The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars

I have been wishing to go star gazing for a while now. Somewhere I can see the black sky dotted with glittering stars...not unlike those shiny dupattas you get, only much finer, much grander.

 

And I finally got a perfect location for it, 34000 ft. up into the sky. 

Aboard a flight en route to Zurich from Singapore and four hours into it, having finished watching the 'Gone Girl' which by the way is one of the most mind messing movies I have ever seen, I happened to look out of the window.

And what I saw took my breath away; the massive A380 wing stretching impossibly far into the void against the background of the sky of my dreams.

I craned my neck in all possible directions to take in as much of this sky as was possible from the tiny window (literally) of opportunity. The closer stars boldly declared their existence while the ones away just registered their presence before they seemed to disappear. The sheer number of twinkles, the concentration of the starry pinpoints against jet black was overwhelming!

Laws of nature never cease to amaze me. What I was witnessing then was a snapshot of what was. And that it will be millions of years before someone sees what is. 

As I tore my eyes away from the panorama above to look below, there was another sight to behold. I could see a layer of sparse clouds far, far below me, and a lighted up city sprawling erratically till as far as I could see. I switched to ‘Flight Path’ on the screen to identify our location; and what a moment I had chosen to look out of window. Since just then we had entered the Indian air space (above land that is), travelling west from the Bay of Bengal entering the state of Orissa.

Wow.

I felt a surge affection and longing as only your country can trigger. Distance makes hearts grow fonder took a whole new dimension for me at that altitude. 

I was also less scared, and for sure it wasn't because I was in my motherland, in a way. No, India doesn't evoke a sense of security at any distance and in any direction. It was because I could now visualize our plane flying between the boundary of the sky above which in my imagination was a like a sheet stretched across above us and the golden twinkling landscape below. I am always more scared when I cannot see anything outside the plane window, or worse, when I can see water below.

The fear of unknown manifests itself in strangest ways. 

Am I the only one to feel relieved when I perceive that there are limits around me? Maybe limits isn't the right word. How do I express it? Boundaries? Walls? Cage? Sanctuary?

How primitive is my sense of safety! Lock the gates; lock the car doors on a deserted road. I remember the time I was petrified to step out of the car in a deserted parking lot at midnight. We had driven there to have a glimpse of a star laden sky. But I couldn't get out of the car. It was dark, it was quiet. I couldn't see where the boundaries were and what was within.

Even at 34000 feet, the boundaries of a plane aren't enough.

Did I digress?

Sigh, it is a beautiful night.

I don’t get it. I just don’t. What could possibly be the reason for this? Hurting a child, who is probably not even aware of how is she different from the one who did that to her. A child! What do you do in such a case? What do you talk about? Patriarchy? That cannot lead to this. Progressive attitude of the girl? Revealing clothes? Daring to walk alone? WHAT? What could one possibly attribute this to?

Deranged minds? Psychological disorders? There are a bit too many cases like these to shrug them off giving these reasons.

Solution? Gender sensitization? How the hell does that sensitize people to not rape a child? Girl, OR a boy? A child for god’s sake!

If I ever decide to have a kid, I don’t think I will have the courage to bring a girl into this world. What could possibly justify bringing a being into this world only to be harassed or molested or raped or murdered at some point in her life? How will I let her play outside with her friends? How will I trust her to a relative? How will I keep her safe? How will I let her be?

There and Back Again

You never grow out of home sickness, do you? Rather it grows on you progressively as you grow up. Or maybe it is that you become keener or more aware of what it is that never let you stay for more than a week at your Mausi’s place and run back home. There is of course that bit in you now which irks you with boredom at home, you fidget in the confinement, you crave to get out, but, you always, without fail, yearn to be back…back home.

The whole growing up just prevents you from bawling away and flatly refusing to budge from home or calling up your mother from a strange city and crying your heart out. Only now, you cry when they are not looking, maybe in the kitchen, maybe into the pillow at night. Just that now you realize that your parents when giving you strength to leave home or to stay put in a new place, grow steadily weaker. It is only now you realize how much of their life is about you, or rather all of it is. It is now that you start thinking how unfair that is. Always one for a balanced relationship, you now see how badly out of balance this relationship between parents and their kids is. Not that you care less for them, but while your day will comprise of your family, office, friends and many random people, so much of their day is spent in thinking about you, talking about you amongst themselves or to other people or waiting for that daily call.

Add to that the fact of you being hopeless when it comes to conveying that you care for them. Yours has never been a family of words, but gestures…so when you mother breaks down while making rotis for you, there is little you can do but cry with her. When you father points that today is the last day you are spreading that mattress on the floor to sleep on, with a smile, you can barely manage to say that you are coming back.

You are glad, that you are starting a new job, that you are at the onset of a new life, but you also know that your parents have long ago stopped giving any thought to their own life. It has been about you long ago, your school, your college, your fees, your clothes, your intern, your job, your marriage, your future kids. This should not happen. You know that in the long run you will be able to perhaps make up a bit for all the sacrifices your parents have made for you, but that seems so far…and so impossible to do.

Knot or Noose?

“What are your thoughts on marriage? ” asked my mother, one abysmally humid morning. My mind went into an overdrive immediately. To an innocent bystander, if such a person exists and I have never understood why ever would such a person be around and would be eavesdropping if at all she/he is there, this would seem like an innocent question put by  a mother aimed at making routine conversation  with her daughter, maybe as an endeavor to know her more. But no, this question went much more deep than that, much more intricate were the intentions and it had a sinister connotation to it. It could be roughly translated as, “Right, so we plan to marry you off and we have option(s) but we roughly have the idea as to who we like the best”.

While the cold in my feet slowly began to make its way up, I tried to select an appropriate response among the many that popped up into my head instantly. “Well, it is an interesting concept, I have a good mind to experiment with it sometime in future… maybe”, or “Who have you been talking to? Who knows I am home?” or “I think it’s a horrid way to end your life with a lot of pomp and splendor aimed at feeding people most of whom I don’t even know while the same money could be put to much more sensible uses and I have no intention of going through the ordeal” or the loud and simple childhood claim, “I won’t get married!!!”

“What?” is what came out, with a laugh that faltered on my lips and cold that had now clamped my heart. Things are much better in one’s head are they not? All was not lost though; I would pretend to be tickled to death by the absurdity of such an idea even occurring to her. That should make it evident how preposterous the proposition would be to me if my mother decided to go explicit, or so I thought.

“When do you intend to get married?” There, straight to the point, there was no way around it. But I would be calm, take it easy.

“Is it time yet to talk about that? I am just a graduate! I have not completed my education if that is the news going around! I am yet to do masters in…err…something! Why do people have to assume so much! Why did you let them?!” I broke out vehemently and poof went my decision to take it in my stride. I had broken into a run right away! I am sure my face then bore the marks of being faced with an utmost horror. Well, you can’t blame me…I can at least leave the room when a lizard gets in, but this? There was no way out of this!

It was not entirely unexpected; ever since my elder sister got married I was getting a lot of “You-Are-Next”, accompanied by a grin supposed to convey I am not exactly sure what and a malicious glint in the eyes. To me it is a signal to grimace in return. Seriously what pleasure do relatives take in pointing this out? I was much happier with Arey-Kitni-Badi-Ho-Gayi-Hai! Though really, I have never quite understood the surprise there too, you meet a kid after ten years and if you still expect him/her to be of same size, that is evident lack of imagination and how cruel it would be to the kid if at the age of 20 she/he looks the same she/he did at 10, how unjust is this expectation!  

At a wedding, a birthday party or any family gathering, I could see the throng of my married cousins slowly advancing, some of them holding their kids, the rest after handing over their kids to their respective husbands, and to me it seemed they actually grew taller, more menacing, their grins transformed into cackles of evil laughter, their faces suddenly alight with sadistic pleasure at the sight of one more facing the gallows! I cowered and before they could get me, I would get a sudden call on my cell and run for cover, get me an invisibility cloak someone please!

“I am just asking, what are your plans?” she was never the one to give up so easily.

“It does not figure in my plan. Who have you been talking to? Anyway, please do not go ahead with anything, can’t you just tell people I am too young?”

“You are not.”

“Fine. But do not take any move until and unless I express a wish to be slaughtered thus.”

I was waiting for Mum to strike back, she did not. Phew! Now the question, who? I was sure this was not the end of it, there would be more to come. I asked my eldest sister that evening. 

A little investigation brought to light the entire matter. It was the random doctor we met in Vrindavan who generously offered my mother to contact him regarding my that-which-cannot-be-named, whenever she had a mind to, he knew an obviously-well-educated-and-rich family in Noida with an obviously-highly-eligible-bachelor son working in Bangalore (where else!). It was also my Sister’s-Father-in-law’s-Brother’s-wife who had an offer of a guy in wait-for-it Bangalore! Seriously, why is everyone in Bangalore!? That poor city will explode! It was also my Brother-in-law’s-Mother’s-Sister’s-Daughter’s-Husband who also exhibiting the highest consideration for the plight of my parents having an unmarried daughter on their hands offered to share his knowledge of an eligible bachelor in of course, Bangalore!

It took me a while to overcome my bewilderment at the mind boggling extent of this ever burgeoning marriage market! I mean, what does it thrive on? Surely it can’t be just the future prospect of a free dinner and a position of high prominence in the two affected families as The-One-Who-Made-It-All-Happen! What is it that makes them willing to accept the overwhelming responsibility of vouching for the decency of one family to the other, the daunting prospect of being the first to be blamed and taken to task lest the match does not work well, for again he/she is The-One-Who-Made-It-All-Happen! No, I am not against the whole system, far be it from me to say a word against these noble women and men working tirelessly for others' benefit, if only in this respect. It works largely well for those interested…interested being the keyword here.

I just wish there was some sign, you know, which signaled that the particular guy/girl was ready to tie the knot( what a depressing and ominous expression!) Maybe something like a particular candidate making a public appearance wearing a white handkerchief on her/his arm, a sign of surrender. But I understand that could be embarrassing; maybe something subtle then, like when the mother cleverly lets something slip. But this unasked for assault does little for the peace of mind of those who suddenly find themselves the unwilling centre of attention owing to nothing but the virtue of their being the Next-In-Line! Who formed this line in the first place?!

As I had anticipated, there was more to come, but that my sisters would betray me had not yet occurred to me, but well, they did. The week when both my sisters were home, there were moments when I was in physical pain! My mother, father and both my sisters (most appallingly) would sit in a room discussing the Rishte. I would run out of the room but not before registering my severe disapproval and utter disdain for the entire discussion, to no avail of course.

“Humour yourself. I will run away if you try to force me into something!” I know they do not take me seriously but well, they have been warned.

Anyway, I knew now I had to be cautious. Just the previous morning I went to this grocery store, Naval-Uncle-Ki-Dukaan, where I have been going since childhood.

“So you are at home now? Your studies are over?” inquired Naval Uncle with that all too familiar raised eyebrow.

I was pained. I am sure Caesar would have felt the same when Brutus stabbed him. But no, I won’t give up like Caesar did, besides, this was no Brutus!

“Nahin Uncle, of course not! I am home only for holidays! There is ample time for that!”

Seriously, maybe I should get all these people Idea 3G, you know, get them bijji! On a different note, brilliant Ad! 

Are You There?

Right. So, how have you been and how are you? Long time eh? 10 years...you are 32 now! Gosh!

How have you changed? Or have you changed? I am trying to remember exactly when it was that you gained so much importance. When in teens, all that future consisted of were a few exotic and happy images painted in an untroubled mind. I know better now. I guess it was when I started using the phrase going-out-into-the-world that my growing up process was triggered, quite a pain really. But I don’t deem I have yet. I have been going-out-in-the-world at each step ever since I first left home for Kota.  It never happens does it? This whole going-out-into the-world thing. The world is just too big. Too cruel. I always create a cocoon around me at each new destination. A miniature version of what I envision as the big bad world. A few friends, many enemies. I revel in it; I agonize and cause agony in it. There is chaos theory naturally, and I know these small spheres must all intersect with each other. I know not how though. But this does not concern me as each time I meticulously build a private orb. And every time I need to break out of it, it calls for courage and causes apprehension as much as it did the first time.

Anyway, you must look pretty different...or do you? Yeah alright, that was a euphemised way to refer to the whole process and I must stop kidding myself. It’s a wee bit early for me to be afraid of the Turning 30, so I will assume that you are handling the associated blues alright, if at all you suffered from any. For now, 25 seems threateningly close. Then I remind myself, it’s the time I took moving from class X to out of school. That’s time enough. Do you still retain the habit of visualizing time thus?

What do you think about me now? I remember how I felt when I joined IIT Roorkee three and a half years back, all ready to grow up. In fact, I believed I was already and thought the school self of me so juvenile.... I just read an article I wrote then about all the transformations college life brings in. Three months here and I was talking about not trusting people, carving an identity, doing something worthwhile in an IIT. I sound pretty dumb really, assuming so much so soon. Nevertheless, it’s easy to perceive the underlying tranquillity. It was a self I longingly look back to just three years later. Is that how I sound to you now?

I realize how naive I was, just like I refer to my school self in the article. I have committed blunders since then, they appear quite funny now in retrospect eh? Some happened in full consciousness and mostly in a way they usually do. They just do. I get so lost in the vision of how I expect something to turn out as, that I ignore the obvious warnings. But then, that is the way it has been with me, don’t you agree? I can never learn by applying logics, inventing situations and analysing my reactions, in my head. Not until something hits smack on the top of it that I learn. Not until it cracks open that I do. I do hope you are quicker now. 

Are you smiling reading this...thinking I have it so easy now? Do you want to come back to this? I wonder...when is it that we stop growing up? I hope we do some time, it is bad enough already.

Or is it the contrary? Do you think I have been hopelessly hopeless? That I am far from being wise for my age? Have you learnt to let go then? Have you learnt to be consciously happy?

Heck, so have you realized what this word ‘happy’ means then? I am nowhere close. I definitely can discern when I was or am happier, by a comparison against some spell when I was miserable. In an absolute sense, I just can’t make sense of the word. Everything is Relative. Every Single Goddamn Thing. Remember how I have always wanted to live in the present? Sigh.  Of late, it has not been possible without an eye on you, on the future. I am sure quite a lot of things I am worried about currently have been resolved by now only to be replaced by something deadlier or so must appear to you. Seriously, can you believe how much we wanted to grow up back...10 years for me, 20 for you?

How are Mum and Pa? I am assuming they are with you, I dare not think otherwise.  Did you manage to express how much they mean to you? I wish I could tell them. It is strange you know, being an extrovert and not able to tell my own parents how much I love them. Well, they definitely must not think of you as a kid anymore. Is that a relief?

You know me well, so I am leaving a few questions unasked. Surely you must know to what all I am referring to or have you forgotten me already?

This will do for now. Don’t worry too much about when you are 42. Take care of yourself and Mum and Pa.

By the way, I hope you are alive.

My Precious....

As I take a quick flashback look at the last twenty two years, it’s a confused and unfocussed vision, a blur of the flurry of events and people hurrying by; all that which has left an indelible mark on me, be it in the way of a lesson learnt or just a memory earned! Change is an inevitable part of growing up; a process longingly looked forward to in childhood and wistfully looked back at later. Not that all the changes are unwelcome but they make life unnervingly vague. Even my family has undergone a transformation especially in their opinions of the world around and of me. They previously thought I was a rebellious nuisance, now they think I am an uncontrollable one.

One part of my journey so far stands out, unmoved, unabashed, and magnificent as it looms large in my memory, with all the assurance of its constancy in a forever changing life and its patterns, and with all the sense of protection it has never failed to offer me against everything, even myself. My house. Going home spells going back to this 300 or so square feet area as much as it does going back to my family.

I have grown out of boycut and rasna cut hair, dividers and frilly frocks, lollipops and Parle G toffees. I have progressed from a tantrum throwing child and a tiresome adolescent to a (hopefully) mature girl. But more importantly, I have also grown from laying down a claim to a single compartment in the cupboards to possessing them completely, from sleeping with my parents I gradually started to sleep alone in a room. These were the small and hardly compensating benefits of elder sisters leaving the house. This room which I proudly call my own is something or rather the only thing now, about which I am dangerously possessive. The only traces it retains of my sisters are the medical science books of one in my ‘study’ cupboard and a painting by the eldest above it. I wonder how they felt about it when I meticulously transformed their erstwhile domain into my own bearing my unmistakable signatures, literally and figuratively, all over it taking little care when I destroyed theirs. I was furious, for being left alone but I was delighted for I could finally realize my dream of ‘my room’.

Going out into the world, as it is called, heralded an era of metamorphosis into something I had and still have little vision or idea about. It marked the end of childhood and a beginning of the realization that after all, being a kid was perhaps the best thing that could ever happen to me and I’d rather not grow up as I so wanted to. Amidst the uncertainty which forever shrouds me, a visit, however brief, to this haven never fails to rejuvenate me. Returning home to find my room exactly as I had left it gives me a happiness surpassed by few other things. I wonder how my sisters felt when I took this away from them in my naivety. I do regret it now. They never said anything, but then, I have always been a tad pampered and I am pretty glad about it.

 It is only here, in this house, that I can be content with doing nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, not even thinking. I love its wide spaces. I love the fact that every wall is at least 1.5 feet thick and has a window or a gate in it. It was constructed way back in the 50s with little thought to privacy but a lot to cross ventilation and stuff. The fact that the passage to the interior of house, for anyone not content or distant enough to be restricted to the drawing room, goes through my room has always irked me but we have never had too many visitors whom I would not gladly invite in.

I refused to get the cupboards painted from inside, they are covered with my scribbling and postcards. Some I wrote for inspiration, some in desperation and some to vent out my anger. One I wrote when my eldest sister got married and left me thoroughly miserable. I can easily visualize my entire childhood in these scribbles. I can see how my hand writing changed over time. Once in a fit of I-don’t-know what, I decided to paste pistachio shells around a window in my room and then paint them. Quite predictably, my patience gave away before I could paste half of them and there they remained for over four years before Mum and Pa finally got them down for aesthetics sake.

The posters, sketch books, cards, collection of erasers, stickers, key rings, pens, stamps, the 52 certificates, report cards, and all the books that I have ever possessed are all that remain of that bygone world. I do not live in the past, but I do preserve it. Every time I go back, I never fail to go through one or all of these, for a stroll back into that time. I am struggling to describe the exact effects it has on me. It calms me down, amuses me, motivates me....

I have my favourite places. The corner in the drawing room secluded by the sofa where I snuggle for a quiet reading or retreat for a few silent sobs. The window sills. The chair in the veranda inside on which I love to stretch out with feet popped up on the wooden divan alongside it. I remember the patterns paint has etched on the doors. I love the fact that it has five terraces and three courtyards in all. I love the fact that it is so old, a few on its walls get damp in rains and the tiles in the courtyard, the inside one, have swollen up to form a very small mound due to the same reason. I never would have thought possible that even stones can be so accommodating and flexible. The roof leaks at times in rains when the leaves from the peepal trees, which surround the house on three sides clog the drains.

I can’t even begin to think how will it be going back to a different house, or will it ever be same. I cannot bear the thought of it being demolished. It never failed me, but I have. I do not know the day which would me my last there. Perhaps, that would be day when the mound would finally burst open.

The Infliction of a Life.

I feel humiliated every day, as I mark my attendance in this God Damn hostel. I feel humiliated when I see the lock being put on the door. I feel humiliated every time a security guard finds it in his right to tell me what and what not to do, where or where not to sit or stand, when or when not to arrive in the campus or hostel. All this for propriety sake and who define the propriety? Those who exploit it. Guards letch, policemen rape and the administration is not untarnished either. What kind of perverse mind makes a group of four guys and girls sitting on the library steps shady, inappropriate or offensive is beyond my understanding.

Reason being? Safety. From Whom? From the very guy(s) sitting with me, whom I have trusted to be decent. But of course, girls do not have the sense for that now, do they? I have to be protected from the people I believe to be safe with. The fact that they seek to prevent something which is by the agreement of both sides and always fail to even appear when it is unwilling makes the situation all the more ridiculous.

Besides, the very hormones they seem to suspect, I wonder what makes them sure of those produced by the ones employed to suspect or their own for that matter. I definitely am not. The guard at the library entrance, given the duty of ‘checking’ out, quite literally from top to bottom makes my skin crawl. Every time I pass through any of the campus' gates, I am painfully aware of security guards’ shamelessly unwavering gaze.

The fact that our administration believes in enforcing of security by caging in the endangered rather than impeding the pursuer has been embedded so firmly in the minds that the guards have assumed all the rights to rectify any girl and in any way. They snigger as I pass, pass lewd comments when going by on a cycle and have the nerve to warn me against reaching my hostel after 10 PM. Needless to say that to prevent anyone else from doing so is something not of their concern but of course they take sufficient care to point out our fault in being present at that place.

Also, what is so grossly wrong in two full grown adults deciding to spend time together, and why are they not given the choice of how they want to spend it so long as it does not defy the acceptable normal forms of social behaviour. They can anyway do whatever they want, I wonder if the administration comprises of too genuinely and abysmally dumb contingent to know this, or that these rules are the product of their frustration on the realization of this fact.

Yes, I am fully aware of my vulnerability but I would like to have the right to take care of it myself and count upon the administration to make it safe for me to do so. I can be trusted not to venture alone on a deserted road, I do not need to be told not to. But even if I do, I would like to believe that I have every right to do so and I have the support of people being paid for it.

If I stay out of hostel after 10, alone or with any guy, that should be my choice. What I choose to do should be my discretion. I defer the rights of defining morality for me to no one. And yet, I have the care takers dictating me on every corner. The sheer insanity, unfairness and illogicality of the situation eats my insides with rage and make me want to rip apart the person before me, piece by piece.

In my opinion, it is more of an exercising control thing than any genuine concern for the person. The wardens and the supervisors employed in a girls’ hostel have come to consider it as their kingdom where they are the queens. It is a sadistic pleasure they derive out of making the girls miserable to spice up their hopelessly mundane lives. Who does not crave authority? Oh what a thrill it gives them to call up our parents to insult them when we are late and demand an apology letter. If a male worker letches on a girl, it is of course the girl’s fault in wearing shorts. If a thief steals, it is the fault of the victim that she left her clothes out to dry. This campus abounds with pathetic rulers, too impotent to do anything that calls for a bit of effort.

All this but, much pain though it causes me, is bliss. I read what goes on in the world beyond. That women’s bodies are a site of punishment to the male members of the family is a thought that makes me want to hunt down every man with this mindset and turn him into an eunuch. It starts at the elementary level, where it is the mothers and the sisters who are targeted whenever an abuse is to be hurtled at some guy. The fact that I serve as a warning to my father on certain occasions makes me want to disappear.

The instances of gang-rapes, performed in the presence of police, ministers and most agonizingly the sons, brothers, husband or father of the woman are too frequent to be considered as a work of few disturbed minds, it is a carefully developed system, nurturing on the way our society is fabricated and functions. I am too paralyzed by the thought to express the anguish it causes or to write any further.

I wonder at the solution of it…and I see none. I am left to live with my helplessness and slowly wither inside.

I cannot be a woman. I do not want to be a man. I'd rather not exist.

The Chronicles of Cooking- Part I

"Here you are, now try flattening it."

"Err…how do I start?"

"First cover it in parothan, n try to make it round and flat and as thin as possible."

"Right."

This was the start of my cooking exploits in kitchen under the expert guidance of the best cook ever, yes, my mother.

A one month stay in Noida last year was enough to knock some sense in to my head as to the urgent requirement of me knowing my way around these areas. If not flawlessly, then palatably enough at least to keep me alive. DD was the one with me in Noida, an excellent cook I might add, and we did prepare our own meal. My job, owing to my incompetence in the finer art, entailed the chopping up of vegetables( after taking necessary instructions from The Mighty DD), washing extra dishes and the usual running-to-market-for-that-extra-pack-of-curd which Mum also employed me for frequently in my childhood. I never grew out of it sadly.

One not so fine day, DD went for dinner to her cousin's place, and I having politely( and foolishly) declined the invitation was left to take care of the dinner for myself. God bless the noble soul who invented Mobile phones, and I proceeded to cook some rice with Mum reciting continuous instructions in my ear. Well, when I thought I had understood it all, keeping down the phone I went on to add spices, which Mum had ambiguously denoted to be 'a bit'. To top it all, I had not the faintest idea as to what is that which they call zeera.

Deepti, another PG mate was thankfully in the other room, another of those equipped in the art, and I asked her to identify it for me.

"Listen, can you tell me what is zeera, or rather which is?"

"Hai Rabba! Where is Shalu?"

"Err...to her cousin's place".

I remember vividly the expression of pity that alighted her mask, and was a severe blow to my self esteem, it was the one I am not likely to forget soon, the one which I still see in my dreams, the one I recall whenever I conveniently forget the true meaning of 'Being Independent'. I remind myself that I might not be blessed with such benevolent partners in future...I was not this year but that is another story.

It was an expression quite like the one my mother wore right now.

"WAIT! Don't pound on it as if it were some one you are trying to kill, go gentle and easy. Apply force on all sides, redistribute it as and when necessary."

"Right.Err…I don't see it coming out round or uniformly thin. What do I do to correct it?"

"Nothing for now…"

"I think it is way too thin from here, almost torn in a manner of speaking, do I add extra dough on this part and make up for it."

Mum's expression had transformed into the one of exasperation, I could but faintly see the traces of the pity which sat there a few moments ago. I could almost see her rebuking herself in mind regarding the lenient handling she subjected me to, where the matters of the Kitchen were concerned.

"Haven't you ever seen me doing it?! What were you doing the few times you happened to stand with me in the kitchen?"

"Err…"

("I was too preoccupied with the thoughts of leaving I guess…")

"Alright, now pick it up and place it on the tawa. You surely could have done without those useless guitar classes. Go on now..."

I endeavoured to pick up the what-do-you-call-it which bore a striking resemblance to a map of asia with edges blunted. I wondered if I should point it out to her to lighten the matters up, but after a careful consideration of the situation, I dropped the idea. She scarcely seemed to be in a mood for appreciating the ways of nature, the way geography manifests itself right in our kitchens. On one of our doors in house, the paint has dried up and it looks exactly like the outline of the South Asian continent...but that is drifting away from the point. Do you now see now? My heart is just not there in this thing. Dash it, I told myself, I need to survive and that involves keeping the aforementioned heart beating.

So, as I placed, or rather slapped the what-do-you-call-it down on the tawa balancing it precariously on my fingers…it overlapped over itself.

"Oops!"

I tried to put it straight, needless to say it wasn't going well. Perhaps the fact that I was wary of the tawa being too hot held me back from making a good effort. My mother impatiently pushed my hand out of the way and put the matters straight. Literally.

"Now pick it up and see if its cooked from the down side, and when it is…apply ghee on the top side and toggle it. Then apply ghee on the other side and while you spread it, move the parantha round and round on the tawa with your hand."

"Err…after how much time do I check?As in, how many seconds?"

Another scalding look. Between her and the tawa, I thought it would it would be nothing short of a miracle if I managed to come out unscathed. Mothers have this quality of making you wilt under their looks.

"It is most probably burnt by now…apply ghee."

I did.

"You want to be a bit more lavish with it…a wee bit more won't make you fat or something!"

"Whoa…go easy! That's too much now…."

"Alright. How much then exactly?"

"What are you? Completely dumb? Use a bit of your instincts, keep your engineering out of the kitchen."

She has started to lose it, it was turning steadily more dangerous. I reminded myself to tread more carefully around her and tawa.

But common! How are you supposed to rotate the thing when you can see that it is damn hot! I can't imagine how my mom's fingers aren't scalded! I am sure mine arent insulated that way! Anyway, what finally came down from the tawa as a pathetic excuse for a parantha proudly sat upon a plate…challenging anyone to eat it.

Having already laid the condition that I won't eat anything I cook, my mother valiantly took up the challenge. She made it out as if only the shape was grotesquely wrong and it was perhaps tad burnt, apart from that it should taste alright.

I felt guilty nevertheless. I wonder if that's what she intended.

P.S. Tell me what do you call it in English what you call 'Roti Belna' in Hindi?

P.P.S: Long time...how have you been?

And That's The Way It Is.

There are times you wish you knew a person better. Indeed, there are times when you wish you could tear apart the person before you and turn him/her inside out. A glance, an untimely hint of a smile at the corners of the mouth, a smirk or the lift of an eyebrow for the smallest discernible faction of a second drives you into an insurmountable rage which you can but express.

At the other times, the same signs lead to a flash of realization, an awareness of the truth behind the facade worn by the person. The hurt then is so complete that you wish you never knew! There is no way to decide which condition you would prefer to be in.

There are innumerable occasions when you would go to an unthinkable extent in support of your friends while there are a few when you think you are capable to reach the same limit but this time to cause them a terrible insufferable pain. When you yearn for vengeance, a vicious payback for an injustice, a betrayal.

It’s inexpressibly relieving and bliss when your friends understand what you want to convey, disclose, without you having to explain it all, or at all, a task not enjoyable always. You can’t be grateful enough.

But then, when you understand too much, when you can see through, when you know, but can’t let on that you do, it’s suffocating. You can’t be disgusted enough.

There is a part who wants you to talk, perhaps to understand it all better, perhaps to ask for an approval, to gain an affirmation or perhaps to just share. Then there is a part who would rather you close in on yourself, be impersonal, unaffected.

You want to relax, safe in the knowledge that you can be yourself, that you can trust. You want to breathe easy. But you also struggle to free yourself from these bonds which threaten to strangle you, choke your belief and faith to death.

You have no way to decide which way to go.

What you want to be, you can’t be, for the sake of your own sanity. What is required of you is something you have never wanted to be, a person you would hate, detest, a mechanical and manipulative version of yourself.

This is the tension of opposites.

You hate and you care. You detest and yet you appreciate. You strain to hold on and all the while you want to let go. You get tired of people trying to be someone else. You get tired of trying to be someone else for them. You get tired of holding yourself up. You get tired of making efforts....

Writer's (Un)Block!

In the last three months that have elapsed since my last post, there have been times I endeavoured to pen down something for the sole purpose of posting on the blog. All that I came up with was either too personal, too much of a give-away, sometimes my thoughts would be incoherent even to myself, sometimes I found it too difficult to express and at other times it read as something plainly forced. And of course, there were times when I was plainly just...stuck. With the first paragraph written and an ending in mind, I would just stare blankly at the screen, reading what I had written, repeating what I had in mind and struggling to find any way to connect the two. The result is that I have seven unfinished posts and innumerable are the occasions which I thought would find a place of honour on my blog. Well, what actually happened is all too evident. My blog speaks for itself with nine posts in all!

I remember the day I put in my first post there. It was a big day for me, with everything typical of all these so-very-important days. I envisaged myself entering into an arena swarming with whom I had always considered, The Bloggers. The present looked agreeable and the future held a lot of promises. Oh yes, I was now one of Them. I could just see myself typing feverishly; I could hear my brain whirring inside me. I made a firm resolution to live up to the expectations from a great blogger and to dish out articles worthy of such a great place. That I would be regular was oh-so-obvious! Was there a doubt in that? Nope, not one in sight. Yes, I had made a good start at what I foresaw as a most fulfilling journey. I aimed at emerging a better writer and it goes without saying, a better person! Naive? Well, who is not at the start of anything new?

That was the day and today is one. With a year elapsed in between, there are only eleven posts on my blog including one which I did not write myself, minus one which I deleted.

What I then failed to take into account amidst my ecstasy was a fundamental flaw in my plan. I have the innate trait of being impulsive enough to send me typing at all random and required times but lacked what it needed to keep me at it, what they all popularly call patience and perseverance.

Though, in all fairness to myself, my diary has certainly seen better days than my blog! But that is another issue altogether....

I have now fully realized the difficulty of writing for a purpose. Most of my posts (Yeah, I know there are not many) have been a result of immense emotional strain and an urge to get something out of my system quick. There have been more of those, but as is proper, they are safe in my diary.

My writing skills, as I’d like to call them, need polishing, a job which I thought could be achieved to some extent with the highly looked forward to and now resentfully looked back at, creative writing(an elective) course. I was not completely in an illusion after a rude awakening to the truth of the HS department by a research scholar there. Still, my hopes of learning something were at least alive if not high. They were crushed after the first class.

It was evident I would need a lot more than what I previously thought would suffice, to sail through the sea I had thrown myself in. (I am bad at symbols I know.) The demon reared up its head. (Pathetic) Behold...the beast of a phoem! (Speechless with shame) As it turned out, that is all creative writing is about, poetry. Prose? Oh a child could like a story. Humour? Huh! Substandard literature! Poetry is the highest form of literature, the most respected, the most honoured. The poets occupy the pinnacle of literary achievements! They must, seeing as they are always least understood.

Poems have always been a wonder for me (frustrating too if I might add.), a mystery where anything could mean everything! I remember when in a class the teacher read out some lines of a certain person always having to smile for others, leading a fake life and of being tired of it. I took it to be a poem about a receptionist or an air-hostess but as is proper for a poem it turned out to be lines for an old man tired of his life!

It was a double whammy of writing as when required and commanded with the additional compulsion of it being a poem! Even during my four years of studying poetry as a curriculum part, I tried my level best to avoid them as much as possible. I always experienced tremendous difficulty in reading ‘between the lines’ as they call it. I don’t recall being able to comprehend what was there ‘in the lines’ for that matter. There is always this much-more-than-what-meets-the-eye aspect to poetry, a behind the curtains of words meaning which I inevitably fail to grasp unless helped by a teacher or a guide! I attribute this to my naivety in the subtle and gentler forms of expressions and a rather annoying, uncomfortable though rather convenient habit of being point blunt! The metaphors which poets derive from everyday life, the all time favourite moon, a rock, a leaf and what-not, always leaves me flabbergasted! In a habit of always seeing things as they are, it never occurred to me to personalize something as some other thing! Not that I haven’t tried, being able to write poetry is a privilege and lately more like a crucial survival exercise now that significant portion of my grade in the subject depended upon it.

They said it required strong feelings. Well, I certainly have a lot of those. Maybe it wasn’t so tough after all!

And so it came to pass that in a tutorial class, being surrounded by blossoming and established poets with the monotonous drone of our mentor ringing loud in my ears I wrote my first ever poem. That I was sitting next to a person well accomplished at writing this stuff wasn’t helping matters. It was with tremendous trepidation that I handed it in and with a critical eye passing over it a little too fast...it was proclaimed...good! I heaved a sigh of relief even when I was sure he had not understood it. But wait, there was more to come, there was a nonexistent flaw in my grammar in the very first line and I had to go through the trauma of explaining what I meant by its usage which was by the way, supposed to be obvious.

Anyway, the history repeated itself again in the end semester exams when in fifteen minutes I managed to write 10 lines which actually rhymed on a Child’s innocence.

So here I present...the silliest lines ever to be written by a 21 year old...

The Lost Innocence

To watch the world with wonder;

To trace patterns in the clouds, gaze at the horizon,

And imagine what's yonder;

To feel the warmth of sun inside,

To play with birds, frolic with friends,

And nothing bad enough to deride;

To forget all pain with the mother's kiss,

The time when ignorance was sheer bliss!

Growing up has left me with little to gain,

Oh! How I wish to be a child again!

Well...in my defence I would say that they rhyme atleast albeit like a nursery rhyme! In all honestly, it wasn’t all bad...the classes were fun with feelings escalating being those of ultimate elation and depression in tune with those of our legendary teachers!

With fond reminisces...I sigh and sign off here....

Happy 10^th dear blog!

Here I am...This is Me...

It was so familiar a sight, something I had been seeing for years, something a part of my routine, something so customary that it had ceased to be acknowledged, so much there it was that it wasn't there any longer, I never even noticed when it evanesced from my life. I was yet again about to pass by it acknowledging it unknowingly, unconsciously when I stopped dead in my tracks. I stood there transfixed looking down at the white orange flowers strewn on the ground. Harsingaar. It took me a moment to realize that here was a sight hailing back from oblivion. An oblivion I don't recall having entered into. So poignant were the memories it evoked, so intense the recollections that I had an immediate urge to stoop down and collect them. Of all the exotic forms in which harsingaar is quoted, mine is perhaps the most mundane, the most plain. These were just the flowers I used to find sprinkled on the ground forming an orangish white amorphous mesh, inviting us to feast on them. I was too young to fully appreciate the aesthetic aspect of it. For me, they were just pretty, sweet smelling flowers. In fact, even as I picture it now I am left paralyzed when I try to describe it in words. I fail desperately in trying to explain the contrast it presented against the otherwise brown earth. The peace of the sight against the hustle bustle of the kids around. I can just appreciate, revel in a beautiful view but can never recreate it through words to the same effect, much to my chagrin!

Not that the patch was left alone for silent contemplation! It was exploited fully, completely, much to our delight and satisfaction. Not for the sake of the destructive sense of mind kids are generally assumed to possess, but to be put to more gratifying uses! We stringed them together on longest possible sticks( I have no other way of describing what we did!) and gift them to our teachers. I remember the hurry to reach the school compound from the bus stand, the disappointment at finding the best flowers gone and the rest trampled upon. It was lame, stupid, dumb, and innocent, the happiness at being the first one to gift it to our teacher was genuine. There was a feeling of victory against rest of the classmates without a malice. There was no jealousy on a defeat. So innocent a quest, a battle and so pure were the happiness and disappointment likewise! Those were the only times I remember being glad about my relatively short height in the class as that put me near to the teacher, near to my target!

As I forced myself to move on, whole of my school life ran through my mind in an extremely quick flashback…with faces just flitting in and out of my thoughts. So rapid were these recollections that before I could concentrate on one face…it dissolved into another! Among these, the most prominent were those of my teachers. How glad I was of their attentions, of support, of hidden favoritism and of obvious love! I wonder how would I have turned out if not for the teachers I am lucky to have had! I remembered my sheer glee when I was told about my teachers arguing, each claiming me to be her student! Self obsession, narcissism, self importance and words with meaning in the same strain did not exist then. It was just a token of appreciation which spurred me to do better, excel myself and rise up to the expectations harboured by my teachers from me( and teach the ones who did not a lesson!). These fond reminiscences are what still keep me going in the most trying of times.

Coming to college has been good for most of the part but lack of good teachers is what I lament the most of all the grievances I have from this place. After passing out, if I ever get down to discussing the professors, I sincerely doubt if the discussion will encompass anything more than their eccentricities!

Apart from this, I wonder if my college life will gift me with memories so powerful and so moving as the ones by my school life…I wonder if my life here is actually moulding me into a better person? I wonder how has this place contributed to my life, in a good way, leaving aside the friends I have made…have I done anything worthwhile so far!?

On an optimistic note, I wish, pray that this place goes down in my memory as a treasured part of my life! I hope, yet again, that I will be able to retain in my memory all the best times I have had here and am hopefully yet to have!

On my way back I stopped and performed the old ritual again. I was happy, in a way I have not known for a long time now! I wished that this would permanently imprint it on my mind, with no danger of it getting lost irrevocably into the realms of forgetfulness ever again. Yet again, in an desperate attempt to hold on to all the memories…I pray that I am able to remember them all forever!

But I wonder, how many priceless ones have I lost so far….

P.S. I don't think its exactly a comeback…just consider it as a faint sign of life from someone just recovering from a near death experience! This explains the title of the post I guess....