makes a lot of sense to me. I look to none, but myself to help me cross my obstacles and I am my own god. It makes everything clearer, trust me.
I still stare in awe at the wonderful diversity around me and the perfect order with which it works. I feel humbled by the magnificence of nature and I am left mute staring at our deep blue oceans and beautiful skies. Only if the God of all the religions would dissolve into the seas and take with him everything that his name has come to mean…

Truth

If there is one thing that I have learnt in the twenty two years of my life, it is to be honest and genuine. To me, being genuine is to have a connection between your thought, speech and actions. That way, there is no friction, just effortless smoothness and wonderful freedom. Laugh with your eyes, speak from your heart and be true to yourself.

I have said many lies in my life, and they have killed me. I hate the resistance it creates within; it just cuts off your wings.

When you’re honest and true, there might be many who might hate you, many who might criticize, but at the end of the day, it is just your true self that you have to answer to. If your relationship with yourself is strained, how can you have any fruitful relationship with the world around you?

Reminds me of a nice poem I read, by Portia Nelson –
“Any day of the week,
I would choose to be ‘out’
With others
And in touch with myself
Than be ‘in’ with others
And out of touch
With myself”

I can never understand this whole thing about being cunning and scheming and making use of people. I think it just puts a lot of strain on the person doing it than the person being victimized.
This is one thing my life has taught me, be yourself, no matter what and no matter where.
Always be a first rate version of yourself , than be a second rate version of somebody else.

Love

I am no scholar on this, but I have had love pour into my life from so many people.
I’ve had my heart broken too, and though it hurt a lot at that point, when I look back now, I can see that it taught me many lessons.

You might admire somebody, but if it seems to you that to gain that somebody’s affections, you have to forfeit yourself, it is not love.

If you are having to change yourself for someone, and by change, I mean, change in your core, in your heart, your center , it is not love.

If this thing called love is giving you pain, it’s not love, or rather it’s not something worth having.

I say this because I have had my battle with each of these feelings, and I have made myself take a lot of torture and suffering that has made me a little cynical and bitter. Which has taken away a bit of my innocence.

I see a lot of people around me searching for love. But I say, don’t search for love, for true love is without expectations. It just happens. Unprepared. It’s the most irresistible and powerful attraction. Love, that’s the only thing that still convinces me that miracles do happen.

Because I have lived a miracle. A dream that I wish I never wake up from.

A journey of self-discovery through somebody else, that’s love.

Somebody said it right when they said that it’s better to have loved and lost, than not loved at all.

Conscience

After twenty two years of living in this world , the only one thing that denies me a good night’s sleep is a guilty conscience. In fact , that is best judge in every crossroad of life – your conscience. The little voice inside your head that shows you the right path to take. Listen to your conscience.

I’ve learned from my life that peace comes to you when you listen to your conscience.
And each time I am tempted to ignore my conscience and do something stupid , I remember the lines from Shakespeare –

“What win I , if gain the thing I seek?
A dream , a breath , a froth of fleeting joy.
Who buys a minute’s mirth to wail a week?
Or sells eternity to get a toy?
For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? “

I’ve learned that it’s always best to live life by your conscience. And sleep in peace.

PS : The Ground Level celebrates its first birthday on the sixth of April . Its been a year since i wrote this and time seems to have flown. I would never see this day if not for the wonderful support and encouragement from all of you. Thank you all.

The Beginning and the End

2010-03-16T07:28:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I ponder , the mirror of this lake
The silent waters , and gentle waves
Sometimes a ripple , sometimes a splash
A gentle current , a maddening fall
Large expanses and meandering paths …

Silent stranger , of a flickering smile ,
Are you a ripple of momentary joy?
Or a splash of elation , a fleeting note ?

I flow , I dance , my anklets sing..
Will a current hide your smile ?
Will you disappear at a fall ?

Pour into the strait of my life ,
Colour my stream with the sparkle of your eyes ,
Whisper to my waves , the secret of friendship.

Over fertile lands and rocky floors ,
Our journey to the deep blue horizon,
Which holds the beginning and the end.

Racism in Kuwait

2010-03-06T22:41:00.000-08:00

This is a letter i typed to a close friend and i think it reflects my feelings only too well.

"So i reached this country , Kuwait. The desert that is pretending to be an oasis , i suppose. I am here after a gap of 8 long years , but i still remember a few bits. I felt a vague familiarity when we drove along some roads. On the way to Farwaniya , which is where my dad stays , i saw lots of huge palatial villas in which the kuwaitis stay and for some reason i felt a vague hostility.

I reached here at about 8 pm kuwait time , that must be 10:30 pm in india and even when i met dad at the arrivals lounge , my blood had not stopped boiling. The reason for this was two young looking kuwaitees , wearing cheap clothes and even cheaper huge jazzy sunglasses smoking a cigarette. They were travelling along with us , from sharjah. In the aircraft , they sat a few rows ahead of us , and i noticed them instantly because of their imperious manner and cheap loud voices.

After we arrived at the airport , we piled into the bus that would take us to the arrivals lounge. When we entered the bus , only the last row was empty except for the above mentioned loud-mouthed , uncivilised animals. My mom sat near to them , and me next to my mom. The two started getting fidgety and started screaming in arabic , crinkling their faces and acting as if we were worms sittting adjacent to them. My mom asked me if we should get up from our places , the suggestion that i immediately refused to abide to , for we had paid as much money as them for this flight. I fixed my eyes on them and i think all my loathing reflected in it.

An old lady , probably visiting her son in kuwait , entered , and sat near us , next to one of the guys. The guy instantly started yelling in arabic and pinching his nose and crinkling his face at her , to indicate that she was a smelly worm , not worthy to sit beside his highness. They proceeded to make a few very insulting gestures and started speaking in rapid arabic pointing and laughing. A few portly old looking arabs looked sympathitically at me , when he saw that insulted , humiliated and angry fire in my eyes.

The two made a few more loud comments in arabic and stood up from their places shifting to another location , all the while screaming at us . The old lady looked flustered and glanced warily at my mother and me. Frankly , i wished to take the next flight out of the country.

Uneducated , uncivilised , loud-mouthed bastards. Of course , they're all fair skinned and bright eyed , but no better than frogs in a well. Having seen no world outside the arabian gulf , they imagine themselves in a much exalted position , failing to see their true selves. They think themselves to be all high and mighty , insulting visitors to their own country, thus tainting the image of every kuwaitee in my eyes. They have infact , insulted their own nation and blacked its image.

I pity them and their world , and stare in shock and disbelief at their tiny little minds. I bet they do not know to speak a word in english , leave alone reading the books that teach virtues of humanity. Education apart , these boys do not even have the basic human value to respect somebody thrice their age ...isnt that something which is a matter of culture and not of education ?

Moreover , why didnt the other arabs in the bus not react , other than sympathetically looking at us in a kindly manner ? Why didnt they utter a single word and allow us to be insulted by these two wily things ?

These crude , ignorant and unbelievably foolish and culture-less boys was my first taste of this country.

I saw them smirking at me at the baggage counter , smoking , in public , under the very sign that warns people of smoking and fire hazard involved with it in an air-conditioned space like an airport.

I am very sorry that i am on the same earth as this scum , and i am sorry for the country of kuwait if this is the quality of its future citizens. I sincerely hope that they make a trip to india and witness for themselves the amount of respect and culture in our nation. Though i doubt if it will rub off on them...they are too coarse for anything as subtle as culture.

You two , fair faced , coarse arabs , i hope your car has an accident , you dont deserve to be citizens of the world. "

I suppose all my bittterness is reflected in that letter. And all you young people reading this , dont ever think of going to some arab country for work , you may get money , but i sincerely doubt the safety of your dignity and self respect.

No amount of money can substitute for that.

Woman..

2010-03-03T23:25:00.000-08:00

It was only the other day that I was walking along the busy platform of the local train station, the humdrum of faceless people around me. The familiar smell of jasmine invaded me as I smiled at the Flower lady, whose face crinkled into a wide smile as I bent down near her, fingering a long strand of jasmine flowers, the camaraderie that comes from regular meeting hanging in the air between us.

A train screeched into the station filling the platform with a sudden burst of activity as a throng of people staggered out of the train. I spotted a good friend in the crowd that just alighted the train and stood up hurriedly stuffing the long, fragrant strand of jasmine into my bag. I walked towards her as the train slowly made its way out of the station, chugging and groaning under the weight of the enormous crowd that thronged its coaches, a jumble of figures hanging off even from the sideboards.

I didn’t notice the hand that reached out from inside a compartment, as the train moved, to hit hard at my friend who was walking towards me, yet near enough to the train to receive the blow on her back, too stunned and shocked to respond. The people around her reacted, hurling abuses at the assaulter, as I saw a glimpse of his face, grinning with the apparent pleasure as he looked back from the train, which had left the platform by now. The face of a young boy, not more than 18, with a wicked smile, not a tinge of regret on that smiling face.

I walked out of the station, a million questions on my mind. Even as we cruise ahead in the 21st century , and women rub shoulders with men every day , rise to hold every position in administration , politics and education , why does this base instinct surface in our society?

Don’t women have the right to hold her own dignity and expect respectful treatment in public places?

Doesn’t she have the freedom to choose her principles and define her philosophies without being chastised by the world around her?

Why is it that stifling ideologies are imposed on a woman in every aspect of her life, right to her appearance?

Why are the limits of freedom different for men and women?

I can only wistfully wish for a society free of such loathsome attitude towards women, for the grotesque reality before makes my heart beat harder for the little children that I see , the little girls with twinkling eyes who are to grow up to face and experience the frustration of being sidelined and disrespected in the insane system of today.

In the wake of Women’s day, let us strive for this insane discrimination to be removed, and stand up for our rights and our freedom. If only for a better world for the future...

And so dear society ,

" Now you understand Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing It ought to make you proud
Cause I'm a woman Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman, That’s me. "

PS : The passage from Maya Angelou's poem Phenomenal Woman.

The Spark of Life

2010-02-10T21:26:00.000-08:00

I met him again today. He greeted me with that characteristic smile, and I noticed that his hair was overgrown, a silky mass that was slowly spreading down to his shoulders. He sat on a low stool bent over a huge desk talking animatedly to the brown eyed girl in front of him, on the ground floor of the old house that was his office.

I took my place at a far corner of the desk and looked around the familiar office. Papers strewn, in a seemingly careless manner, yet every piece in the exact position where it belonged. A makeshift frame exhibiting his work and a small cupboard that served as a library. As my glance flew back to him, I could not, but notice that brilliant sparkle in his eyes as he talked, making clear sketches on the white paper on the desk.

During my six month sojourn in this office, I had seen him rejecting several projects with not a tinge of regret and accepting seemingly unprofitable ones with great enthusiasm. I had seen him spending hours on drawings for projects which he was never sure would be built. He would talk to us, for hours on end, of architecture and its great rules, the fire in his eyes rising with every passing hour and the doubts in my mind multiplying.

Until one fine day, I allowed my curiosity to take precedence over politeness.

Why was it that he never craved for commercial success? Why was he happy in this little office when he had every chance to emulate his contemporaries and own a sprawling practice? What was it that stimulated him to carry on this non-conventional way of life?

He looked at me for a long moment and answered, Passion.

Passion for the principles I believe in. Passion for architecture that speaks. Passion for truth. Passion for my profession.

And when I looked into his eyes, I saw that spark again. The spark of contentment. The spark of pure unadulterated passion.

As I walked out of the office that day and into the street which was a blur of figures and noises cruising fast to unknown destinations, I wondered if these great many people on the street which formed the society were unconsciously dictating the rules of my life.

I wondered if these strangers on the road had created an unwritten rule to define success that I took to be mine, without a question.

I wondered if the parameters that world dictates – a degree, wealth and fame, were truly the benchmarks of success.

I decided to ask a few people who were successful by the ratings of the society.

A few smiled, offering that they were so engrossed in the rat race to spare a thought and when they did emerge successful, they felt no true pleasure.

A few spoke of their uninspiring and humdrum jobs that they only hung on to for money.

A few others spoke of risks involved in following one’s passion, and indicated with a sad smile that a passion is best relegated as a hobby, and in the real world, security and wealth takes precedence.

Yet another group spoke of having no passion , no one field of interest that would ignite their minds and awaken their spirit , and added that they were doing that what relegated right by the people around them.

As one of them told me with a sad smile, “you are very lucky if your passion is your profession “

Yet again, the conditioning of society binds us in its hold and we have frustatred software engineers who are writers at heart. Irritated Professors who would rather be musicians. Depressed doctors who would rather be photographers.

Uninspired individuals, all successful by the society, but never content in their deeper selves.

Perhaps it is well to break the barriers of the world, and respond to your heart.

Perhaps it is right to act on that very activity that fills you with that strange energy that makes your heart beat a little harder and sets your spirit free.

Perhaps it is time to break the wall between Profession and Passion.

And then perhaps , our eyes will come alive with the spark of life.

So you want to be an architect?

2010-02-01T22:25:00.000-08:00

You, who thinks you cannot stand integration and differentiation for another minute and you, mr.artist, making little sketches in the corner, not to leave you out, you, with that sullen face, with your impeccable record of three failed entrance exams…..You have finally chosen architecture, is it?

Do you know the subtle difference in taste between fevicol and fevi quick?

Ever given a thought to the textures of mount board and duplex board?

Have you ever wondered which idiot in the world buys all those expensive textured sheets that you assumed were a total waste of money?

Behold, in a year’s time, you, my dear, will be the proud owner of an enviable textured sheet collection that you will guard with your life. You will soon rid yourself of trivialities such as taking a shower and three regular meals a day will soon take its place in history and at mealtime, you will assess every vegetable for its potential to be a part of your model. You will use a cutter to cut your hair at the point where it got matted with fevicol and not think a big deal of it. You will cut your hand and cry in agony not of a lost thumb, but of a spoiled model. Oh...and when you hear the term supermodel, you will think of a nicely crafted foam core model.

When you enter the second year, be sure to leave any trace of a self esteem or ego behind. Any vestiges of such things will be yanked out and torn….along with your first designs. You will turn utterly pessimistic and make designs in the total expectation that it will be torn into pieces by the cannibals called proffesors. You can consider yourself on par with a war veteran if you survive the second year of architecture with no permanent scars.

With the third year, you will be a stranger to the term social life. You parents and your ten year old brother will have more of a social life than you. You will begin to confuse today and tomorrow. You will hear the same songs three times in a loop in the same night. You will learn to make a big deal out of nothing, which is a very essential skill for your future survival as an architect. You will learn to call a room “space” and will own an enviable vocabulary to make your idiotic design seem like wonderful discovery….And any shadows in your model will be a “play of light”.

With your fourth year….You will start calling the famous architects by their first names, Frank, Corbu or Tadao will feature regularly in your conversations. You will enjoy hanging out at “The home and interiors” fair . And each time you see a steamy scene with a hot and sexy Mallika sherawat in a shower cubicle, you will marvel at the steel and the glass of the cubicle. And finally, it will begin to dawn on you, as to why the architects have white hair and glasses.

And as you parade into your final year of architecture , 99 % chances are that you will be a bitter , cynical and heart hearted individual who will be a total expert in cooking up cock-and-bull stories around just about anything. This is the point at which you lose all concept of time; you will be unaware of which day it is and what time it is. You will be alone in your self-made bubble called thesis. The biggest crisis in your life will be if the plotter refuses to print your sheets and if it were possible to barter sexual favors for production help, you would seriously consider pulling tricks. And you will sashay into your final presentation in bathroom chappals and tangled hair, perfectly ready to commit murder if you hear a word against your precious, sacred and perfect design.

There ! Architecture is not for pea-brained idiots or soft hearted fools. It is equivalent to any tough-schedule military training , and five years down the line you emerge a totally different individual.

So , you , you and you…decide now…
Architect or normal?

PS : Credits due to a hilarious e-mail i recieved few days back!

A New Dawn

2009-12-31T04:02:00.000-08:00

I have always been a lover of the infinite, yet forever in the search to fathom its meaning. Perhaps it is for simpletons like me that the infinite is quantified.

Weeks, months and years. Little grains of sand on the infinite shore of time. Little grains that trickle through your fingers when you hold them tight. Little grains that smile back at you, wickedly, secretly, anonymously from the shore and you move ahead, a little grain lost from your fistful of sand.

I lost a little grain today, a lovely multi-hued and precious speck of time. A year has passed.

There was love. Love so delicate, so subtle but mysteriously strong. Love that surprised me. Love that showed me peace.

There was hatred. The hatred that quickened my pulse and awakened a wild spirit somewhere within. The spirit which I wish I had never known, for I suspect it left me scarred.

There was bitterness. The kind that leaves you a little wearier and little more suspicious. The kind that leaves you a little less trusting and a lot less innocent.

There was joy. The comfortable feeling that creeps on you as sit silently among people who love you , unconditionally and leaves you with a smile on your face.

There was sadness. The grief of having lost out on battles , the anguish of having been sidelined , the angst of having disappointed at least a few who deserved better.

I shall not look for my lost grain. But I shall treasure the ones that I hold in my palm.

I shall look to a new dawn, a little deprived, a little enriched.

My Shining Star

2009-12-16T22:57:00.000-08:00

My dear ammava,

Your photo now adorns the wall. The one in which you listen keenly to a speech by a comrade of yours, your beloved red flag fluttering in the background. A framed picture of you smilingly feeding your granddaughter sits on the table. But your chair remains empty, the one where you would sit, watching the news telecast or a cricket match, or reading the newspaper, your legs shaking beneath the chair in that characteristic way and an occasional cough drowning in the humdrum of the house.

The house that now resounds with the gurgles and shrieks of your grand daughter. A precocious toddler who shows anybody and everybody the university magazine, quickly turning the pages to find the one with your picture, and announcing your name with a flourish, which I know would have made you swell with pride. And when she grows old enough to question me about the person behind the picture , I wonder what I shall tell her.

Shall I tell her about the times I held tightly on to your shirt as I sat in the backseat of that old scooter and you drove me to your home along the rickety roads or shall I tell her about the black board that you got us which was our priced possession for many years ? Or how you would take us to your ancestral home and show us the huge pond that you swam in? Or should I tell her the many stories that you would tell us, about how you would walk miles to your school in your childhood and how you never wore slippers?

How shall I describe to her , the man that her grandfather was ?

Shall I tell her about how you always had faith in me, how you would keep telling me to write the IAS examination! You overestimated my capabilities, but that very confidence in me gave me the impetus to do a great many things. You would tell my mother not to restrict me from reading the great many books that I was addicted to when she would complain about it. You always believed in me, convinced that someday I would reach heights. How shall I describe to this little girl about the uncle who never once failed to remind me of my worth?

Or maybe I should tell her how her grandfather commanded respect. I would see my mother seek your opinion in everything and my father address you affectionately, yet talk to you respectfully. How my naughty brother would obey a firm word from you, but not my mother’s many warnings. How you were the absolutely and final word for many things. Yet never have I seen you raise your voice or exert your authority, except in that subtle way.

You were always jovial with us, kids. Joking about how my father, though years younger than you had more grey hair, and always smiling. Why! You especially relished reading Balarama, that children’s magazine for which a tug of war would often break out between you and your younger daughter.

We grew up, but remained kids in your eyes.

Or should I tell her about the deeply principled man that you were ? Dedicated to the cause that you endorsed , never once haggling for a higher position in the party . You carried every position and responsibility given to you with élan, and helped a great many who deserved it , and was firm in rejecting the undeserving.

Your grand daughter will not remember that rickety Maruti car, which you drove to receive me , unfailingly , each time i returned from Chennai. I would walk along the platform in the knowledge that you would be there to receive me and we would walk together to the car. You would ask me about the weather in Chennai and what I ate during the travel.

Last time I answered those questions, I never once thought that you will not be around to ask them again. I never imagined that you could possible disappear from our lives and remain a photo on the wall. Death was never a reality to me before you taught me that final lesson.

Many thronged your home as you lay in that glass box covered in a red cloth, everywhere except your face, which seemed exceedingly pale. They covered you with wreaths and garlands while we sat around in vigil.

They day many important people came to your funeral, but I never noticed…for nobody was as important for me as you. They organized much commemoration meetings in your name and several people paid tribute to you as we listened.

You are a memory that is most alive.

And when your grand daughter asks me, I shall tell her that you are a shining star.

A beautiful star in the clear dark sky.

HATRED

2009-11-08T03:11:00.000-08:00

I do not know if this is going to qualify as readable material. But considering the fact that the only readers of this blog are one’s parents and few doting cousins, I suppose I can use this for therapeutic purposes.

Hatred. I wonder if the people who use this term actually and truly understand the complete meaning it implies. I wonder if they can relate to the dark and heavy emotion that is defined by it. Do they really understand the intense feeling it evokes?

I did not.

Several events in the recent past have made me intensely dislike a person. Even the sight of that individual makes my blood boil with fury. Every feature on her face, every word of hers fills me with a mad desire to slap her right across her face. I look at her and I can see only hypocrisy and fake-ness. Every time I look at her, I get intensely reminded of her cunningness and manipulative nature. I cannot bear to even stand for a moment, the show that she puts up in public, for I see through her so clearly. It sends a shiver down my back when I see the unfairness of her actions.

I have never known this intense feeling before.

It is like a dark cloud that hovers over my thought just bursting to break into furious rain.

It is a strange energy that takes over my senses lending them a fierce-ness that I have never known before.

It is like an angry wave that lashes against the shore, never satisfied and retaliates again and again.

It is like the burning fire that devours with unfulfilled hunger.

It is like the restless chatter of a madman.

It is like the energy in a clenched fist.

It is like the sparkle in the eyes of a wild beast.

It is like the redness of blood.

Hatred. It is the evil energy that clenches your chest in a most frustrating manner. It is that weight that you just cannot manage to lift. It is frustrating and obsessive and passionate.

It is the poisonous apple in the garden of Eden , a bite of which shall put you to eternal agitation .

A bite and you are chained , like me , weighed down with the heavy knowledge of hatred.

I crave for an antidote.

Innocence , I offer a tear on your grave.

Two States

2009-10-25T08:24:00.000-07:00

I was wandering along the lanes of landmark , picking up many books and promptly putting them back , for fear of bankrupting one’s parents. My dedication towards this cause can be understood from the fact that I have once finished an entire novel standing amidst the book racks in Landmark , shifting from foot to foot. I was about to embark on one such venture when I noticed a small crowd around the new-arrivals counter mostly composed youngsters. In a venture to find the cause of this excitement , I managed to squeeze through the rather boisterous crowd to find a small red book staring at me . Two States , it said. The back cover stated its price , so staggeringly low that I wasted no time in running to the cash counter , book in hand.

Chetan Bhagat , the typical Indian over-achiever , who has very cleverly targeted the hitherto untouched category of population , the city youth presenting to them stories that they can relate to , in a style that appeals to them. Two states , his latest creation , partly autobiographical , is the tale of an inter-community marriage.

The beginning of the book is set on the grounds of IIM Ahmedabad , which is where the much-hyped popular girl Ananya falls in love with IIT-ian turned IIM-ite Krish. Krish and Ananya being classmates in the liberal campus of IIM , proceed to have a rather blissful live-in relationship for two years after which they procure jobs of their choices. A rather funny account of the interview process is described during which Krish proposes to Ananya , and this is where the book takes on the tones of a bollywood movie.

But of course , marriages in India are never about the bride and the groom. Its about the groom’s immediate family , and then his extended family , and then his neighbours , and then his entire locality falling in love with the bride’s entire clan from her parents to her fifth cousin. This being quite a difficult target to achieve even if the bride and groom hail from the same community , the book revolves around the effort of the couple to bring about integration between their families hailing from Tamil Nadu and Punjab respectively.

Mr. Bhagat has described Tamil Brahmins so faultlessly that one cannot but laugh. Real life . when depicted in words , somehow is endlessly humorous. The book describes Krish’s attempt to please Ananya’s Hindu-reading , bank manager dad , carnatic music –loving , lemon-rice making mother , and future iit-ian brother. And Ananya’s struggle to appease Krish’s highly prejudiced , madrasi-hating , food-loving , loud , mother . Krish’s dad being rather a villainous character who hovers in the background.

Kanjivarams and Salwar suits , carnatic music and Bhangra , Lemon rice and Murgh masala come between between Krish and Ananya. And the combination is so explosive that the couple almost part ways, with Krish turning into a modern devdas…but for the bollywood type , super melodramatic twist in the end of the of the story which is sure to make any sensible reader cry for mercy. Mr , Bhagat , you watch too many movies.

The book is a perfect bollywood formula. It has romance , comedy and a huge , sappy-dripping with love twist …and a grand wedding to boot.

However , the subject of the book and the message it delivers addresses very real issues. It talks of the new generation of Indian youth , independent and ready to make choices for themselves. It shows the balance they strike , rooted to their families yet making their own decisions.

Moreover it is a message to every parent to let go of their petty prejudices and closed mindsets. It appeals to the older generation to understand the pulse and emotions of their children and to learn to loosen the rigidity of their beliefs to accommodate the happiness of their offsprings.

If this book opens up a new window in a parent’s heart , Mr Bhagat , we forgive you for all that melodrama in the book.

PS : Amal has very kindly bestowed an award on me , the acceptance speech of which i shall be delivering shortly. Meanwhile , i request all vistors to leave a comment. Helps raise a poor , low-self esteemed blogger's spirit. Its lean time around here.

The Unbreakable Bond

2009-08-25T12:20:00.000-07:00

The Bride looked beautiful in her traditional Garb. The groom beamed proudly at the crowd. And I sat among the crowd, straining to catch a glimpse of the couple. Around me sat my classmates, clad In Saris and balancing on high heels, longing clearly writ on some faces, while some eyes looked wishful.

Marriage – the centuries old custom that is being followed without a dispute. The simple union of two individuals that has imbibed a million new meanings since its day of conception. A turning point in the life of many an individual... it is certainly a milestone in life.

Our country has a tradition that goes back to many million years…and hence not surprisingly , our society is akin to the senile grandfather , wise with age , yet unable to cope upto the changing world around him , a grumble ready for anyone who lends him a ear. Society is that that doddering old man who desperately clings to his mental imagery unwilling to let go of his antiquated beliefs. Wise, yet shattered. Knowledgeable yet Unseasoned.

Being the predominantly Patriarchal society that we are, we give him the foremost position in our lives, look to him for approval, even regarding our most personal decisions – like Marriage. Marriage , in the Indian frame of mind , is very narrow . A marriage is pronounces successful only if the Bride and Groom belong to the community, caste and sub-caste. This clearly eliminates any opportunity for personal choice. One need only to select from the photos produced by enthusiastic relatives of Slightly balding men in their early thirties with preference given to the men , the background of whose photos sport a dazzling view of some foreign city.

The most ironic factor being that the most monstrous and hair-less fellow would begin his search looking for the proverbial “fair an slim” girl , overlooking her character . The Girl, of course, from the time of her very birth is tutored to somehow acquire sufficient color to pass of as “fair”. The Girl purchases tube after tube of “Fair an Lovely” and meticulously observes her progress in comparison with the fairness card that the cram company kindly provides, all the while waiting for her knight in shining armor.

And if She, by some stroke of luck , manages to fall in Love , she is immediately shunned by her family. The society looks down upon her as an outcaste. `Her parents become silent and empathetic receivers of Sympathy and emotionally blackmails the girl, citing the various sacrifices that they have undertaken for her sake. The mother would express with huge tears her disappointment upon the audacity of her daughter to have fallen in love with a perfectly agreeable young man, who happens to be of a lower caste. They see it as an act of great deceit. The parents are slaves to the society..and their progeny a silent victim.

Isn’t it time that we overthrew this system that is indeed a monstrous breach of human rights?

Isn’t it time that we opened the drooping eyelids of our society and dragged it out of its dull complacency?

Isn’t it time that we demand our right to exercise free will and not be treated as a social outcaste?

Isn’t it time that we widened our horizons and learned to open our arms towards the new?

I watched as the Bride coyly garlanded her love of many years , and my heart skipped a beat. And I wondered , one among the many young women in the hall , if we shall experience the same bliss that showed in our friend’s eyes as she found fulfillment in marriage.

Maybe the collective sigh that I heard was not imaginary after all.

PS : I am off for a North India Tour - Delhi , Chandigarh , Jaipur , Ahmedabad , Kullu Manali. Will be back in ten days armed with stories from all over!!

The Epidemic

2009-08-14T23:07:00.000-07:00

If life , in its whole honesty were to be made into a movie, I am quite certain that it would definitely be a best seller. There’s suspense , and lot of comedy , a dash of tragedy and a lot of twists and turns. Some of those turns are so steep that they change the entire course of the journey.

I have been a witness to such a turn in a friend’s life. I’ve known her for the last four years , ever since she came to college as an eighteen year old first year student. Her easy laughter and wit coupled with her affectionate manner earned my friendship. She became my companion in teacher-bashing, people-teasing , weight-watching and occasional woe-sharing.

She extracted many promises before letting me into her special secret and opening her shiny brown diary to show me a picture of a smiling boy. My boyfriend, she said , conspirationally announcing his name that revealed his faith – which didn’t match hers.

My seventeen year old self was sufficiently impressed with her guts and listened with open-mouthed awe her tales about love, with mixed feelings of admiration and jealousy. I saw her eyes glisten as she spoke of him and the lovely times they had together. Her eyes took on a look of fierce determination as she told me of her resolution to get married to him alone.

As seasons passed , my horizons widened , and though I often saw her wandering the corridors glued to her mobile phone , I would stop only to say a breezy hi and pass an understanding smile. I didn’t want to disturb her rendezvous with her boyfriend of several years.

She soon shifted out of the hostel , into a flat in the nearby neighborhood , with a friend. Hostel Food Sucks , she said. The warden is a pain. I couldn’t agree more. And so she darted out into freedom leaving me to hate the warden and the strict hostel timings with more vengeance.

Years passed in the blink of an eye and before I knew it , I was in the Final year and in my twenties. With a million notions about love, and excelling at the art of being judgmental. Cynical to the core , and hated by a large majority for my brutal honesty.

A six month long internship later , I met her on a slightly breezy morning. She looked hassled and rather plain. The slender chain around her neck seemed to have disappeared and her trademark ear-rings were absent. Customary pleasantries later , I asked her about him.
We broke up, she said. With an ease with which one would talk of the breaking of a mirror. I couldn’t hide my bewilderment. She merely smiled at my stunned self and answered – will of god.

I noticed several changes in her. Her incessant reading of the bible. Her constant referring to God in every conversation, however banal the topic be. Her rather preachy discourses on the love of God. Her single-minded refusal to miss her Mass on Sundays. Her new group of friends who seemed to me , a rather weird crowd who used the word God more than vowels in their conversation.

Finally she told me. Apparently God had touched her , she felt the holy spirit an she was convinced she said , that Jesus was the only God. She claimed that she now had a personal relationship with God. She had given up her ornaments as a part of her promise to God.
Suddenly everything that was normal before was a sin. And the code of conduct prescribed in the bible , many centuries ago , was her code of life.

And suddenly every other religion was wrong. She referred to the Hindu gods as Demons , created by Satan to curb the power of Jesus. The non-christian world would surely rot in hell , she predicted. She was soon taking the bible quite literally and refused to accept the theory of evolution.

Do you want me to believe that we evolved form monkeys? With such an awesome god above us, how can that be possible? She laughed. You must be a fool if u believe in Natural selection , she chided me.

She would talk of heaven and angels as if they were reality. She would incessantly talk of miracles. A man cured of cancer , a drug addict who suddenly gave up his addiction.

I could see it all so clearly . I could see the paradigm shift in her..and I could really understand how she was conceiving the world through the sieve of religion and interpreting everything happening around her as a justification for her belief.

I was stunned . I never believed that the institution of religion can be this dangerous. I never imagined that it would succeed in bringing within its clutches educated and aware people..just like you and me. I saw the strange power it held over people. Religion truly was the opium of masses.

And now I could really see the reason for all the religious wars.

Is it the social structure that the church provides that offers solace to lonely souls, only if they were to accept its word ?

Is it the inherent need of the people for security that makes them want to believe in God , and is that why they take leave of their rational minds so easily and become willing to be a part of a group and drown in the group’s principles?

Is it the need of the ego to seek justification for their decisions that makes them want to search for affirmation in every incident, is that what makes them interpret every little thing as a miracle of god?

Is it the unwillingness of people to take responsibility of their own lives, that makes them want to believe in an entity that decides their lives for them?

Religion is dangerous. It’s infectious. It is an epidemic. It will catch hold of anyone who is low on immunity.

I fear the day rationality will finally bleed to death at the altars of religion.

A day for Friendship

2009-08-04T00:26:00.000-07:00

Today is Friendship day. An ordinary day with a nice label. Yet another occasion for introspection.

A multitude of faces crowd my mind at the mention of the word “Friend”. For every passing acquaintance is loosely termed as a friend. From a fellow traveler in the local train, to that classmate whose face you cannot recollect …everyone is a friend. Friendship has become so dilute that it has almost lost its flavor.

I have a queer belief that true friendships can be nurtured only in Childhood , before the world has had its chance to corrupt the innocent mind , which is why both my very best friends are people who I have known ever since I was a mere child.

Our friendship began with admiration. I admired her slightly arrogant elegance. Her stubborn streak and righteous pride. I would try and walk like her, and would try incessantly to imitate her tilted accent. She, in turn, adored me, and put up with my sometimes ridiculous antics.

They say familiarity breeds contempt. Which should be true, because as I grew up , I formed my own niche and looked down upon that same tilted accent that I once loved. I buried myself in books and the world. Yet she was always around, like a soothing backdrop to my life. Never interfering nor threatening. And when I had to leave the town I grew up in , I , in my hunger for life , bid a cheery goodbye and shrugged off her parting tears as mere silliness.

I was so naïve. Little did I know that adult mind is the jumbled tangle of emotions where Friendship simply cannot have a life of its own, there’s always jealousy, or anger, or greed, or hatred. Slowly I learnt to dilute Friendship, everybody was a Friend. Yet nobody really was.

And each time I returned back for holidays, she’d always be there with her sparkling eyes, demanding with some authority every little detail of my life. To which I would happily oblige, for I knew she would always be on my side. Hating with a vengeance people who had the audacity to hurt me, and adoring the kind souls who I described as friends. She knew how to be absolutely honest with criticism and she also knew to be fiercely supportive. She would read me before I would tell her. Her counsel never sounded like advice.
We had several ideological differences, and endless arguments. She would scream in anger and cry in utter desperation at several of my actions. Yet, she never wavered in her loyalty. I always knew, and still know that I always have her on my side. My best friend.

I cannot think of her as separate from him. Almost her opposite. Soft Spoken and always wanting to fade somewhere into the background. Yet firm. His counsel has always been balanced and slightly bordering on being Preachy. He would tell me never to hate people and to never be impulsive. He would tell me to start on my assignments when the submissions were still a light year away. And he would constantly advice me on the dangers of being as bull-headed as I am. I always shrug him off at the first instant, but chew on in his advice later. I always know that he’ll be around to hold an umbrella for me when it rains. My best Friend.

Two apparent opposites. Him and Her. It was only destiny that brought them together 24 years back and bonded them with the sacred vows of marriage.

And together they have succeeded in the very difficult task of bringing up their difficult and absolutely annoying daughter….And in the process, becoming her very best friends in the world.

Dear Life

2009-07-17T10:05:00.000-07:00

Dear life,

When I look behind me, you form my trail. When I look ahead you are my path . When I look around , you are a swirl of colors . You are a dissonance of noises. You are a labyrinth of emotions. An when I look within , you are a mystery.

I conspire with time and together we unearth your myriad hues. When we started out , the bright colours of innocence , of unbridled happiness seemed to define you. You seemed to extend your arms to pull me into a pool of luminous joy. You seemed a beautiful picture of hope , love and peace.

Is it out of your very bosom that clouds of anxiety flew out? Did you hide under your bright shades , the darkness of sorrow ? Who painted the wild strokes of fear upon you ? Where did the thickness of Greed spring from?

Each time I look , you seem to change your colors. Layers of paint on your surface grows thick. The experiences of humanity over the years must have culminated into the collage that you present before me. I see in you memories , tears and laughter of people I never knew.

And just when you seemed to be the most undecipherable painting , I discover understanding. The new shade that i see in you , the strange combination of all your shades.. And suddenly you make a little more sense. I now see your colours, yet they don’t intimidate me. I now dodge greed , and try to overcome fear. I see jealousy and close my eyes. You taught me to manipulate you.

Yet sometimes you take me by surprise. You hide your glow and turn murky. You take away my understanding . You challenge me. As I stagger out of the dark alley, I see wisdom. The sublime shade that revels a few of your secrets.

You have painted me in all your colours. You have given me the wealth of experience. You have sprinkled over me twinges of understanding. Yet you lie ahead , a misty veil over your face. You lure me with the unknown.

Someday I shall form another layer on you , and my laughter and tears shall form lessons to somebody else in pursuit of you. For I may disappear someday , yet you will resound in every heartbeat and every breath.

I hope to make peace with you before I leave.

Love,
Gymnast.

PS : Thanks to Tharini for the concept.

Tuesdays with Morrie

2009-07-10T22:27:00.000-07:00

This September, l will cross the twenty second milestone on the highway of life. I’ve travelled mostly along the good road , and have always had protectors, older companions who ran ahead and made sure my path was free of thorns.

And then one among them disappeared. My uncle , who would always tell me to run harder , even as my parents lost trust in my ability suddenly turned into some alley off the main road , never to find his way back again. And in that agonizing and futile search for him, I learned of death.

Even as I continued my journey, it plagued me. This thing called death that was the end of all our journeys…and I wondered why we race with each other when we are all sure to reach that final destination. Why do we hurry to pluck all the flowers when we know they’d lose their scent along the way.

I found answers to some of these questions in the small book – “Tuesdays with Morrie” by Mitch Albom.

It is a tale narrated by the young, thirty something man as he escorts his old professor to the end. The professor speaks of the day he received his death sentence in the form of a deadly , degenerative disease of the nervous system , and found that while his world was crumbling, the world around him didn’t seem to care, for everyone else , life seemed to go on. And how he slowly emerged from his own self and began to see himself In a totally different light.
The professor talks about Aging , fear , greed , family , society , forgiveness….and to me , every single page in this small book seemed a treasure.

He talks about the need to be open. We are forever ashamed to our feelings show , we often have a thousand self imposed rules and further rules imposed upon us by the society. It is a new experience as we read of the old professor , who has to be increasingly dependent on others for even his basic needs teaches us to be totally open and soak in all of our feelings, the good and the bad.

Detachment and commitment. Courage and Degeneration. Chaos and peace. Professor talks of all these with the wisdom and clarity that only the ones who see the end can muster.

This little book that I picked up from the second hand book seller has found its way into my heart. It captures life’s different shades and provides a peek into the astonishing simplicity that underlies life’s complexities.

This book is an incredible treasure.

To let go..

2009-07-03T11:39:00.000-07:00

Time plays the most bizarre tricks. It’s steps are so soft that you hardly realize when it gently sneaks upon you. A few lines adorn your forehead, and your once lush hair seems to be receding. And your daughter, who was just a babe yesterday stands before you, a young lady.

You still remember the day she was brought before you, a scrawny bundle with a mop of curly hair, a miracle that filled you with awe each time you looked at her. Her tiny fingers wrapped around your little finger even in her sleep. She was yours.

These beautiful eyes that you see now were the same ones that filled with tears when you took her to school that first time. She clung to you, refusing to take her first step into the real world. You fought your urge to scoop her into your arms and turned away.

She made you glow with pride, for everything she did was special to you. Her every wish was your command, she was the apple of your eye. You still made her rules and she looked up to you for everything. There was nothing beyond your word for her.

You were the one who was inconsolable when she left home for college. Your soft child, full of innocence was yet too young to venture into the grown up world. Your wondered when your little girl grew up to be this curious teenager ready to explore the world. You were the only one who could see the little child inside, and your heart ached for all the lessons she would have to the learn the hard way.

You could see traces of you in her. Her lovely brown eyes reflected yours, and ringing laughter matched yours. She had inherited your insistent stubbornness.
You saw her emerge into a level-headed, strong minded young lady unique in so many ways. You could see that she was no longer an extension of you.

The little girl who stood under your shade now stands before you, having made her decision. You know it is time to let go. You can see her dreams glisten in her eyes. You see her soul set to take flight. You know it is time to hand back to her what is rightly her own.

She is your daughter, yet she is not yours.

The Ice Princess

2009-06-21T02:20:00.000-07:00

The little ears cocked up in attention , and little eyes widened with interest , as the darkness outside deepened , she smiled at her little charges.

“Far far away “ She bagan “ Across the mountains , and beyond the seas , lay the land of feelings. There lived the King and the queen of feelings with all their subjects – happiness, sorrow, affection , hatred , and all the other feelings ever conceivable.

The land of feelings was in great jubilation , for a little daughter was born to the queen , the princess of feelings. The princess was the most beautiful baby ever born and all the feelings in the city approached the palace with gifts for its little princess.

The little princess grew amidst the doting adoration of her indulgent father and adoring mother , with all the luxuries of the world beneath her feet. Never the less, the little princess never smiled. The palace clowns couldnt bring a smile on her face, her eyes were expressionless and skin lusterless, she remained pale and lifeless. The worried king, and dismayed queen called upon the most famous doctor to cure their daughter of this most queer illness.

The doctor was perplexed and announced in dismay that the most astonishing has happened , and bowed his head and said – The princess has a heart of ice , her feelings are trapped within her heart , long lost and frozen ice cold.

The Ice princess grew in the land of feelings unable to feel and cold within. A beautiful maiden she grew up to be , of lovely tresses and exquisite beauty , of deep eyes and flawless skin . Her sculpted beauty , yet remained dead with no feelings to brighten it.

One day , as the sun rose in the land of feelings , a beautiful music began to flow. A wandering ascetic famed for his vast knowledge had come to visit the land of feelings. The king, when he heard the news, sent his ministers Vigilance and Wisdom to invite the great saint to the palace.
The sage on learning the reason for king’s sorrow and pleased with his hospitality told the king about the weapon that can heal the princess –the wondrous feeling called Love.

Love? Thought the King. The land of feelings did not have a citizen called Love. The was friendliness, affection , hope , happiness…but love? The King was at a loss. The king ordered an extensive search for Love in his kingdom , the king’s soldiers knocked at every door , yet returned with empty hands.

The king , helpless inspite of all his glory fell at the great sage’s feet and lamented the absence of love in his kingdom. The ascetic smiled and said –
“ Love is the light that shined in you when you were in your mother’s womb , yet you became so caught up in the world , that you forgot what you were. Oh King of feelings , look ahead , love is within all your subjects , within hope , within affection , within anger , and even within fear , within hatred and within jealousy. Why do you search for it , dear King , it is so within you. Accept yourself , accept all your feelings –envy , hatred , joy , and then you will see it shining within you”

Wisdom, the king’s minister was the first to sense the stream of light that pourd forth from him , he discovered love within him . Soon , all the feelings in the city discovered the spark that connected them , that was their very survival and the City of feelings was radiant with the light of love.

The Ice princess , now a young woman, was awash with this light and her heart melted for her pulse corresponded to the pulse of the world. She knew love and Love always works miracles”

The little eyes were closed , and the little minds lost to the dream world.

She looked out into the Darkness , where the ice princes and princesses lived and waited for the day their hearts would melt.

PS : Another first attempt , do tell me your honest opinions.

Friends for Life

2009-06-15T04:55:00.000-07:00

Sometimes wish I could cast away this cloak that I’ve wrapped around me. Sometimes I wish my body was a little less stiffer, a little more agile. I wish my voice was a little sweeter, my tunes a little more harmonious. My resolve a little stronger and stage fright a little lesser. Sometimes, I wish I was talented. Alas, not a singer, dancer or orator, and deep within the comfort of my cloak, I discovered my best friends – books.

I must have been a mere child when i made friends with the precarious and ever-so-lucky hunter Shikari Shambhu and the foolish, yet good hearted Suppandi. Cinderella and Rumpelstiltskin, Red riding hood and Snow white. I believed in them and their happily ever afters . I devoured the Panchatantra tales , and discovered Vikramaditya and his Vetal. The tales of Mahabharata fascinated me , and I waited every week for my “Amarchitrakatha”.

That was when they included a “library hour” in the school curriculum. It is was in that jungle of steel racks that I met The Famous five and The secret seven. I joined the cunning Tom swayer , and his friend Huckleberry Fin in their adventures. It was on my tenth birthday that I got aquainted with Swami, the little boy who lived in Malgudi. I could empathise with everything that Swami did – his dislike towards mathematics, his belief that the idol in the pooja room would transform the two pebbles that he kept in front of them into the coins that he desperately needed. That lovely tale full of friendship and childish innocence remains a favorite to this day.

It was in my early teens that I noticed the books that my elder cousins and aunts seem to relish , but would not share with me . And thus, it was , in utmost secrecy that I discovered mills and boons. The slim , elegant and often arrogant heroine and the ruggedly handsome hero who would sweep her off her feet crept into my mind. The pretty secretary and her manly boss , the supermodel and photographer , the writer and the editor , I still believed in happily ever afters.

College life is often a life altering experience for many, me being no exception. I was the innocent eighteen year old who devoured Shildney sheildons and Jeffrey Archers and cried with Erich Segal’s Love Story who found herself in the middle of a fascinating blend of people. I discovered that loneliness triggers thought, and as the realm of my thought widened the god-shaped hole in me was getting hard to ignore. The thirst in me was overwhelming , and the doubts within me were multiplying.

It was then that I was aquainted with Osho. The friendly liveliness and extraordinary clarity of his thoughts attracted me. The unpretentious nature and conversational tone of Osho talked to me about everything under the sun. It was Osho who introduced me to J.Krishnamurthy. Beginning with his biography penned by Annie Besant, Krishnamurthy’s talks on life and its ultimate meaning, success and its parameters had me absorbed. Somewhere along this journey, I discovered the treasure trove of knowledge thrown open by the writings of Swami Vivekananda.

It was during this time that I discovered Paulo Coelho, whose lyrical, yet deeply insightful writing was an experience . I lived with Veronica as she discovered madness , love and life in “Veronica decides to die” , or followed Santiago in his search for the ultimate treasure in “The Alchemist”. Rich Bach befriended me with his classic “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” , which is the most subtle , yet the most rejuvenating book that I have ever read.

Yet , the sacred position undoubtfully goes to Ayn Rand . Her steely and sharp words were sometimes a little too cold , yet , Fountainhead was a true inspiration . Atlas shrugged is most easily the best book that I have ever read ,and the only book that I can re-read any number of times. I could empathize whole heartedly with her characters and could see through her villains. Atlas shrugged is a true representation of the world – an epic in its truest sense. Ayn Rand to Richard Dawkins is not a long Journey. The tireless scientist who advocates an “Einsteinian religion” continues to be an inspiration and I advocate the “God delusion” to every believer, agnostic and atheist.

Arundhati Roy , Vikram Seth , Anita Nair , Salman Rushdie , Jhumpa Lahiri were all the result of my search to a literature that I can relate to. From something I could relate to , I moved to something that was definitely real , I was slowly moving away from fiction. I needed to feel more connected to the words that I was reading. History attracted me and my foray into it began with “The glimpses of world history “ By Jawaharlal Nehru , not very authentic , but very entertaining.

You must excuse my overenthusiastic and rather spontaneous gushing , doesn’t everyone get a tad excited when asked to talk about one’s best friend? I cannot place a single person who provided me the comfort , inspiration and love that books provided , right from my childhood to my youth. They have been my playmate , companion and guide and still remain to be.

Now , if you will excuse me – my lovely companion beckons.

Ghosts of the Past

2009-06-08T01:47:00.000-07:00

It was during summers that the little house just off the main road, in the small town, came alive. It was then that the little house magically expanded itself to fit in the laughter of a population much beyond its capacity. It was then, that the aroma of lovingly cooked food wafted in the air. It was then, that we would all arrive, to fill that little house with joy. It was during summers that the house with its three rooms comfortably accommodated the eight women, our mothers, who would arrive with us in tow.

A boy who never stayed still. A girl who was too kind for her own good. A girl with no trace of girlsihness. A boy with a perennial smile. A boy who was still learning to talk. And a toddler who made her own rules. And me.

We would all be bursting with tales of our own to share , some real , some exaggerated , and some totally made up , sitting on the steps shaded by the car porch . One couldn’t, but believe when one’s wily-know-it-all cousin described his pet dolphin that swam with him, and swore to bring pictures next vacation, if one dared to express skepticism . Or when a favorite cousin described the ghost that she barely managed to escape from, the fear still reflected in her eyes. These impromptu story sessions was also the time that we schemed the secret purchase of “sip-up” , the sweet concoction filled up in tiny plastic tubes , rumored to have been made from “unhealthy gutter water” and hence prohibited by parents. The unhealthy , fever inducing but absolutely alluring sip up would be purchased and bought wrapped in newspapers, by the brave ones, who would signal the rest to join them on the terrace – the adults free zone.

The teracce was where cricket was played , sip up was eaten or where one lay down in the evenings to receive the summer breeze. The various sun shades that were prohibited to us were climbed onto and turned into hiding places during hide-and-seek sessions. The various trees that leaned onto to the terrace must have loved us, for they always bore tons of fruit in the summer. The terrace was where we dreamt of the day we’d all be rich and have castles to live in , and have all the chocolates we ever want. One has even fallen from the terrace while leaning over to caress the trees , onto to the soft ground where the house stood , thankfully , unharmed.

The house had three rooms , the middle one with only a tiny window was nicknamed the “Dark room” by us , after the Game that we played there. The “catcher” would be made to stand outside , while everybody hid in various places within the room – in the cupboard , under the bed, behind the clothes stand , under the table. Then the lights were switched off , and the catcher made to enter , into a sufficiently spooky room , and seek out the hidden playmates. Then erupted a pandemonium of shrieking , jumping and hitting , cheating , and the end of which the crying , sulking new catcher would be thrown out for the game to resume again.

The Dark room was also where we spent the afternoon siesta hours imposed on us. The siesta would be after the lunch, which was fed to all of us by our most jovial aunt from a single plate piled with rice. We would pester the adults for stories, while some came up with tales from Ramayana, others made up their own. Our favorite was the Uncle told us of his brave fight with Dracula, and his fearless wanderings in the middle of the night, when he would meet the most bizarre and interesting ghosts and people. The stories would have us sufficiently hypnotized till we fell into a slumber. The Dark room would be quiet except for our rhythmic breathing.

The room at the far end was the grandparent’s room. Our grandmother would stock up goodies in tin containers under her bed , to be given to us at intervals. But being a ceaselessly hungry lot , the tin containers would be constantly attacked , after careful planning , when the adult eyes wander. The attacker would then come out and distribute the exploits , always reserving the larger portion for himself. Much to the dismay of our poor grandmother who would open her tin containers to distribute the evening snacks to find only crumbs left.

The hall that served as drawing cum dining space , was a stage for us. This was where we would perform our self-composed plays and sing made-up songs and dance for an audience of adoring aunts who would clap at the end. Each of us was expected to perform something – which always troubled me , being a quiet child with no talent for song or dance. I would be made a deer , in a Ramayana play , or be the member of a group song, and I always got away without singing. Antakshari would be played with the adults as one team and youngsters in another , which would always result in row with each team accusing the other for making up songs.

The hall was also where the mattresses would be spread out for us , at night and we would all fall asleep , exhausted from a day’s incessant activity.

I feel like having only awakened from that slumber, yet time has slipped through my fingers. The little children have all grown up.

An engineer on lookout for his first job. A student- doctor who still remains too kind for her own good. A to-be- dentist who still is the same little girl at heart. A future computer science engineer with big dreams. A first-year student with a zest for life. The tenth standard student who’s grown up to be a beauty. And a future architect, me, who still remains the same “art movie heroine”.

The house, locked up , bears the signs of old age. The windows given to termites , the walls showing Cracks of age , the roof leaking every monsoon. The rooms that once resounded with our young voices , now just hold echoes of the past. The summers do not bring it alive , for it now only houses the memories of the kind grandmother , who drew her eight daughters every summer.A few years back, robbers took away the Lovely grandfather clock that adorned the hall. They say the deserted house is prey to anti-social elements. Yet behind the locked doors are the memories that we hold close to our heart.

Mismatched holidays ,and distances has come between us , yet , when we get together , we still think of our blissful childhood. And the little house , every nook and corner of which was once our own. As we grow into young men and women… Sadly, it sinks further into senility.

The thing called Love...

2009-05-31T09:58:00.000-07:00

This is a first attempt , and hence has extremely high chances of being an absolute disaster. I request the readers of this blog [ if any] to give me an honest opinion so that i do not show the audacity to post such content in public spaces , ever.

I was the cloud, so dark and grave,
Over the horizon, in the dancing wind,
I wandered alone, laden with rain.

I watched the world from up above ,
The trees beckoned and rivers pined,
The beautiful rain locked within my soul.

All alone , in a world of my own,
I craved to free my heart of the rain ,
To leaven my soul of this wondrous pain.

Were you the tingle that swept me by?
The lovely scent that wafted by?

How did you know my mystery?
How did you shine into the depths of me?
How did you, swiftly, set me free?

You found me when it was meant to be,
I poured down, the shining rain
A final respite from the stifling pain.

Your magic touch claimed me for your own,
The world colored in the haze of my rain,
I learnt of a freedom, unknown.

The exquisite bondage that sets you free,
The destination without a journey ,
The new sight that was forever before me ,
The thing called love is the most beautiful irony.

Only to connect..

2009-05-23T00:11:00.000-07:00

The world is increasingly becoming flat, Globalization, they say. Everything is within your horizon, and you need only to stretch your hand. It’s a small world they sing. In this age of connectivity, I wonder how connected we really are, even within the small realm of a family.

Beyond one’s immediate family, there stretches a long line of uncles, aunties, cousins and assorted relatives, whose faces are, but a vague memory. So it was not with much emotion that I received the news of the death of Uncle V from my father who undertook a long drive to attend the funeral.

The incident did not occupy much of my thought until a few days later, I was asked to accompany father to attend Uncle V’s last rites. It had only been a few days since I had come home from college for my vacation , and did not fancy getting up in the early hours to undertake a long journey. My motherbegged , pleaded , threatened , sweet-talked me into goingwith father. I nagged , fretted , complained , insulted... and finally gave in and went along.

Bleary eyed and straight from bed at seven in the morning, i walked into a brood of relatives, half of whom were as good as strangers to me....nodding and pretend smiling at unknown faces. The papa – nashini beach was peaceful, and slight scent of camphor sailed in the air. The blue sea lay ahead of us , ready to engulf into its deep waters , the tiny earthen pots within which lay the last of the bodily remains of those who were now mere memories.

I watched as my cousin carried out the rituals as the poojari bleated out hymns to liberate the soul, from the ashes that lay in a small earthen pot in front of him. As many around me discreetly yawned, and watched the waves, she carried what remained of her father on her head and bid her final goodbye.

Knee deep into the sea, watching the ashes travel into the horizon , dancing only slightly with the waves , she broke down into tears. We stood helpless....her grief was her own. A few minutes later, she was politely thanking the bored-looking relatives (like me) who had come albeit it a little unwillingly. I truly hated myself for a moment for being so heartless ,unable to share another person's grief. I walked upto her , and told her to be strong and do visit all of us sometimes. She smiled that slow smile and I noticed how beautiful her eyes were.

And there i was, feeling a strong bond with this girl, and the strangers around, somehow feeling connected. That moment, Strangers - relatives, they were all my own. And i was theirs.
Ironically , in this world of connectivity , few are the moments when we feel truly connected.

PS: In the wake of the the recent uproar in Sri Lanka, I had a discussion with a Sri Lankan friend, who only sighed and wished the world would connect more before sitting in judgment over the war –strewn country. Globalisation , I guess , does not truly connect.

Reflected in the rain..

2009-05-16T10:17:00.002-07:00

Yesterday it rained in Chennai. The gentle drizzle and the slight breeze was a welcome change, and I found Topper lost in thought in the balcony of our first floor apartment. I joined her, and stood watching the rain, my extended arm caressing many a wayward raindrop. The gentle smile of the rain was slowly turning into deafening laughter as the raindrops splashed with fury on the unsuspecting population on the road below. It lashed and blew and the thunder roared, and the gentle curtain of rain before me grew into an impenetrable wall.

The rain found its way into our balcony stifling the Topper and me in its forceful, wet embrace. The wet raindrops tingled our skin, deliciously enticing us. I see my desires in this lashing rain, I told the topper. I love the youthful demented laughter of the rain, the untamed wildness, the unrestricted freedom, I love it all. The topper gave me a sympathetic smile, and before I could murder her with more of my romantic ramblings, answered the beckoning of the mobile phone, and made her escape.

I’ve always loved the rain – in different forms. As a child, I loved the drizzle, the gentle, soft , slow-paced rain that would trickle through my fingers , or the slight rain that would let me take a walk outside with my umbrella armed with paper boats made out of torn notebook pages. The rain that had a promise of clearing up soon, for my brother and me to inspect the status of the tiny ants destined to travel on the paper boats thrown out of the windows into the puddles outside, or to retrieve the plastic toys hurled out just for the pleasure of watching them float in the rainwater-created puddles. I even have a distinct memory of having thrown a green alarm clock outside, which didn’t survive the water seepage and had to be buried in the backyard, before being discovered by the parents.

My love for the drizzle disappeared as I grew into a teenage book-worm. The pompous sister who would chastise her kid-brother for having gotten wet in the rain, than being his partner in rain-related crimes. I turned into a lover of the dancing rain – the rain that outgrew its drizzly smile , and laughed more freely. The rain that fell full and strong, never challenging, only serenely dancing its way to earth. I would sit listening to the rain’s rhythm losing myself in the depths of a novel or a poem . I would always feel a slight tinge of disappointment at the appearance of the clear sky, and I remember craving for the rainy days. The rain was like a lovely background score in the light of which I would read , dream , sketch or write.

Now , on the brink of adulthood , I identify with the angry rain. The rain that thunders and screams and lashes and roars. The rain of frenzied force . I have , on many occasions wished to transform into the rain … to laugh maniacally , to enjoy the beastly abandon , to break away into the free fall of mirth. I get impatient at the shallow drizzle and challenge the dancing rain to fall harder. I take pleasure in the thunder and enjoy the fearlessness of the rain.

I’ve grown with the rain –

I knew myself as a drizzle, the soft child who knew not a fear .

I knew myself as the lovely rain, the dreamy teenager of a million dreams.

And now , I know myself as the roaring thunder , a young woman , on the brink of adulthood ,standing at the tip of a cliff, with a beautiful view in front of me , and a bottomless abyss beneath.

I know I’ll fall one day , into the bottomless pit like the millions before me, and the millions after me. I know I’ll fade again into a moderate rain ,and then a weak drizzle and then disappear without a trace .

I only wish I leave a rainbow.

To be a girl...

2009-05-14T10:49:00.000-07:00

There have been many moments in my relatively short life when I have wished to undergo a sex change operation. The company and behavior of my female companions often perplex me. Stun me. Irritate me. Confuse me. A few key characteristics of females of my acquaintance that led to the abovementioned state of mind are –

Hypocrisy - Consider Girl A, Girl B and Girl C to be best friends. The three may always be found flocking together and may greet each other with most obvious hugs and loud compliments. One might even feel a slight tinge of jealousy at such seemingly unadulterated form of friendship. However , with the departure of Girl C , Girl A and B will inevitably start a discussion on Girl C , and can be found criticizing her for the very reasons for which she was complimented.

The woo-haa reactions – This is a particularly irritating trait exhibited by many members of womankind. Woo-haa is the term for the exaggerated , loud , and very annoying responses to everyday events. The stimuli for a woo-ha reaction can vary from very trivial to moderately happiness inducing. Common woo-haas are observed when – girl meets another girl [even the one she hates] or at the sight of anything remotely aesthetically pleasing [ “oh how cuuuutee”] . Woo haa ‘s increase in intensity when any member of the opposite gender is around.

Instability - One should never expect a stable state of mind from a girl. She might demand frankness from you – yet venture to bite your head off if your frank comment is not exactly pleasing to her. She might tell you a fact on a given occasion and completely deny that fact if recounted by you , on another occasion.

Artificiality –A perfectly normal girl , in the company of a larger audience may assume few qualities that may not be her natural tendency. Exaggerated and made up gestures, hand movements , fake affection , a totally un natural tone of speech – all manifest as symptoms of artificiality. Artificiality can be particularly noticed when in the presence of the opposite sex. Astonishing.

The frills – The frills are the un necessary details woven into the answers of any question that you ask any girl. Not only are you subjected to un necessary detail , you are also expected to give an extremely detailed account of any information that you may be conveying. The more the mention of other people and their private life in it – the better. If you happen to be a short, matter-of-fact speaker you might have to struggle in the company of women.

There still remains to be discussed – the lack of frankness, the obsession with the trivial …. Girls are definitely a confusing lot. Yet one finds even the worst looking and the woo-haa-est of them being pursued by a minimum of three admirers

Such is the parody of life.

Low Tide

2009-05-12T10:42:00.001-07:00

The past few days have been hectic. I was going through, for the eighth time , through the harrowing experience known as “the Crit”. If you ever had a son/daughter/boyfriend/girlfriend/friend who is an architecture student, you would know what a crit is. Crit is the abbreviation for criticism [which most of us are experts of, if aimed at other people] which is when an external examiner is called to view one’s design and mark the student. As I type this, I can conjure the image of my external , sitting there in the lab , wearing a deep blue kurta , chewing gum [!] and speaking in his slightly accented English. Thoughts about the crit are very depressing and frustrate me enough to want to hit a wall.
Many posts has been written and backspaced. The crit-induced depression is still to lift. This is just to assure the seven people with excellent taste , my seven followers that I am still alive.

Every class has.....

2009-04-28T04:04:00.000-07:00

This blog has an existence synonymous to what its author has in real life. Ignored by the majority , hated by few and having an uncomment able existence. And that being the state , I figure that I am free to write just about anything here , and not have to be bothered about providing reading material for nonexistent readers. I need not be politically correct, considering the anonymity of this blog.

If you are a member of face book , you would be aware of its many boredom busting applications . On a particularly boring day - I took two of these quizzes at the end of which I was told that I possess a heart of gold and that I would meet my soul mate at a dance. Now that I live in Chennai and dances are hard to come by , I presume I shall forever remain a spinster, with a heart of gold. Sigh.

On the brighter side, face book also has an excellent application that allows tag little cartoon figures with people’s names which I enjoyed immensely as Judging people is almost an involuntary activity for me. Let me begin with my class. Which is a handpicked collection of the rarest and the most incompatible specimens of humanity put together in a 4m * 4m space. It has :

The Leaders – These are a group of seven guys with absolutely no such thing called a personal life. They exist for academic achievement, do not have a history of bunking, haven’t tasted alcohol, and would cry if they earn B in any subject. And consider themselves above the mere mortals that constitute the rest of the class. A very sad group indeed and one can only feel infinite sympathy for them.

The sheeps - Blind followers of the Leaders. Always found chatting on the most banal and uninteresting subjects and seen only in flocks. Dutifully provides constant ego- boost to their beloved Leaders. Lead decidedly boring lives.

The rebels – The seemingly sensible lot composed of the anti social elements of the class. Hold great talent for bunking, and hold copying in exams as a matter of policy. Unconcerned about the existence of teachers and consider class as an arena for relaxation. Can be found swearing below their breath if spoken to by any of the faculty members. Known to have bribed the attendance in charge. Library haters. In short , very normal human beings who do not bother others not let others bother themselves . Admiration worthy.

The Vain – The gang of girls who are forever obsessed with the trivial. And are a treasure trove of information on the various relationships happening in college. Impeccably dressed always and forever making one feel like a villager by quoting various brand names that one would never have heard of. Can be found to be talking only of - boyfriends , love and marriage . To be kept away from .

The unsuccessfull Geeks - The ones who actually bring a pen to the class. The ones who does the assignments and circulate them around for copying. The ones who study , even for the cycle tests. The ones whose notebooks get flicked. The ones who forever bother about academic achievements , but are , sadly the mediocre. The ones to be be-friended for supply for assignments.

The back benchers – The ones that are up to date on every movie released . Have visited all the nightclubs available and read the news paper in class. Have a personal life and possess individuality. Study sufficiently to ensure constant supply of pocket money. The coolest ones in class.

Then there are the hypocrites , the comedians , the naïve ones - why , one can just go on and on. But then , being the owner of a heart of gold , I stop here.

The city of Joy

2009-04-24T10:20:00.000-07:00

The summer has come again and Chennai has turned into a humid land where living without an air conditioner is a harrowing experience. I hear only grumbles and complaints all around me. And I feel this is a fair time for one to proclaim one’s loyalty towards this lovely city. There’s a lot to love in Chennai.
1. The Beach
Be It the Marina or the elliots beach, the Chennai beaches have a flavor of its own. The beach in itself is an entertainment arena . One can aim and shoot the balloons hung up on a wooden board with guns loaded with tiny plasic bullets , the only sport at which I am a reigning champion. If you are not a sports person , you can have your future predicted by the scores of Ladies who immediately assume that any companion of yours of the opposite gender is your secret lover , and proclaim a bright future for the two of you. Of course , my future has always been predicted as spectacularly bright. The bajjis at the beach , cooked in much-used oil , dipping with cholesterol is most delicious. A beach trip is never complete without indulging in this divine pleasure.
2. Pondy Bazaar
If you have enough patience and an eye for good stuff , Pondy Bazaar is the place to be. Rows of shops selling bangles to clothes to utensils to possibly everything that you can think of – at prices that can be bargained. Bargaining, in itself is an art. My Flat mate , Topper is a gem at the art of bargaining .The ruthless bargaining and carrying away bags and bags of goodies [ none of which may even survive till the next week] is definitely thrilling. Add corn , and cut mangoes with delicious chilli powder over them – and pondy bazaar experience is complete.
3. The Metro Train
The metro train is a part of any average Chennai-ite’s life. The hands that are always ready to pull you in as you run just as the train leaves the platform may be a vegetable vendor’s or a samosa seller’s or sometimes , only if you’re very lucky , a handsome co-passenger’s. A journey in the metro train , especially in the women’s compartment is entertaining – one can amuse oneself reading all the inscriptions on the walls – girls have listed their names each group with entertaining titles such as “hot girls” or “Chennai stars” or some such. There may even be friendship and love quotes to enterain you as you travel. The train samosa is also a guilty pleasure of mine .
4. The Share auto
Have you heard of a three wheeler that can accommodate more than ten people , if not , let me introduce you to the wonder called “The Share auto”. The share auto is a wonderful concept where a normal auto is improvised to create a bigger vehicle , which is driven by a friendly and accommodating driver . One has to make sure not to fall out of it at a sudden break as sometimes the heavy people of Chennai can prove a little too stressful for the vehicle. This wonderful device lets to travel from point A to point B in less than one quarter of the amount a normal auto would cost you. High economical in my dictionary accounts to highly lovable.
5. The buildings
Chennai has a wonderful architectural heritage. Be it the Marina stretch – where the Majestic Madras university and the brilliant Ice house towers or the Mount road – Higginbothams , Bharat Insurance building and Agarchand Mansion speak of history , one just has to listen closely. The Georgetown , the home of the Armenian church , Maylapore – of the beautiful temples , everything is awe inspiring. The central railway station which heralds visitors into the city itself has a story to speak. Chennai is a city that’s racing ahead , looking into the future , yet not ready to snap that tiny thread that ties it to the past.
6. The spencer Plaza
If there is shopping mall where something similar to street shopping exists – it’s the spencer Plaza. The tall Spencer towers is definitely a part and parcel of Chennai life. Be it clothes , music , books , gadgets – you name it , spencer’s will have it. Or if you just need an air conditioned space to rest awhile – the spencer’s comes to your rescue. Spencer’s with its two food courts are always a lure . Subway , pizza hut , French loaf , Noodle house – all under one roof. But my personal favorite , is the fifteen-rupee softy cone which is excellent. While there are other malls in the city – the spencer is the only one that you can walk into , most casually dressed and even with absolutely no money in your purse.
7. The Food
By now, you would have got an idea how important this commodity is in my life. Chennai can offer you a variety of Steaming Dosas , Idlis and my personal favorite – chilli parota. Which is a unhealthy and cholesterol inducing but extremely mouth watering. The variety of chats available is mind boggling. My personal favorite is a tiny chat shop the Topper and I discovered on our hunt for food on the outskirts of Chetpet recently. Of late , I am addicted to “tropical ice” , a great mixture of ice shaving and flavoring that is sold outside many malls by bored looking chinki guys. If you are not the street food kind – you have Vasanta Bhavan , Saravana Bhavan and variety of other Bhavans that will offer you excellent food , a tad overpriced , maybe. Chennai is also home to more than 10 five star hotels – which is of course , out of bounds for me.
8. The ECR road
The ECR road or the east coast road is a long stretch along the beach which can offer you excellent amusement. There’s the VGP golden beach , or the MGM Dizzee world which are amusement parks which every authentic Chennai-ite would have visited atleast once. This stretch is also known to the romatic escape-land of many Chennai couples , as the deserted beaches lure them. Of all the ECR destinations , I prefer Mahabalipuram , lovingly reffered to as “Mahabs” by many. The lovely Shore temple and the beautiful rathas are a sight. Add excellent sea food to the equation , and that too at affordable prices. what more can you ask for?
9. The pace
One might begin to think that iam growing old , for isn’t that when you start loving slow paced cities . I love Chennai’s Pace. Not too fast , and not dreadfully slow. One can be romantic and lost in this city or be one’s active best. Chennai has not yet fully shed its footholds in traditions and can sometimes be a little too restrictive , but somehow the pulse of the city corresponds to mine. The many nightclubs and pubs that have mushroomed all over the place adds energy , yet the lovely languor of the city allows respite. I love the flow in Chennai.
10. The people
Finally I come to all the “annas” and “akkas” who willingly explain the route to you in their broken English when you’re lost. And do not laugh at your brave attempt at tamil , but only encourage you. The incredibly hospitable tamilians , will truly win over you with their warmth.
One can go on and on – The cinemas , the language , Chennai is indeed a lovely city. Come , live and fall in love.

For the Love of God

2009-04-17T23:13:00.000-07:00

Dear God ,

You probably wouldn’t know me. There is very little chance that I would feature in any of your major lists, I am not a major sinner, nor a saint, and am yet to do anything remarkable with my life. I am, dear god , yet another of your mistakes , the girl who missed the queue for the perfect math-processing brain or the stunning good looks. Much to the dismay of my mother who was hoping against hope for my mathematical nirvana, till she finally had a vision of truth and began concentrating her effort on more plausible events.

Your name is the most exploited word in the English language, dear god. For, from the beginning of history, anything one feared was named after you. Thunder, lighting, floods. With progression of history, we see even emotions being named after you – God of lust, God of love, God of wisdom and so on. Men are such creatures, unstable and wanting an authority even over their feelings. As with everything in life, the feeling-gods were only temporary, soon to be replaced by organized religions, with leaders, who have allegedly had a real encounter with you. The human beings that you have created are queer creatures God; they have gone one step ahead and created you. From the multitudes of ways you have been interpreted in , I , with my limited knowledge know only a few leading ones – Islam , Judaism , Buddhism , Animism , Christianity , Hinduism and Jainism.

Now that the world is full of gods and their followers, the scene is quite chaotic. An examination of history, of which you have been a spectator, shows wars fought in your name, dictatorships employed with you as the center point , imperialist ambitions achieved , disguising as a service for you. You, dear god, who created the world in seven days…has now been reduced to an excuse for man’s ambitions. How can you blame the lot, who doubts your existence given such terms?

When in doubt , one is forced to read the treatises that are supposedly your messages to the privileged few on earth. However, god , the difficulty is that humans have uncovered many of the little mysteries that you have been keeping from us. And as such, one is forced to pick and choose the believable bits from the stories that you have told us. One can try to accommodate you by separating morality and science. Even in such an attempt, one fails miserably – as the jealous and insecure god of the bible who destroys the tower of Babel , lest man reaches the heavens , or orders his devotee for the sacrifice of his son , as test of faith , or Krishna of Hindu mythology who believes that one can resort to any unscrupulous means to achieve one’s end do not offer morals that appeal to one’s mind. One is at a loss , dear god , when one realizes that one cannot base your existence on evidences , nor can one turn to you for moral guidance. Religion seems to be just somebody’s opinion of the truth passed on from one generation to other.

Yet again, the complexity of the world causes one to wonder about its designer.. Rationally, only simplicity can move towards complexity , but considering you created the world , dear god.. you must be an extremely complex and intelligent being. Where did you come from? It is absurd to assume a higher improbability as a solution, one is tempted to trust Charles Darwin rather than you . Are you suggesting, dear god, that one should take leave of one’s senses and rationality while discussing the question of religion? Is it a virtue to believe without reason, should one not question that which gives no acceptable rational base?

Why do we need you , god ? People say you are the last resort when they are alone, they say you give them hope. It is almost equivalent to the very lonely little kids resorting to the existence of an invisible friend , who in their world , is indeed very real. They say the fear of you sitting up there in heaven ready to punish mistakes makes them keep to the right track. Civilization is a long process, which also involved intellectual development and from the long experience of living was filtered the idea of justice and morals. One is good, because, one is intrinsically so, this development can be considered a parallel to Darwinian idea of evolution. We do not need you, god, for us to remain good.

History shows that religion has been the cause of slaughter and murder more than any other reason. Human mind is a fascinating thing, one moulded or conditioned; it is very difficult to uncondition it. Yet it is this very character of human mind that is being exploited by many in the world today. One hears of terrorism, a riot…is it any wonder that it has been called the opium of masses. Dear god, you are indeed a victim in this world of human beings.

Your existence is dangerous, god. Its time you changed your form again. Its time you morph into that wondrous feeling of awe that one feels when one stands on the beach and looks into the deep sea. Its time you change into the deep admiration one feels on observing the subtlities of nature. Its time ,that you dissolve into the nature and take with you , all that your name has come to mean. And then dear god , shall I be your deepest believer.

PS : References can be traced to the excellent book by Richard Dawkins “ The god delusion”

THE SRM SAGA

2009-04-13T10:38:00.000-07:00

Far away from the hustle and bustle of Chennai city, in the tiny village of Potheri ,which was once a pasture ground for cows and natural Habitat of stray dogs stands the SRM University. If you haven’t heard of it before , do not consider yourself an ignoramus , as , myself , currently a student there , heard of its name only a few days before I was formally enrolled into the B.Arch Program , which is of course , a superbly orchestrated program lead by a group of sadists of the top order.

Aquiring an admission into SRM university is a particularly hard task , especially if you happen to be gifted with a sharp intellect. The only requirements are -
a: Do not attempt or if attempted , do not qualify in any of the entrance examinations
b: Be the Progeny of financially sound parents. NRI’s preffered. Or be on the state cricket team or volley ball team or any obscure sports team on the state level.
C: Do not possess a weak heart and rigid moral values as the sights you might encounter here may be harmful for the weak hearted.

Once you find that you satisfy all three of the requirements you are ready to be a part of SRM university. You can either choose to be a hosteler or decide to be a day scholar. As an experienced Hosteler and novice day-scholar , I can throw some light on both these alternatives.
Being a Day scholar offers you two transportation options – You can either choose to avail the air conditioned SRM college buses , which will cost you nearly half of your tution fee amount. Of course , one of the requirements of the university is a rich parent. The buses require you to wake up at unearthly hour in the morning, but allow you blissful air conditioned sleep in cushioned seats , handing over your life to the bus drivers.

If you are little on the miserly side, you can choose to travel to college in the metro train , which is definitely a quality and enriching experience where you’ll be provided with an opportunity to rub shoulders with people from all spheres of life – school kids to vegetable vendors to flower sellers to even blind beggars And on your lucky days , you might even get a decent area to park yourself in , instead of having to fit in the two inch space between any two co-passengers.

Now that you have reached the college, make sure you are wearing your ID card , which is of utmost importance. So much that some patriotic SRMites have even composed a song underlining its importance swearing that would wear the ID card even if they have to go without a pant , shirt or even an underwear! If you find yourself surprised when you witness rare human specimens with varying , hair colours or imaginative body piercing , tattoo etc , understand that you are a country bumpkin , grit your teeth and move ahead .Do not be shocked if you catch glimpse of a golden haired foreigner or a lanky Ghanian student , SRM does have a few of these specimens who joined the institute for some mysterious reason. Push your eye balls back into the socket at the sight of “The food court” which can easily offer competition to the food court at a decent-sized mall. Control your mad desire to rush at steaming dosas or oily and cholesterol-causing but extremely alluring aloo Parathas and ignore the lure of Javagreen – the home of death by chocolate. Of course , we give education the first place here at SRM, its evident.

The food court gives only provides you a reason to look forward to , as you endure the first half of the day , in eager anticipation of the lunch break , during which you can merrily contribute to making SRM richer. Leasure time activities are many – you can learn horse riding on the two harassed looking horses in the stable , or even go for boating in the SRM lake. Or browse through the highly priced books at Higginbothams. You can use the in-house bar “cheers” , which is of course , a hangout of the local dev-dases whose numbers rise drastically as the final semester of the seniors draw to a close. Like I mentioned , SRM –ites lead a life dedicated to acquiring quality education.

Now , dear comerades , unfortunate students who fail to obatain subsidized education seats in IIT or related institutes , and wish to enjoy the unique SRM experience , an approximation of the fund required –
Tution fee – Rs. 100000 per year for four or five years
Transportation - Rs 880 per year , if u travel by metro rail
Rs 40 000 per year if bus is chosen
Food - highly variable, but considering you are an average eater
Rs 12750 per year.
Additional expenses , considering you havea life - Rs 100000 , for an SRM ite country bumpkin for a year . Will vary if you are the “dude” kind.
Total expenditure - Rs 10,13,630 for five years for a person belonging to the normal category. Highly variable depending on many factors. Which cannot be listed on this blog considering this is read by one’s parents and extended family.

And what can the progenators of the mathematically challenged in the world do , but turn into unwilling NRI’s ?

MAN MISSING

2009-04-10T08:49:00.000-07:00

Fool is a very relative term. Considering the raw abundance of dim-witted people in the world, I consider myself quite lucky to have been gifted with some grey matter. Of course , I am being called an idiot , fool of first order and being referred to as a donkey on a regular basis by many , which only goes on to prove my point about the alarming frequency at which fools appear in one’s life. So I only found it ironical that the world should dedicate one day of the calendar, namely April 1 as fools day, somehow giving an illusion as if fools are a rare commodity to come by. Such were the thoughts that plagued my mind as I undertook the long journey to college in the ladies compartment of the metro train feeling particularly old and wise as I watched the chattering first years trying to mug up for the series test that day. I had long stopped the practice of studying for series exams – a sign of maturity indeed.

First hour happened to be Estimation, a particularly boring subject taught by a poor creature, who no doubt, must have accumulated enough bad karma in the previous birth to have received such agony in the present one. So there she was, talking to a few front-benchers as the rest of us read newspapers or sent and received text messages with admirable ease. I, an authentic backbencher was hailed into the front seat by – hmm , lets call this interesting character, Topper [ who also happens to be my flat mate] as her usual companion, the Geek [another co-resident of our fateful flat] was absent that day. As the topper expertly banged away on the calculator, I diligently copied from her notebook, the series of numbers and random terms which made very little sense to me. The day was as predictable as any other or so I thought. Thats when the mobile phone, set on vibration mode began blinking and shaking from inside my bag beckoning to be answered.

The battered and badly scratched yet valiant screen of the phone told me that it was the MBA cousin who was calling. MBA cousin is the official Diva of the family and is raised on a pedestral to be worshipped to by the rest of the lot who still happen to be in college. MBA cousin and her equally revered husband, US-returned, live in Bangalore. Of late, another cousin Lover Boy, job-hunting in Bangalore is a resident at their house. Lover Boy and I are close associates, and I, with my amazing intellectual capacity have solved many of his life’s problems, and brought on romance in his life by helping him get acquainted with Lover Girl, his only passion and purpose for living.

A whispered hello into the phone was met with a frantic and worried MBA cousin’s voice. Apparently Lover Boy had failed to return home the previous day and was not answering his phone and wanted to know if I had Lover Girl’s number. MBA cousin was facing death – a resident , supposedly under her protection found missing would been a sudden drop in her rating and the pedestral banned for good , add wrath of furious Lover Boy’s parents – worse than any death sentence. Lover Boy was always very secretive about his girlfriend’s number and would not share it , probably scared that we , his cousins may relay any dangerous information to her. I promised MBA cousin that I would acquire the number somehow and call her back.

A series of images filled my head as estimation rambled in the background – Lover Boy dead in a terrible accident, Lover Boy kidnapped by terrorists, Lover Boy married to Lover Girl in some registrar’s office . The last being highly possible, Lover Boy being the sentimental kind. Each possibility being more disastrous than the last. Heart in mouth, I called cousin Mother Teresa, the perpetual do gooder among our group. I had a vague memory of her solving several of Lover Boy’s romantic troubles , acting as a mediator between him and Lover Girl . Mother Teresa ‘s international number was frantically dialed and Lover Girl’s number demanded which she happily ignored and started a tangent topic passing on some very urgent gossip , at which she was severely cut off and Lover girl’s number demanded with a briefing of the situation . Mother Teresa being weak at heart immediately let out a shriek-sob . At this point , Estimation teacher who was trying very hard to ignore me could take no more – and informed me that I would be sent out if found misbehaving anymore .

Having pacified Teacher with few excuses and highly creative brain providing more imaginative images of reasons for Lover Boy’s disappearance , and receiving torrents of text messages from a nearly-dead MBA cousin and Agitated Mother Teresa - the day was far from normal. Lover Boy killed by Lover Girl’s family. Lover Boy abducted by aliens. Love Boy and Lover Girl’s filmi style suicide. Probabilities were many.

An hour ticked by . The credit in my phone reached negative values – thanks to the national and international calls placed and messages sent . MBA cousin’s message knocked at the screen.

“ Lover Boy was found in the loo
Talking to Lover Girl
Thanks for contributing to the
Great lost and found search”

APRIL FOOL!!!!

Followed by various little smiley faces showing sheer pleasure .

The weak hearted Mother Teresa had called an equally weak hearted Lover Girl who turned into a blubbering mess , I presume , at her darling Lover Boy’s apparent disappearance. And of course , a ruckus erupted which led to the grand finale of this Super plan engineered by Lover Boy and MBA cousin.

The degree, to which people go to make a fool out of me, is almost a huge compliment to myself. After all , you can only fool those who are not already fools.

Sigh.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

2009-04-06T23:25:00.002-07:00

Happy birthday little blog. Today you enter into the big wide world of the internet. You are, but a tiny little part of the sprawling web, this huge chain of interconnected computers which is almost the life-breath of many in the world today, including the rather weird character who is your author. It is amazing place , little blog , this internet , as it gives people a strange gift called anonymity , and behind the cloak of anonymity , people sometimes take off their masks that they flaunt in the real world. That’s how the real world is , full of actors and actresses , and this view prompted a great writer , Shakespeare to describe world as stage where one acts to the best of his ability till the curtain falls to end his short life.

Oh, but let me not inflict my bitter views on u, blog child. You are still young and innocent and yet to reflect all the thoughts of your author who is very prone to cynicism. Yes, living has spoiled her, almost, and she has morphed into a queer person that not many, but herself can like. You might wonder why, your author, known for frantic copying of assignments and last-minute mugging up, general laziness, to sum up, has built you this home on the internet. I can offer a myriad of reasons, yet the prominent one might be her love for the written word and the addiction to it. The charitable attitude of her friends who’d applaud at any of her written work might have helped in raising her confidence level, which is almost always touching the bottom of the scale. But of course, ego is her good companion and she would die before letting anyone raise a critical word. Such is the working of the unstable human mind that your author possesses.

Stand still, little blog, let me have a glimpse of your infancy, you have no clue how blissful is to possess a clean slate for a mind – prejudice free and unaffected. Grow, my blog child and learn to develop a voice.. Swim in this salt water lake , they call the world…easy to swim through , but hard to swallow , as an Englishman named Arthur stringer has said. I hope your creator with her flickering interests does not lose you in the tide. Be her companion as she struggles to unlearn a lot that her twenty one year long existence has taught her and practices her gymnastics through life, dodging disappointments and capatulting through difficulties.