An Amateur's Attempts

Calendars for a Cause

2012-01-05T00:34:00.001-08:00

Bereft as I am in many other ways, I have fortunately nevermissed the company of the creatively inclined. They have a spark in them thatcould make them agents of change, they are thinkers who could possibly innovatesomething of marvelous value. I recognize that potential: these people are bothvaluable and priceless. They inspire my shying creative side to break a shell and speak a little louder. They’re interesting creatures who toil incompany of constant criticism, a little bit of encouragement and mostly, asense of passion and purpose.

Kiran Ravikumar, Aditi Dinaker and Ashwin Dange are little morethan photographers. I heard about ‘Calendars for a Cause’ when it was just anidea in its initial stages. The thought was to design a calendar for 2012 andsell it. Nothing extraordinary in that, except for the fact that all the moneycollected by selling calendars goes to charity. I found it selfless andbeautiful, how talent can be transformed into something that can give back tothe society.

The money collected is channelized for the financial needsof the poor. It not only goes to a school in Ramabai Nagar, Mysore, where 300kids from underprivileged families study but also to towards building a libraryin KS Garden Slum for underprovided kids. These are highly inspired twenty-somethings trying to make a change, and they only ask for a little help.

The photographers have worked really hard to make this calendarhappen. The pictures chosen are captivating. They’ll surely light up your roomor your work space. It is indeed remarkableto see these people come up with such a splendid calendar in a matter of lessthan a month.

It takes much dedication and commitment to make something of this proportion manifest itself in such a short period of time. And I personally think they've worked very hard, and all for a good cause, in true spirit of selflessness and intelligent thought.

“I tried encouraging people to buy a calendar,” aphotographer friend said, “Nobody came forward. I guess people just appreciateart, when we talk financially, they don’t value it that much.”

Well, we should change that, shouldn’t we?

Participate in the change. It takes a simple act of buying acalendar.

So this new year, choose to be kind. Buy a calendar and passthe word.

To learn more about the cause: http://www.calendarsforacause.in/about-this-cause/

To order a calendar: www.calendarsforacause.in/order-the-calendar/

I bellow my flames: An incident of fire

2011-11-27T11:50:00.001-08:00

Fire.

What jumps to your mind? A blue tongue of a Bunsen burner?
For me, a phenomenon jumps to mind.

I was witness to a phenomenon.

Don’t mistake me to be pyrophobicto be uttering words with such a solid emphasis, but it was a phenomenon. It was the sort of flame that I have notseen this close, this destructive, this completely capable of altering myinsight. Small scale was a word I would not use, even if it seems appropriate.It wasn’t small scale for me. For me, it was a phenomenon.

The day started uninterestingenough. I was stressed for my final exams, and studying was going nowhere.Unable to juggle my academics, being home after so many days and the radioshow, I was clearly collapsing under the strain. I gave up trying to reasonthings out and decided to take a nap in the hopes that it would alleviate themild signs of stress that were beginning to descend, hallmarks of the finalseason. I woke up late and grumpy. I wasn’t exactly saying thanks to anybodythis season. Exams? No thanks. There was nothing to be thankful for.

I woke up to a phone call. By thetime the mobile phone was off, I heard mother: ‘there seems to be a fire’. Irushed to the balcony. A fire was raging outside, spitting up flames and smokewas roping its way to the night sky. It was a sight to see. I stood up on abalcony chair for a better view as I heard brother repeat that he was scared. The fire was truly terrifying. I couldn’t ascertain if itwas spreading, my brain was just numb: all I saw was a definitive presence ofthe fire. The chair was not balancing me well enough, and as I wobbled in thenight air, I heard strict instructions.

‘Hey, get down!! Get down NOW andhead out to the front. We’re trying to control the fire.’ It was a PoliceOfficer with his flashlight. As I rushed inside to let everyone know, my heartwas throbbing.

‘Quick, fire, evacuate.’ What doyou take with you?

What becomes important? In thatone second, everything had changed. As I sensed the importance of the moment,nothing mattered more than family. My family, a cell phone and—at the lastinstant, a camera. That’s all that mattered as I rushed out of the house,following many other residents with backpacks, running away. The moment waseerie. There was only a raging fire in the background and small lamp posts. Therest was darkness and the babble of people. The rest was all of footsteps andshadows. Faces didn’t matter, what mattered was being calm about this.

Many people walked away, in manydirections, huddling in groups. But the interesting thing was—there was anothergroup. Another group of people that wasn’t quite running away. They lingered.They lingered with fire in their blood. They lingered to witness something theyknew was not ordinary. They wanted to stay and see what happened. They were notthe confused lot; they were at the forefront, spectators of the fire with theirmobile phone cameras and video recorders. The police had cordoned off the area,but they tried their best to stay within limits as the terrifying eveningunraveled itself. These everyday people became journalists in that moment: theybecame the photographers and the media professionals. And the firefightersbecame the true heroes worth watching.

As I tried to push myself intothe bunch that lingered, I thirsted to record everything. It was a new, acutesort of excitement—a realization that this wasn’t an everyday phenomenon, andthat this was worth recording. I didn’t feel a sense of danger, for I knew Iwas at a safe distance. There was only that much I could do. I couldn’t runinto the fire and help them calm it, but I could at least witness it from asafe distance. Now, I was completely awake and caught up. The adrenalin rushinduced by the gripping atmosphere as we collectively stood witness wassomething beyond description. I was more than alive, I felt acutely consciousof every tiny detail. I knew the people around me without knowing them, my mindmemorized where all the apartments were, what was burning, and how everyone wasmoving. The atmosphere was charged and shifting. The undaunted fire wasrecorded from various different angles until the police sternly warned me tostay back.

As the fire got slightly out ofhand, we were further instructed to completely evacuate even the lawns and moveto the high school ground next door. The cold night air held uncertainty aspeople shifted about, talking loudly. The parking lots were full of people. Aswe rushed to the car to get out of here, we heard that there wasn’t a way outfor cars. Forced to park them in our lots, we stood around, waiting for furtherinstructions. The Sheriff’s car was here, and the fire truck was flashing itsbright lights in the distance. I suddenly felt lonely, even with family. If thefire spread, it would hit my apartment in minutes and everything that we haveever bought could be reduced to ashes within seconds. The fire now was afierce, undaunted orange glow in the distance, blazing off the rooftops—thatwas all I could see. I moved to the high school grounds for a better view, simultaneouslyupdating my facebook and twitter with updates of what was happening. It was nota foolish thing to do. I wanted the world to know currently, this part was notsafe. Please, stay away. It was the inner journalist in me awakening.

I watched the fire blazing fromthe grounds, now from a farther distance. It was all a nebulous glow. I onlyfelt the cold night air settle on my skin and make me shiver. I shivered notjust with the cold, but also in fear. My brother and I had split apart here. Iwas looking for him. He called my cell phone.

‘Come up to the stadium, you cansee much better from here. You can see everything that’s happening.’ I took thecue and rushed there with the rest of the family. The stadium held only ahandful of people who seemed to have discovered its benefits. They were highup, privileged by a vantage point that unraveled the entire dynamic scenesbefore them. It was something that looked like it was from a movie.

Smoke everywhere. The fire truck,the firefighters. The hoses and the water. The endless fire engulfing andburning the wood down to ashes. Everything was visible here, a panorama, aterrifying landscape unlike anything I had ever seen. As I stood there, high upwith a dozen others, I felt I was part a shared fate. As the scene before mechanged from millisecond to millisecond, clearly visible and dangerous, Irecorded it all. It was something that was truly unfortunate, but anunforgettable experience nonetheless.

The cold night air hit us as we stood high up there, in a solitary world thatseemed to be somehow distant. We were spectators. My hands fumbled in the cold,but I was beginning to grasp the severity of the situation. We stood there tillthe fire was calmed a little. There was such insight to the moments I stoodthere. Many, many thoughts flashed through my mind. I perceived life as a gift.I felt special. I felt fortunate. I felt fear. I felt insecure. I felt thrill. I felt anxiety. I felt awe.

As the night air became a blur ofsmoke, I knew the fire was calming. The police had cut off the electricity connection;all apartments were bathed in darkness. Multiple phone calls were visiting usand puncturing my involvement. A kind friend offered to be host. We were allshivering in the cold, and there was nothing more we could do. We walked to hishouse, away from our apartments, shaken by how unbelievable this evening hadgotten.

A while later, as I calmed mynerves to Hindustani music and tea like nothing had ever happened, I looked atmyself. I was replaying the photographs I had taken just now, they werereminding me how fragile life was. And just this afternoon, I had beenthankless for my situation, my existence—worried about exams. My perception wasso shallow. Right now, I was simply grateful to be alive and unaffected, asmust have everybody in our apartment.

I’m back home now. It’s been fivehours since the fire. It’s nearly midnight. The power is back. But the damageis apparent. My internet is not working. The parents are calling Vonage phoneconnection. There is a deathly calm, like an aftermath. A couple of police arehanging around. And I know that most of us have gone home.

Many people proved to becourageous tonight, and I’m proud of how they’ve behaved. I’m thankful for hownobody was hurt, and how nobody died. I am thankful for the immense courage ofthe firefighters. But most of all, I am thankful that everyone who matters tome is alive. Sometimes I forget that that—just that, is enough for a lifetime.I’ll not forget this evening.

My account of the incident: 12:33 AM on November 26th 2011

Update: The cause of the conflagration was a kitchen fire that engulfed and invaded an apartment. The fire massively spread to the neighboring apartments soon afterwards. Nobody suffered injuries, the only injury is to property, thanks to the timely manner in which the fire was handled by the fire department. I'm grateful to them. The videos I took were released to ABCNews Channel and aired.

Not so Verdant, but pink

2011-11-09T19:12:00.000-08:00

Pink is framing the horizon. Shesocializes there with the lavenders and blues, tempted to flirt to someromantic poetry. She is neither the moody haze of an indecisive shopper nor thebrooding shyness of a wallflower. No, she is the unearthly, catchy enchantress. Mixing, shethinks she rather not be insignificant. She unravels herself in a bold,attractive display, so that the skies are all her, and even the somber,undisturbed waters hold her entire in every glowering molecule of everyshimmering droplet. The blues and the lavenders of a late evening wither away,cowering before her sudden courage, and the egrets are awed. They survey herexpansive brilliance on the late evening on their stilted legs, reasoning whythey have turned victim to her flamboyant moods. The decision of pink is anunearthly demeanor for the skies to wear this season. And slowly, with the ripples that affectthese waters to a sudden disturbance, suspiciously like in response, the egretslift their feathers and rush to the horizon on wings that hold earnestly: waking, enthusiastic, infatuated. They rise, rise, rise and rise above, in a transcendent love. Froma fleeting train, the beauty of the moment is witnessed, recorded andsmiled at.

I have never seen a pink so bold,or marshlands so absolutely Moorish. I have never seen this from a train home,travelling alone, with just me, the marshlands and vagrant dreams for company.The writer scribbles a little into her books, but even the books don’t attracther like the skies outside her window do. She tries to sleep, but even reposecannot coax the tempted mind into opening her eyes to witness more of themelting pink, now persuaded into thawing. The egrets are still there.Surveying, stilted and out of the waters. Now, they are part of the skies,rising free. The waters have been painted, and the skies frozen in the cold.The writer is refusing to scribble anymore. I look outside, in a mild sort ofway. Here, there is healing.

It helps to be young. It helps tobe thirsting. It helps to find the wanderlust. But it’s best to go home. Theflatlands run away, fleeing me like they were repulsed by my passivity, panickysprints into the past I do not see. I do not tamper with their feelings; I onlywant to get lost. I remember the earlier shades of me: the somebody who used to get excited over random scenes like these. But yes, this is I, returning to her earlier self. Because the music on the hills await. Here, outside my window, there areendless, balding hills severely colored by pink’s fancy moods. Not so verdant, but pink today. Here, the egrets know their ways, and in this worldof auspicious beginnings and soaring heights, there is an unburdened eye thatcollects an understanding. This is a sight I have been waiting to see. This isthe sight. Because these pictures are not glaring computer screens, theseegrets are not mechanized human beings, but much more than just postcards. Taking off into the eternalsky that holds everything and beyond. And as they rise and as they fly, that iswhat they tell me. That is what they tell me.

Evening trains and side lanes. Always lazy. I wonder the stars. I hear the telephonelines droop with the weight of all the conversations they carry, with the windsand sometimes with people's chitter-chatter, ferrying the whispered talks, burdened in between. A whoosh of thought. Then, I forget.The window, the lazy trains and I. Homeward bound. The world here in solitary,windy and rising free. And soon, I will be home.

Since the Book

2011-09-23T21:43:00.000-07:00

The heart held the visionsgingerly, like they were the most breakable things in the world, for whenfortunes dropped them, they would shatter into shards that flew everywhere; andthen the soul couldn’t dream again. It held them with a shimmering hope. Notslightly, but gripped secure with clandestine intent: wanting. Whereupon, Idwelled, in prevenient contentment of alost somebody; in illusions now bullied to the forefront, in sporadiccreativity of late-night reverie.

I will not tell just anybody, but Iwill publish a book. Because Amma said that someday, it would be possible.Because someday, I will be an author. I will sit on a proud chair and signthose copies. Because I will give a speech, and tell everyone that I have alwayswanted this. There will be a podium, there will be people, there will bejournalists who have come from far and wide, and photographers from somewherein the dark, visible only in sudden flashes on happiness, like the moments ofthe past.

I typed a book that month. Itwas 80 pages, and it was named The Heart Remembers. I was the only person who everread that book. Starry-eyed, I saw it in paperback. Delusions met the pride,and then, I harassed the printer to translate the abstract into tangiblesolidarity on loose A4 size sheets. Yes, 80 pages. 80 pages of grammaticallyincorrect, stupid collection of childhood stories that didn't quite match up to"mildly interesting". Yes, 80 pages of senselessness with only ateenager to vouch for its credibility. Yes, that book would be a best-seller.Definitely.

I don't know why the braingripped so hard at that delusion. It was just something I very clearly wanted,without knowing why. I could not cleave the reasoning or philosophize it. Itwas just blunt wanting. I want to publish a book.

Every year for the past fiveyears, I have lived with that thirst. I, who typed on computers on January nights,saw these stories on paper. I, who typed each and every blog post weaved thisinto a grand dream; everything would be a book. Nothing would go a waste.People would hear me as I called out from the podium of my mind. Imaginedapplause listening, waiting to explode. Peoplewould hear.

It was no small dream. So they consoled me then whenI presented the manuscript; they assured methen, when I edited it and presented the manuscript again, they told me they’llpublish it then, when I was still a teenager and hoping---repeated on a latenight as I typed; when I bought up the topic, when I was depressed, when myeyes spoke the uncertainty, when I said I wanted this so badly, when stuffedaway those 80 pages knowing that it will never visit the printing press. Replayedlast summer, and the summer before that, and the summer before that. The 80 pages yellowed and crumbled away.

But still the dream grew dangerously, I was still gripping the vision. I want to publish a book.

It was very very uncertain thatit would happen, and the dream was on precarious ground. Why then, was it notswayed by dejection? Why not, by the sullen moods that extinguished every otherrampant desire? It was unscathed by any such poison, it always endured.

Even after teenage ended. Withevery blog post. It has always endured. It did not just exist, it burned. Likean immortal flame for five years. Even if it would never happen, it would bethe grandest dream I have ever envisioned. And it burned on, bright, blazing,beautiful.

_________________________________________________________________

I saw these people there, onplastic chairs. All waiting. Only the very few who even cared. I saw their eyesmeet mine, and that was resplendent to the festivity of my heart. I sat with myhead bowed, when unjustly eloquent praise was heaped on me. I talked a nervous speech.I heard the applause from five years past sounding exactly the way I hadenvisioned. The heart slacked on the dream now materializing. I saw flashes oflight, like the past grazing the pastures of the certain mind, and it was the most glorious thing I had ever seen.

No gift has been better, no recognition more amazing. No degreemore meaningful, no journey more compelling. And at the end of the day,happiness to me is this: to be a writer. To be turning the pages of An Amateur’sAttempts, and finding in myself the hope, the courage, the grand dream that heartcradled delicately in its insomnia that dark day. Peace had finally found me, seeping life into these struggling, difficult ambitions that had finally made it's words a book.

I was a writer.

(Photo-credits for these pictures of the book release to Vijay raj of IClicked Photography ;

. For more pictures of the event, go here. )

Lighting a Way

2011-09-07T15:26:00.000-07:00

* An article that I had once written for an e-magazine that was unpublished and never made it. I still found it too beautiful a true-life story narrated by a doctor to ever consider not being published. So, here, I share, Lighting a Way: a story that truly taught me a thing or two about kindness.

She came as five, scrawny and poisoned. Orango-phosphorous substance that killed rats and vermin, the young doctor recognized. The sickly invasion had patterned her skin by then, and the doctor wiped it off her. Light had cheated her eyes. The pupils were constricted. The mouth and nose were cleared by assessment. The heart cradled a slow, dull rhythm. She was still breathing.

The young Pediatrician set up a steady drip of Atropine after calculating the dose for her meager weight. The mother had come with similar fate, too unconscious for the pangs of distraught, panicking love. Then they left them to their separate battles with unfortunate adventure. It was going to be a long night.

The call from the registrar of the female ward at 2 o clock in the morning pronounced that the mother had succumbed. Luck had tested the unknowing child, orphaned prematurely in a life that would require a great deal of tenacity. She had lived to only be stranded. She had fought, only to be burdened. She existed, only as a tiny inconsequential speck in the constellation of struggling souls whose sighs heaved and saturated this hospital air heavy with anxiety. But the smile she presented the doctor showed no knowledge. The smile she presented the doctor was innocent, fresh. It was a tender awakening of an extraordinary relationship.

It was the middle of a relentless summer in the small city of Mysore. The emergency ward of the Children’s Hospital had always been busy at times like these. It was the time of the year when the sun mercilessly poured in the heat to burnish these tall tables covered in flaky grey paint and line the rubber mattresses covered in a green rexin sheets, announcing sickness. Up above, a couple of fans protested in their rusty frames, doing only little to dissipate the unsettling stupor. It was a bewildering landscape and that sparked fear in the now-dilated eyes of the young one. Her eyes met the doctors with a hesitant, pitiful fixation. “She looked at me for another second or two and then the most glorious light lit up her face and eyes as a smile made its way delicately into her visage.” The doctor recalled later, “She sat up more erect and I rushed towards her and lifted her blanketed light frame into my arms.” My name is Parvati, she whispered to him.

Parvati’s questions would come later, on the lap of the weary pediatrician. “Where is my mother?” A simple query with a tragic answer. The poisoning was now a police case, and none could elucidate the mysterious circumstances under which the mother and daughter had been found splayed on a hotel floor. The doctor saw the child in and around, dropping by between his routine check-ups. His almost fatherly affection for the child grew between those rounds, she melted his heart. Once, they even escaped for a fun holiday, buying popsicles from across the street. He had showed her the reflection in the mirror, with tongue turned a gaudy purple from the savoring. She laughed then and changed his life.

There was something special about Parvati, something enigmatic, beautiful and simple. She was the face of eager honesty, a natural curiousness of a growing child. She was innocence that lived in troubled waters. She was an angel; she was bundle of joy that bought cheer to this fatigued hospital space.

The days had only been rolling. She was healthy now. She could run about and squeal in recognition. She could tell the doctor her stories from a comfortable lap. She could smile with fire in her eyes. A hospital was no place for a well child to be. What was to be her fate now? The police had decided on placing advertisements in the newspaper for someone to claim her. Else, she would be stuffed away to an orphanage. The doctor then cycled all the way to the Police Station for a word with the Superintendant. The ensuing conversation was persuasive, pleading and polite.

“He could see how much I had come to care about this little girl. That evening, when I went home on my cycle, Parvati rode in the back with me. She was quite delighted and kept laughing and singing all the way.”

The doctor had made an important decision. He had saved the girl from the clutches of death, and he had now assumed the duty to save her from the wrath of a merciless world. Parvati was to live with the doctor until responses to the newspaper ads came. Here, she became Jyothi, the light of the doctor’s life, the radiance that bought peace to his household. She came to be regarded as much more than just a somebody; she came to be family. There was a new fullness in the doctor’s heart, much like that of a proud father returning with a newborn. Jyothi scampered around all of the house, exploring with newfound excitement.

The little one was the new sensation, not just in the family, but elsewhere as well. A journalist promptly arrived on the doorstep one morning, begging for an interview. They turned him away with clever lies, protecting the child from media attention. Police Case, that’s how the papers would address her, not as Jyothi. The doctor wanted to shield her, fiercely protecting. The paperwork only found neglect in the Police Station. The replies that the ads expected never came, but a couple of people expressed interest in adoption. It was a bitter-sweet moment for the doctor who had nurtured the child so vigilantly. The attachment was strong, he wouldn’t let go so easily. He personally cycled to the place to meet with Jyothi’s prospective parents.

They met them in Bungalows, good families of aristocratic power. When Police Case and the death of the mother were explained, the couple politely declined from adopting the child.

“They feared the mother was of ill-repute. I felt a deep pain in my stomach almost as if I had been kicked by a horse.” The attachment had grown enough for the doctor and Jyothi to feel a joint pain.

Jyothi understood the rejection, even if she was too young to grasp the magnitude of such choices. It hit her hard. She only cried, and the doctor hushed her into calmness.

A second call came. This time, they were careful to not get their hopes up too much.

“I may be able to find a mother for you today.” The doctor told her. She was unusually silent, her eyes never leaving his face. They cycled again. The house was a poor one, on the first floor of a many-storied building. The family had three children, a homely mother and a loving father. Jyothi took one look at the house and fell deeply in love with it. The parents embraced her. They took Jyothi into their arms without hesitation or second thought.

The doctor knew it was time. He arranged for a familiar lawyer, and the adoption was made a quick, hassle-free process. This was a goodbye he would never forget. Jyothi, the light of his life, would light another family. She was to leave his household and find meaning in life. She flew away to the happy safety of a new shelter. He missed her often. Three months afterwards, he cycled to meet with Jyothi and her new family. They had shifted to a better locality and the little one was doing tremendously well. She smiled again and enriched the doctor’s life. At that instant, he discovered a sense of profound fulfillment within himself, a sort of calming enlightenment that comes with the knowledge of doing good.

Many years later, the doctor had migrated to England. He had set up medical practice there and was flourishing. Jyothi was a little thought in the back of his head now, a shadow, a question, a curiosity. A phone call from India from his mother informed him one day that Jyothi’s parents had visited. Jyoti was now in Singapore, happily married and mothering a baby boy. The doctor was delighted to find his answers. The parents had left for the doctor a statue of sandalwood, a mark of their respect, a token of Jyothi’s overwhelming gratitude. The little girl was all grown up now, but the thankfulness hadn’t left her.

The Ganesha statue of sandalwood sits today by the doctor’s bed-side table, reminding of a blossoming, an enduring bondage, and the beauty of human endeavor.

Just a little note

2011-06-05T20:57:00.000-07:00

An Amateur's Attempts has always been that first blog--the start of something. It was my first step into writing. It's made so many things feasible for me, and I'm happy about how it has aided my creative development. I hope that it always stays that way.

I had never really found the need to found another blog for writing, but strangely enough, this year has changed me in a curious way.

I used to be a writer. And then I became 19. and a photographer, painter, scientist and friend.

Growing up, I thought I’d become better. But a channeled love, a channelled concentration, a channelled patience, found it’s diversification. I did whatever I wanted to. I painted. I drew. I clicked. all in search of the thirst to prove that i was good in so many things, wishing upon a perfection in the self.

I’m quite a humbug. And there is one power that is slowly fading in it’s neglect. I wish to pick up the pen again. I wish to pick up the pen, and begin writing, even if the day's worth of writing might come to nothing.

All the things that I write, though, don't belong here. I write these sentences, and then give up on a developing story. I proceed five pages, and then suddenly realize that the plot is dissolving. Sometimes, I halt confused. An other times, I continue and still not find it worthy enough for this space. You see, essays not always develop into wonderful things. Not all sentences become research papers, and not every thought, a story.

Yet, I decided to write, atleast a paragraph everyday: it would help me keep in touch with writing, and exercise the brain.

I began stories like so:

“The second month of the summer solstice. The heat is enervating below the mango tree, refusing to dissipate, adamant and furious. He burns her olive skin but she’s unafraid of tans. Reaching for the ripened fruits and irritated by the scratches on the palm, the thieving proves itself difficult. Before they wake from afternoon naps, she’s sprinting across the open fields, snakelike and victorious— beautiful in stolen moments, the unknown outcast.”

And didn't know how to proceed. But it was a little bit of creative writing for the day, and I didn't wish to throw it away, even if a story might never grow out of these lines. I didn't know what to do.

And such excerpts, such ramblings, such notes to self: I decided to store away in my repository. I have named her SillyIntelligence. Aptly so.

Someday, I hope to transcribe these writings into something more fruitful.

Until these little notes, excerpts, and pictures grow to become stories, I shall put them in the little shoe box and hope for a better day.

Go here if you wish to read up on the smaller things.

Love,

Lakshmi

Arpan

2011-05-07T11:05:00.000-07:00

It’s another day in K.D. Colony, New Delhi and a girl sits outside the parapet walls on late evenings, listless, swatting the mosquitoes that irritate the miserable compound. The walls are high. In her heart are countless questions, a quiet dejection eats at her. Motivation is lacking, and the sighs repeat themselves over and over. When you have big dreams, and yet no sense of direction, what do you do?

Some girls go to Arpan.

It’s not lavish with its blue walls of painted plaster, charts scattered here and there. A varied array of teaching equipment, a white board greets. But the humble simplicity that welcomes you is their temple of sacred motivation, where dreams are envisioned, understood and realized. It is where the cocooned pupa of hope, confidence and a love for life starts to break a shell and struggles to grow it's wings and fly,… to flutter about the imaginative minds, to reach greater heights. It is the blossoming of the most remarkable of stories. For six such girls of K.D Colony, this is home. Why is it important to go to college? they ask themselves, Why should I learn? And here, they find their answers, together. Here’s where their aspirations are sheltered. The feeling of sisterhood, a bonding, of shared experiences makes this a place of purpose, value and high regard.

This house was built with vision, too. A vision to help. “We aren’t short of philanthropists but we want to work as catalysts.” the founder had once quipped. When a bunch of students from the University of Delhi started Bodhi Tree, they were curious and excited about the project. It was something that seemed a big challenge to them: to sensitize the community to understand the importance of the financial independence of the girl child. They also wanted to help people lead a more fulfilling life. And Arpan was the early brainchild of that project. They’d achieve this no matter what, the students thought; they’d bring a change, one person at a time. It was the sort of decision changed everything for them.

Arpan today has become more than a home for Sneha and Zeba who came up with the project. Education here is free, and is supported by only a strong web of student volunteers from nearby universities and colleges. When it’s time for the people to light the lanterns, the girls huddle around in groups to relearn English, to be counseled in career development, to be educated about scholarship opportunities that might be available to them. They practice their writing in the traditional way, sitting cross-legged on the floor. They’re introduced to art, dance and theatre. Interests take shape, and creativity is unleashed. They participate; they find talents and exhibit them. No wonder the girls must think this little place as sacred. It’s becoming a part of who they are, ingrained in their identities.

For the founders, this is their fond achievement, but they believe in not slacking when their project is budding beautifully. “We intend to broaden the opportunities available to our girls as well as train them to use the available resources to the best of their advantage.” they tell me, “Our first step is to enable them to obtain improved social standing as well as acquire better employment opportunities in the future.”

The girls look back and reflect on the year 2003—the year when the project was founded, and changed it all. It’s been a life-altering experience, a dream that brings them closer to achieving a better, more independent world. The sustenance of the project is critical for the education and empowerment of women. If you live in Delhi and have some time on your hands, pay a visit. Teach the girls English. Talk to them and socialize. And you’ll see what dreams are made of. You’ll be of much help.

"It is such joy to empower people, to help them to help themselves." is the message that Arpan sends. And the smile in the eyes of these six girls speaks of the same joy, the same sense of purpose, the same aspiration…and dreams crafted of a sincerely strong resolute will.

(*Many thanks to friends and founders Sneha Thakur and Zeba Rizvi for the pictures. And tons of thanks to Bharathwaj Narasimhan for introducing me to the Arpan Community. I'll always be indebted. Tons of love to you guys!!!

--Lakshmi)

Link to Arpan's Facebook page is here

Painting Classes

2011-04-03T20:16:00.000-07:00

The medium of instruction was noise: the kids were to be messy, noisy, and themselves, recording all that in their sketchbooks. Sunkad sir of the Indian Institute of World Culture was no ordinary man, and his expert painting skills called for much attention. I was ten when Amma dropped me off to painting classes in the hopes that I’d blossom into the next Michelangelo. I’ll be modest and say that I almost got there, but in my defense, being terrified does things to your bloated self confidence. The Indian Institute of World Culture was an old building. I was petrified in the beginning—scared of the oils and acrylics that stared down on me from every corner, uncanny creations of vivacity, skill and drama. It was a strange, ancient place—a living relic.

The outer verandah was all of a roomy vastness, filtered lights, and walls decorated with a gaudy relevance: it was the documentation of the works of previous students, a history recorded in progression. It was beneath these proud paintings that the teenage artists huddled in groups, squeezing bright colors on the palette. Occasionally, one could crack a joke and the laughter would awaken like a whiplash, travelling around the room—with a loud, raucous, crackling brashness that would eventually saturate the space. In an attempt at bravado, I’d smile: trying to belong in jokes and groups that I hadn't understood. They'd ignore me and continue like Sunkad sir wasn't listening. He’d say something mild then, from inside his office. But the chortles would effectively drown him out. I was afraid.

The less experienced painters and the little miss-nothings would squat in the very back, on smaller tables designed just for them. It was dark with the shadows here. He called for the new students on the first day and asked us to paint whatever we wanted, a freedom in choice, medium, and ideas. I had heard nothing like that before. I painted thoughtlessly, weakly….enjoying it, a little less scared. I would grow accustomed to this place.

As the days rolled, the weak sketches turned into fearless strokes, and the brushes became more varied. Newer sketch books: I was progressing at an amazing pace, and yet nobody would have guessed such rapid improvement by how calm I appeared to be when I was sitting there with my colors, thoroughly absorbed and concentrating. Those were peaceful and languid evenings: lazy, beautiful and creative...where possibilities tiptoed into my head as I moved my brush now with a more refined, gracefully natural cadence, where I balanced color with sensibility, mixed emotion with acrylic. Those evenings exuded an easy charm that I now nostalgically recollect: when I packed my things to head back home, it was always with the sense of profound contentment and achievement: today, I had created something new that nobody else in the world had painted the exact same way, with the exact same brushes, with the exact same ideas. The very thought was appealing.

The people who had graduated the low tables sat on high chairs at the long wooden benches in the inner verandah, and they were vigorous sketchers. They stayed away from the misbehaving teenage painters of the outer hall, and were marked by many lines of wrinkled maturity on their faces. There was a density to their talks, sketches and everything about them. The HB 2 pencils lay scattered around as they produced images with such terrifying accuracy and expert skill that I’d stand in awe and gape. I wanted to earn a greeting from them. I wanted to get there.

I understood what inspiration meant. I understood how images could create emotion, how they could stir feelings. I learnt so many things as I sat there on the low benches, in the shadows with my Camlin paints. I was beginning to learn harder. Aspiration started bearing fruit in a creative head. Sooner or later, the high table with the society of the best sketchers would call on me. Three sketch books later, one painting had made it to the art exhibit. And it was already the end of the year. The high table was still oblivious.

“It’ll take about five years to get there,” Sunkad sir used to say. And I was truly waiting for that day.

I'm still waiting

Art—a favorite childhood pastime was buried in my love of books that dominated all my other tastes, interests and choices. Nothing I’ve ever done has found a more abrupt halt. The love for the written word robbed my interest in images, and in case, I was moving away from Bangalore.
I remember bidding farewell to the place. From then on, I’ve never picked up a paint brush, never found the inclination to, never even desired.

Until yesterday.

I don't know what prompted me to pick the brush up again. I was reading R.K. Narayan’s “Bachelor of Arts” recently, and flipped through the pages. Vivid images of how I imagined the character of Chandran flashed into my conscious thought. I decided ten years was long enough a wait. It was time to pick up the brush and paint—however clumsily, however pathetically, however crudely.

And “Penance” took shape.

The beginnings of “The Penance“—before I got to painting the beard.

This is with increased saturation standards, just for fun, I was playing with it in Picasa.

The sepia gives a old-worldly, nostalgic effect that i find an essential component of the painting that I couldn’t bring to focus, so i took a little help.

Every stroke was discovery. I felt contentment so complete that I’ve never felt anything like it in the recent years: it was the silent joy of rediscovery, the kind of joy that escapes sensible thought. Every stroke took me back to the peaceful evenings in the verandah's of the Indian Institute of World Culture, where I used to walk past the high table, in hope of belonging with the expert painters.

I hope the high table is proud of me. If they aren’t, well, I’m still trying. As I used to say, ten years ago, Someday, I'll get there. Trying is all that matters.

Dearest Uncle Pai,

2011-02-25T00:36:00.000-08:00

Dearest Uncle Pai,

There were days when I used to open up my window to see the world like never before. Those were the days when I was ten, and fairytales were as real to me as the sun, moon, and school. Those were the days when I used to dream up silly stories, or scribble to myself. And even if the world wouldn’t listen to those little stories, there was always this reassurance that you would, someday. Because you see, the folks at Tinkle listened. Shikari Shambu listened when I told him about that purple tiger that I had hunted down on an android in space. Tantri the Mantri listened when I talked to him about an exotic flower in Cambodia whose fragrance was super deadly. And I knew that you would listen. You always did.

I felt heroic when I was backseated on Amma’s rickety Luna on the way to a cousin’s house where I would get to read my tinkles--- when she visited that Tailor shop, I would snoop away next door to the paperwaala to haggle some older copies with my piggy- bank money. I used to sneak them into school, and read them below the benches when Nalini Ma’m taught Romeo and Juliet. The tinkle book labels you sent me were all over my Science and English books. The Fun Time with Uncle Pai’s and the Say it yourself competitions—I solved them with fervor. I felt proud to be recognized as a tinkle kid—to tell them that you were my inspiration. I told that to anyone who listened. And I truly meant those words. You were my HERO.

You know, when people laughed at my stories, I’d go cry and recite them to you in my head all the way home. And somehow, I always felt that you were listening. It made me feel so much better. It was such comfort to somebody who didn’t really believe in herself back then.

As if talking to you within my head wasn't enough, I one day I mustered enough courage to walk up to the post office to mail you that first letter with my story. I remember the wait. And I also remember that hand-written letter that came back, asking me to “never give up.” And so, I listened. I retold you my stories all over again---and you made my dreams come true, like a beautiful, beautiful miracle. That exotic flower in Cambodia that was super deadly became “The fatal fragrance” in May 2008 issue, and my first fight with a best friend became the “The Rivals” in 2006. You shaped the writer in me, gave her that much confidence to believe in her dreams. And yes, I never gave up—and it was only because my favorite person had asked me to.

And I hope you’ll believe me if I say that no pay-check I got was more beautiful than that one handwritten letter that I’ve been meaning to frame, or every memorized word of that message you sent me wishing me all the best for Bangalore Amar Tinkle Club. Its unbelievable how much you’ve changed my life for the better, how to instilled confidence in me, how you became much more than a role-model, how you truly impacted my life... I wish I could write all that down and just mail it all to heaven. That’s still possible, right?

And oh, if you do meet Mr. Ram Weerkar up there, could you mind telling him that I’m still his hugest fan ever? I used to skunk my way into the school library just to read his Pyarelal series when I was fourteen and everybody else was already reading the Sidney Sheldon’s. It was to show them that in my heart, I'd never outgrow tinkle even if I become as ancient as the oldest banyan tree in all of India. Those were the little things I always wanted to tell you. You kept that little ten year old in me alive. You still do.

And yes, as you said, I’ll never give up. You know this little starry-eyed fan will always listen to you, right?

And yeah, I’m asking Janoo for a little help with a magic potion. It’s called the potion of immortality. She promised to give it to you. Or else I’m riding Wooly Woo all across the seven seas and the open sky to battle the rakshasas and fire-spitting rascally demons to bring you back. Such an adventure that will be!!!

I’ll miss you so much, really. I’m still waiting for that last letter that never came home. Please come back. I need to tell you about how I started a storytelling page called Tellmeyourstories and how you are an eternal inspiration to the storyteller in me. I need to tell you how you will always be, and how dearly I'm missing you with every single second. I'm waiting for the letter that never came home. And the wait, dear uncle, is with a fervent sincerity.

Affectionately yours,

Lakshmi

Knitted with Love: A favorite sweater story

2011-01-02T02:01:00.000-08:00

The cardboard box had arrived late that evening and I wasn’t particularly charmed. They had practiced hoarding these boxes like it was all a matter of safety, by some insane standards of measure. When another was dragged in, I was presumptuous enough as to think they’d take it back to the storeroom to craft something of their proud garbage. But they left it abandoned at my feet, partially opened.

I wish, time allowing, I could explore the intricate mysteries of unopened boxes. You are quite a happy humbug sitting there idling your time—place a cardboard box beneath your feet and it changes the whole equation. Oh, the insurmountable curiosities that eat you, at the sight of these things!! Elusive opportunities slinking away and smiling, a weird temptation that refuses to abandon tugging—it is a compelling sort of gravity. I had to concede, and this would turn out all different.

I gaped at the little box that I had stumbled upon. The shadows were shiftless, somewhat solid. From within, the unknown fed anticipation and thousands of speculative wanderers traveled my electric roads, flashing their thoughts and disappearing again. Which might it contain? Books? A gift? An exotic foreign souvenir? A lamp? Kitchen equipment? Clothes? Woodwork?

It was a submersion into a well-known curiosity that hung tenaciously from the child-like mind, anticipating. I was eager. The hands knew no manners as they pried at the contents, and everything was scattered on the floor: a disappointing arrangement. But then, the blandest of prizes struggled to make itself conspicuous from among the rubble. I had chanced upon a prize, hiding in the spoils.

“Look, a sweater.” I held it close, and carried it away—a simple, oversized sweater, and a story, knitted with love.

Later that day, the reflection wasn’t anything that made me catch my breath in surprise. I could safely say that the sweater accentuated my hideousness by a very good measure, oversized as it was. On its strands, a coffee-brown competed with navy blues and magentas, giving off a dull, obvious effect. But I liked it. I liked it for the warmth, for the simplicity, for containing me. I liked it for the imperfections, for knowing that I could be spilling my tea on it next morning and not fuss. There was an awful familiarity that was threaded into its fabric that traversed through it, and snugly surrounded all of me. I felt loved in that sweater. I felt happy, I felt me. It was just perfect for my winter days. Maybe not beauty-pageant worthy, definitely, but this piece of coarse wool would belong in my closet: my only sweater for now.

“It’s hideous. It’s used. Throw it away.”

It was brutally honest opinion, and I couldn’t argue the judgment of connoisseurs. But knowledgeable as I was, the sweater…came to stay. Varied excuses were pronounced, laziness showcased, the complains whined and cloths arranged. There were a splendid variety of reasons to throw the sweater away, but no reason was simply good enough. Call it my attachment, but the sweater came to remain a permanent part of my closet. It was like retaining a lovely secret, because I knew I could never outgrow it.

The commonplace holds in it more pleasant, nostalgic joy that I seldom find in everything else, it is something of a particular rarity, something that we can overlook. And the sweater had come like some naive misfit in my heap of cloths: beautifully unique, absolutely special.

I wore it all through the winter of 2009, even to college. That, of course, could be termed as a loss of sanity: I risked not appearing human. But more worn the sweater, the less hideous it appeared. It became my personal invisibility cloak, the dull coffee-brown allowing for the effortless merge into the common masses, rendering me unnoticeable. I loved it for its apparent humbleness, for being so unmindful of fashion, design or priority. The coarseness had a brave, determined originality to it, and the sweater told me it’s story: when I was slouching on the couch, when I was hugging my knees in it, as I admired the snow when I was holidaying in Tahoe, on new year’s eve as I screamed my throat off to a song, as I flipped through my physics book spilling food all over it, as I walked home in the freezing cold, grateful for the crude wool that surrounded me.

It didn’t seem like much, but it actually was—my favorite sweater. And it was part of some spectacular memories. It travelled with me through so many experiences, always exuding an air of ancient, persevering love. I often wondered who knitted it.

A classmate seemed to notice after millions of years, “Seems like your grandmother knitted, no?”

It was an obvious generalization, and it would have been easy to lie as a justification. Yes, the only reason why I wear something so hideous is because my grandmother knitted it and it’s of a sentimental value. Or else, which fool would wear something so appalling? Instead, I told her I was absolutely clueless. She must have gone home thinking I was thrifty enough to pull off stuffy unknown sweaters from Goodwill store, but I didn't really care. It just made me love the sweater that much more.

A few days ago, a guest was expected. The proud and proper dresses were all lined up and waiting. I picked the hideous sweater instead and smiled. I somehow seemed to look winsome. The guest had apparently been father’s good friend, and dropped by to say hello.

His exchange of pleasantries was the strangest of conversations.

“Hey, where’d you buy that sweater, if I may ask?”

It was an interesting question, and I had but an honest answer. “It came with a box of cloths that my parents bought home in a carton box once. I didn’t really bother to trace its origins.”

“That’s the sweater my mom knitted for me, couple of years ago, you know.”

The amusement hit me like a bullet.

“Really?”

“Umm-hmm. Jeez, I didn’t know what happened to it! I searched all over the place for the sweater and gave up after a while. It’s very special to me. My mom was suffering with a case of dementia during those days, and was wildly hallucinating. Being left home alone was her nightmare…she found herself helpless, agitated and unable to distinguish the real from the unreal. During those times of horror and despair, knitting was something of a respite to her. It eased her nerves, and she did it beautifully. Even though everything appeared so confusing to her, there was a dedicated expertise to what she wove, it was so wonderful. It’s maybe because she knitted with love, you know? Every cross-hatch on that sweater was healing to her. I know that she cannot knit another sweater like that anymore….now she’s nearly blind in one eye. ”

When they said that history contributes to value, I guess they meant this. Somewhere, in the back of my heart, there was a gentle tug. It was like I had known the sweater’s incredible story somewhere, like I had realized its value: whispered in secrecy. And today, I found a reason—a reason for having retained the sweater as a favorite. I could now turn back to the classmate and complete the answer: “Do you know how special this is? It was part of a healing process for an old lady with dementia…but more than all of that, it was knitted with love.”

I had the answers. I had the justification. But I wouldn’t have the sweater anymore.

I watched the sweater leave me, as suddenly as it had entered my life. The guest didn't ask for it, but I thought it was only too proper to have it wrapped up and returned. As I touched the coarse, shabby fabric for one last time, I was grateful for having experienced that love for at least that much longer. For all it’s worth, I knew today that the best sweaters weren't the cashmere that you buy at extravagant shops like Macy's. They are those which keep you warm not only because they are expensive. There is a magic ingredient to such things.....and it's called love.

Time for a change

2010-12-13T19:04:00.000-08:00

“A pile of rocks ceases to be a pile of rocks the moment a human mind contemplates it as a cathedral.”

Those works were painted on glass, somewhere in a cozy corner of your typical downtown museum. They made their way into my notebook yesterday, and eventually into my curious mind. I liked those words enough to ponder them quite deeply.

When you start something, you start it with a purpose. A vision. A dream, a thought. And this blog, it seems, is all about a very personal evolution. In all these years of growing up and growing out of teenage, I have contemplated a lot. More often than not, this space has been more about ME than anything else. I don’t talk about global economics, ending world poverty or architecture. I talk about me. It’s always been that way.

Looks like my pile of rocks is similar to the millions of others that have been constructed all across the blogosphere: A little personal home, stuffed with insights, thoughts and ramblings. And then I thought about those cathedrals, you know. I thought about turning my home into a little cathedral, to allow for other incredible stories to reach this space: to talk more about THEM than just about ME. I thought about stitching something more into my fabric: Stories of the lives of others mingling with my personal experiences. Stories of a journey: not just through pictures of words, but through the very miracle that is the human experience. It's time to bring a change, and I think it's never too late to start.

Recently, I’ve been hearing so much that it would be an injustice not to talk about them: Stories of hope, of valor, of incredible courage and optimism. And they are not all mine. Some come from those everyday individuals that brush the mere surface of my personal experience. And yet, these spectacular stories of their struggles and ambitions penetrate deep into my consciousness to leave me spell-bound. They have moved me, deeply. They are true, incredible and wonderful. And I thought that it was time to bring it all to you, to establish a platform for their voices to reach more people—to touch more lives, to inspire, to teach. And in the back of my heart, this is what I've always wanted to do. I’ve always been a better storyteller than an orator. You see, there is a difference. I think it’s time to write,...... a little less selfishly. Because others, have stories too--stories just waiting to be told, if we only lend an ear.

A few weeks ago, I started the Tellmeyourstories series. It’s everything I’ve discussed above. It’s about personal stories. Not just mine. It's yours, and theirs and mine. It’s something that we can all relate to and understand: stories of endurance, tenacity, hope, and determination. Some, even aim to highlight those who have been shadowed by time, distress and age. I have been away and infrequent, if you have noticed. This is because I have been working hard to learn the art of photography to help augment my writing. It’s been tough, but I hope it takes me somewhere in the end. I am still learning.

This blog will continue to be all it’s been: a little personal space to describe my experiences. But it will also be a little more than it’s always been: a personal space to describe other people’s experiences too, when I decide to turn the storyteller. Some of these stories come from the way I have perceived them. Others, in the way I have heard them. They are all true stories of human experience. In whichever way, I hope to bring them to you and I hope you’ll like it.

I’m back, folks! And it’s time to tell stories. Yours, mine and theirs.

Because, as I’ve mentioned on countless occasions before….everybody has a story to tell.
I hope you stay with me through this journey.

Much Love,

Lakshmi

They come with their stories

2010-11-13T20:43:00.000-08:00

He’s slouching on the chair, weariness traversing the contours of his face. He has his head low as if to discipline an unnecessary reverie. A few words exchange and he finally looks this way. The brazen, penetrating eyes startle me. Somehow, they don’t seem to belong in a face so harrowed. Because the eyes have fire in them.

The doctor introduces me as an intern, and explains that I’m shadowing. I muster a meek smile and melt into the dark. A story unfolds.

“Liver Cancer,” the oncologist talks, more to himself. “How do you feel?”

“Okay.”

“You look good!”

“Well, I’m trying to.”

They talk prescription drugs and medications. The wife stays by his side, appearing natural and tolerant of the situation. She occasionally smiles, even. He is serious and sounds grave with his complaints, but she balances the talk beautifully, puncturing the gloomy conversation with something refreshing, an unusual question maybe. She’s trying hard to be cheerful, for the both of them. I pray for her to hang in there.

They’re good questions, the doctor says. We’ll do everything.

He sits back properly now, like somebody eager. Like somebody who knows he’s going to live. Like somebody who is reveling in that knowledge, like somebody who is sure of himself............

I am rather self-conscious and try to be as non-intrusive as possible. It is strange to just disappear into a corner and watch the biggest battle of life and not do anything about it.

The fire in his brilliant blue eyes still startle me. They talk progresses showing no sign of halting. He looks bored now, a little sober, I can see as they shake hands and head out the door. And then just as I start to think--- suddenly, we are done. As I scuttle after the doctor, the eyes flash with a ghost of a little hope. Something about those eyes introduce a little optimism to an agitated heart.

“Is he okay?” I ask hopefully.

“The cancer for this guy is in a serious stage. It’s metastasized to different parts of his body. So many cells to kill. It’s going to be real serious.”

The words leave me aghast. They have been brave.

______________________________________________________________________

The gravity if the situation is heavy in the next room, almost as heavy as the face that holds a countless wrinkles. There are pleas in this face, pleated in with the sorry helplessness of a silent sufferer. He rambles his burdens incessantly. There is no anger. No venom. No contempt. Just a complete acceptance. The weak voice is trying to push its point across, and the doctor grants him the time. As he struggles to make himself clear, his soft features mould into something empathetic, a weak-hearted attempt to look confident.

“Don’t you worry, we’ll make it go away. We’ll work as a team. We’re going to get together and come up with a nice plan for you. I’m sure we can do wonders.”

“Whatever you say.” His acceptance is unbelievable. I try to say something. The gravity is working on his shoulders, which look more burdened than I have ever seen.

I know I have to say something….but his pessimistic countenance leaves me bereft of words, the hopeless face is ridden with far more worries than I can read......

______________________________________________________________________

III

“Maa. Maaa…..”

She stirs a very very slowly, lazily. The freckled hands shakily reach out—searching, expectant. Immediately, they land in the daughter’s. They’re perfect—the ancient one interlocking the much younger one that she helped create. “I’m here, maa…”

“Myeloma.” He says, “Do you know what that is?”

I nod.

We proceed.

The lady is listless. She cuddles back into her chair, like it will shelter her from all this incredulous nonsense. She is almost nodding now, fighting the sleep. The tired eyes are blinking, hazy and are dimmed by perpetual worry. Why? I don’t understand, the insolence seems to say. “Why do you make me undergo this at the age where I’d rather be doing something else? Cancer is such complete nonsense!”

There is sparse energy to her, but she’s managing. She’s pulling through. She knows she has to. I know she has been performing, and they are taking good care of her. There have been slightly depressing statistics lately, but there are better cures.

The daughter has a careful air. She is undaunted. Soon, the Myeloma should be gone. She tells me that I look awfully familiar, and I tell her I should meet her sometime. As I bid goodbye, I actually wish to never see her again. The hospital is not a nice place to make your home.

I look back. The ancient one has now dozed off, in quiet, instantaneous escape from all the torment. She has found her paradise, an exit, a way. In her own cradle, she must be going back to the times when life when she was young and unbothered by stressful excursions. I hope they will leave her unhampered for hours.

______________________________________________________________________

“He’s here.”

Kind, I think. It’s a kind face, a gracefully aged face, looking content today. “Thanks for calling me in today, doctor. I think you are doing a wonderful job. I believe in you.” He encourages.

“And you too, ma’m.” I return the pleasant smile. I like him.

The beautiful, intelligent face of the daughter is scribbling on a clipboard, keen and concerned.

“We’ll fix you.” The doctor promises.

The face is tremulous. A deep contentment oozes across it, reminding me of someone who is on the brink of an epic achievement. He is somebody who has lived his years well. He sighs, and then picks himself up again. “I know I can.”

“As long as you believe, I know you can too.” I talk to him within my head. We disperse. I’m touched by how the daughter affectionately walks him into the corridor. I wish to be more like her with my own father.

______________________________________________________________________

“Here, we get many cases.” The doctor says, shuffling some pages. “And some of them are medical miracles. Like this lady. When she came in with lung cancer and an aggressive metastasis to different parts of the body, her CEA was so very high. They’ve dropped incredibly; she’s going to be an amazing survivor. She truly is a miracle.”

We heard you through the door, the husband says cordially. And we agree.

The experience has thawed her a little. I can only imagine the horrors she has faced. The voice is sharp, like a saw. She speaks in spurts, but with a depth gained only through experience. This woman is much more than just another survivor. She’s a marvel, a fighter, an inspiration.

And as I watch the miracle from a distance, I am overwhelmed. Life feels such a magnanimous gift, and some of us have to fight hard to preserve it, so securely. And as I glance upon pictures of such heroes staring back at me from glossy magazines, I feel the true magnitude of the emotion to its sincere depths. It’s time to move on.

Again and again. We see the defiant one, who refuses any treatment even if it risks her health; the shy eighty-year old who retires into her shell and talks little; the ambient and jovial young man who behaves like nothing’s the matter, the nervy and shaky soul that squeaks out in distress. I meet eyes that scream an apprehension, hope, love, trust, grit, confidence, persistence, and a mixture of many other things. The chemotherapy sessions. The nurses. The office. A biopsy. A bone marrow extraction. The world is whirling. My feelings are threatened; I’m befuddled, not knowing what exactly to feel. Everything descends on me like a comic tragedy fashioned by the gods: the baseless and shallow happiness of my life contrasting with the profundity in all these stories. My life feels inconsequential….so passing….irrelevant in front of the goliaths that come here. They are fighters. Survivors. Sometimes, soldiers. And this heart can only touch at the surface of their experiences, only wonder, only surmise….but even that much changes everything.
______________________________________________________________________

VI:

“The last one for today.”

I really start hoping that this is going to be different.

I know with an immediate certainty that this woman is unusual. For one, she is quietly chucking to herself and in jogging shoes. That is the first cancer patient I’ve seen today with that much genuine happiness. Even I appear more worried than her. I have to remind myself of that and correct my expression.

The brash, aggressive warmth in this punk-star and the effortless humor that tells me that despite everything, she is madly in love with life. She’s celebrating her last chemotherapy session. The triumph is alive, yelling from all over.

“So, you tell me that’s it? That I can’t come back? Oh my gosh, how rude to throw me out! For Pete’s sake, who will I tell my jokes to?”

The doctor cracks up. And then, we’re all laughing.

And as I let it go in the meaningless chortles in a sequestered room stuffed with its charts and prescriptions and languid white walls, I am grateful--grateful I came, that I tried to understand. Grateful that I was alive and that was so easy for me. To see life with its raw truths, unfolding and fighting to hang on, to see it for its unpredictability, its philosophy, its endurance….to see it through the veil of time: to see how different people face it—with courage, hope, optimism, grit, or triumph….within a single day… had moved me beyond expression, beyond rational thought, beyond everything. Today, I had seen a side of life that would have avoided even my imagination. I had stared courage right in the face.

___________________________________________________________________

Outside, I lifted my head up to the heavens and closed my eyes. The sun worked a mysterious charm, leaving trinkets on my skin. I inhaled some of the life around me, not knowing how much longer it would last. But despite the stories, despite the statistics, despite the pains, despite the daily struggles and hassles, despite the uncertainity, there was some amazing power to human endurance. Never had I come this close to understanding the human element, and it's inborn struggle for survival.. Despite everything, existence was beautiful. And it was always stay that way.

Forever.

______________________________________________________________________

And then she headed out the door

2010-09-08T04:43:00.000-07:00

(This is a true story, but narrated from my own view point. The descriptions are based on how I have perceived the story. )

They were a group of good friends. A particularly boisterous crowd, peculiar in the sorts of people it included. The peculiarity is what made them noticeable, making these bunch of talented oddballs stand out. They would go on to become some different people, entangle themselves in different situations, and face very different destinies. But back then, at that point in time, they were all students. More importantly, they were friends. And that’s all that mattered.

She was the laconic one. The loyal and timid follower. Prone to being overlooked, but contributing to conversations in her own ways. First glances can lie, however, because there was definitely more to her.

An emotional and tender heart is what she concealed, there was a purity and richness to her thoughts. She felt with deep intensity, and the heart of her stories had more stuff than most others. Hers was to be a perfectly normal life too—studies, marriage, family, kids. But anticipation found a place in her life, because she expected so much out of such experiences even amidst the monotony that surrounded her. The 1980’s didn’t hold too many opportunities, and yet, there was space enough to strive hard and make the most of it. Something to make for herself, a professional life to craft. She wanted a fairytale, extraordinary as her wishes. And they thought she wouldn’t have it.

Defeating many others to it, she studied engineering and was hailed an intelligent academician. They cheered her then, naturally happy for her achievement. She excelled, and then they thought that her future was falling in place, a secure and happy life was in store. Back then, it wasn’t hard to ascertain futures. More rigid rules, less flexibility allowed for most things to go as planned. A predictably hectic and pleasantly busy life was what seemed to be at the other end of the tunnel. That meant she was settling down. Those were the good times.

He, on the other hand was a different sort of a personality. He knew how to focus his energies, and there was a determined fervour to him. He could concentrate incredibly, on top of being impossibly intelligent. This could be the only explanation of how he made it to medical school. Dedicated and passionate, he worked hard. The group was happy for his phenomenal qualities, and proud that he belonged with them. Occasionally, the age old joke of how they could get free treatment from him if their health bothered them might have passed between them. They were a group of oddballs all right. But such talented oddballs. With such amazing influence, and an influx of diverse talent, there was little doubt that all of them would blossom. The future held promises of that.

They met, they talked, they joked like friends were supposed to. They dispersed into many fields, and kept in touch. For the laconic and shy one, the fairytale was coming true. Engaged to a smart boy from overseas, she couldn't possibly ask for more. She would get to travel the world, much of a big deal back then. Sweets exchanged, such a tempting proposal didn’t go back rejected. The friends cheered this time too.

“See,” they must have said, “Your life is going to be a fairytale. Much better than us.”

She married young, and married quick. Bound by the security that a wedding bestows, she allowed for her husband to fly away with his words of loving comfort and promises.

“You can come too, I’ll make sure you can come with me. Very soon.”

Such assurances.

Yes, her life was in place. Just this little quirk. But the cloud would pass. She would get to see the world yes, and it would be a romantic affair. A fantasy was to be lived. She must have waved goodbye with those dreams clouding her eyes.

The friends were wiggling into different permanent relationships too. The years rolled, the invitations distributed, the kids born, the complaints discussed. Some had heartbreaks, some difficult love marriages, some bland arranged ones. Even the boy who went to medical school was a doctor now. And the smart husband still wasn’t back. The assurance still sounded empty. They were all still her buddies. The friends were old now, and hers became the only fairytale not realised.

No, she wouldn’t have it. She had always stitched together a perfect life for herself, excelling. She would find a way to get to him. Even if he was unwilling for that fate, she would try. She was a wife, rightfully is. She belonged with him. So she tried and found a way.

She visited her close friend. Her favourite in the crowd, the one who went on to become a banker.

“Parvathi, I’m going to be travelling finally! I will get to meet my husband and live with him.” She told her banker friend gleefully. The girl converted money to dollars and then she headed out the door, towards a welcoming future. Parvathi must have thought that.

There was no door. They heard of her suicide a few days later.

Parvathi and the rest of the friends visited the funeral, and the charred body told a sorry tale of shattered dreams. It was a fairytale that stayed incomplete. A phone call from the husband saying that he didn’t want her, the news that he was already secretly married to somebody else, the severe depression that the intense disappointment that it provided, some kerosene and a matchstick was all it took. The flames engulfed the dreams, the fairytale, the expectation, the incredible friend, the loving wife. They ate her away.

The doctor later received a body for post mortem. A charred corpse, the sorts he would see every other day in his medical career. The intelligent brain could accurately describe the severity of the burns.. Another dead body, another day. But this time, the burnt body meant a little more to him. He knew of this blackened inanimate form when it had a life, when it spoke to him. When it joked and participated in his conversations. When it was his dear friend. It wasn’t just another day for the doctor. It was agonizing to have fate lay a dead friend before him for medical examination. But he must have found the truth then, that a person is much more than a dead body. A friend, she would always stay. Out of the millions of cases that came to the hospital for post mortem, it was the twist of fate that one of his close friends must lie here before him, lifeless. As he examined her, her story came alive. It was hard to see her dead. Maybe her story wasn’t a fairytale, but it would be remembered. By the doctor. By Parvathi. By the friends. By me.

I heard it in between errands, in between thrusting sweets into tiny plastic covers and answering Ajji. I heard it without giving much thought to it, as aunt spoke to grandpa about it. It’s about a somebody I don’t know, about a somebody I never met. But it is a touching story about a friend, about dreams and about the interesting twist of fate.

And I thought it was a story worth telling you. Fate behaves differently with people, and differs as much as people do. Stories come and go, and times change. But some stories are remembered more than others. And such stories need to be shared. It is when I share these profound tales of human experience that I feel, as a writer, I have completed a duty. I hope that she will be remembered.

Because she deserved a fairytale. Because once upon a time, she was more than a charred blackened body with degree 2 burns that came for a post mortem one fine morning.

I know that the doctor will agree with me.

Going Home

2010-08-24T10:26:00.000-07:00

19th August 2010

Dear Journal,

It takes a lot to be someone different. Someone special. Someone worthy….and someone responsible. But it takes little, to be someone happy. I’m happy today, amongst the clouds, flying—with both my heart and all the rest of me. And it feels like I’m too light for anything to matter. Anything to matter at all. They do that to you sometimes, the clouds….don’t they? Poets write so much of them for nothing, you know. They are worthy of emulation. Of imagination, of utter wonder.

The clouds.

And they’re clouding my mind…as they traverse, moving all around and into me, punishing clarity as they weave into my dreams, thread into the fabric of my stories causing such an extraordinary magnification of a sunny mood. They leave space for only one thought—that I am going home. The idea that I am going home, that I am going to be seeing my friends, that I will get to talk to them, that I will get to belong, and glancing upon all those people I hold close, that I love, that I would wish to meet, all the rest of my family….this time, I’ll be there. Among them. Belonging.

It brings back a warmth, the sort of half-forgotten warmth akin to the reminding love in old grandpa’s oversized sweater or the delight in finding loose change that you never knew was there in a pocket. Accomplishments have come and gone. I’ve worked harder, tapping motivation in the most bizarre ways, and surprisingly found that I do foster an incredible amount of self-contentment for everything that occupies my life. I’ve moved from eighteen to nineteen, I’ve trained my legs to be more nimble, learnt to endure the hot sun of California knowing of hidden respites and new possibilities, to leave estrangements behind to laugh like everything is just a joke. Despite every occasional tantrum I throw and my unkindly longish whines…I am satisfied here. Happy, loved and striving. There is so much to find, so many new things. There is cheer, there is hope, there is the passion for working hard for my dreams….but it doesn’t mask the fact that I’ve missed them. They’re a part of me that I could never quite leave behind.

Every time I talk to them from behind a screen, or through mute pictures, or in the pages of a diary…..I feel that I am just skimming the skin, just a little bite of the other side of the globe. Although I have tried, with painful consistency, to reach out and bother myself with what happens in their day to day lives—to live both here and there…it has been difficult. Sometimes, I have done this at a cost of forgetting my beautiful present, sometimes even at the cost of my time and patience. But I have still held onto them. Adapting to a new place, to new people, to new ways, doesn’t mean that you have to forget all that life was, all the people who were there and all the people who still are--All those who have tried to push you through, to be your shoulder, to help, to advice, or yell at you through a headphone when you’re doing something wrong….all those who are deserving of your gratitude.

And today, everything seems to fit in so well. Everything feels right. Flying home again, to where I know that I can feel the monsoons moist my skin and invade me with a favorite glee, where I can barge into a darshini and savor a filter coffee for an affordable price, where I don’t need fancy chairs to sit on, when there’s that old Jamakhana on which I could stretch my legs, where I can scoot into random bazaars and side lanes in search of fancy earrings, where I can travel the polluted and jam packed roads, back seated and talking to a cousin, not really minding on all the jams and the honking, where I can hear my name pronounced correctly, , where some relatives try to approach me in English instead of in Kannada assuming that I would have forgotten, where I can bustle about at important marriages feeling the weight of many eyes on me, where midnight dreams come alive as the coconuts sway to august winds outside the window next to which I grew up, building more dreams and staring at those very same trees, where all my childhood books stay intact and reachable, where illusions are flesh and blood, where I know that I will be absolutely surrounded, sleep-deprived, pampered, pinched, overwhelmed…..and still be very very happy.

I feel like somebody happy.

Like somebody among the clouds.

I can see that silver lining—both outside my window and within grasp of an invisible future. New Horizons are emerging.

Something tells me this is going to be an adventure.

Possibility

2010-08-14T01:44:00.000-07:00

The day had dismissed me, of both work and of much speculation. Up above the eagles circled, regarding the convoluted valleys below with a superior disdain. I didn’t take lightly to their mockery, but there was little I could do now, so I trudged on, towards the bus stand, towards the end of another day.

A hand that held loose change waited, impatient to appease luck to take her home. As it is in these long summer months, all lingered drunk below the sun’s intoxication, drooping like my tired shoulders. A perfect stillness—inanimate and fevered.

No winds stirred to ecstasy the Douglas firs, nor dimmed the relentless beat of the heat, so furious and burning. I hated waiting for busses. It was just another normal day. Just a lack of any new possibilities. Maybe I should be glad for that?

The wait turned weary as shadows grew longer, and the battery charge on an iPod began to move from a happy green to an alarming red. I yanked the earphones off to face the abandonment that I had screamed away and a fruitless hope, unrewarded by patience. “You are late. There are no more busses today,” said father over the phone, somewhere from a coast away, “What are you going to do?”

What are you going to do?

His long lecture simmered with the panic and concern, even over the phone. Somehow, the alarm didn’t quite register into a numbed brain, so dazed by the maddening stillness. The sheer enthusiasm that had made me stay back in college today to watch some specimens in lab still stayed as a residual joy in my heart, amongst the dramatic turn of events.

The day had just changed. There were no more busses to take me back, nobody to travel with. No easy way home. Great, prayers answered, just great!!! Said the fury. I let a long sigh escape me, collapsing. This was just sad. Inevitable. Irritating. Troublesome. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Wait….she whispered back, the senseless dreamer in me. Wait and look she said. I turned to where the phantom voice pointed.

Clear blue skies. A long winding road. Stillness. A transient calm. Look.

What? I barked back, irritated. “It’s just a stupid long road.”

“No, it’s a possibility.”

The inevitability tried to force a mutter of curses like a dull incantation from me. No! she suppressed it adamantly, no, this is not a stupid long road. And this is not a stupid hot day. This was a possibility. A possibility to find something. A possibility, which was painfully distant and out of sight. Something out of reach, but something that existed, nonetheless.

The sweat built up steady and the road stayed long and winding. Consumed by passing thoughts and vehicles, the observer looked to the light blue skies. Maybe I would find the “best” of everything down the road. Maybe I wouldn’t. But I knew that I had to make this fun. Or else, it wouldn’t be a day lived fully. And today wouldn’t last forever.

I weaved in and out of the spruce lined lanes, forgetting about everything else but the present. Purposefully scuttling in and out of the shade, I played cat and mouse. The sun enjoyed my act. He filtered down from between the branches with determination, but I was fast in avoiding him. I smiled back from within the little shade-cover that was the oasis that I had managed to isolate myself in, and quickly darted to the next. Oh yes, this was quite a foolish adventure. But it didn’t lack the thrill I associate with an original one.

As my game grew tiring, I passed a fenced school play-ground. The summer crowd was around, kicking footballs and playing catch on the sprawling emerald on the grass, toppling, laughing and running about. From the newfound shade of the sparse maples that dotted the sides, I watched them play—a freedom so unbounded spoke back to me. I wanted to rewrite myself and belong there too—roaming about with nothing but whipping hair, scraped knees and living lives that were full of that nameless possibility. The sun was now behind me, and I realized how late it was. I signaled to them as I walked away, hoping that that their distant forms acknowledged my presence, hoping that they'd remember me.

The sun was thawing. I could feel him slink away, melting and sulking into the darker, sinister shades that now emerged, pouncing and crawling. A gurgle from faraway sneaked into my ear slyly, and unheard stories took shape within my head. I strayed towards the beckoning fountain in the twilight, infatuated.

My heart skipped a beat. "Aha, see, I told you!!" said the dreamer from within my head, " I told you you would discover a new possibility." She was right. I had discovered what beauty looked like!

The last of the fading sunlight sprinkled a shimmer on the pool, a perfect farewell. They were little beads that glowed and pulsed, in myriad hues and colors. The soft glimmer warmed my heart, and I felt the reverberations break. Barefooted, stayed by the pool, bathed in a surreal glow. Now, the possibility had become a reality. I felt the joy explode within me, as an infant gust of wind blew, seemingly elevating a raised head even higher. This felt like a whole new world.

Oh, how many times I had glanced at this park from my bus window!!! It never had meant much to me. But here, in the now, a lost opportunity….a possibility, came to be discovered. Another secret nook, another escape, another favorite place to hang out. I knew the dreamer in me had shown the way to happier possibilities. I walked away with a discovery-- homewards, and leaving home behind as the sun submerged himself, unfurling a creaseless velvet sky in his wake.

Left Behind

2010-07-17T02:01:00.000-07:00

“You can spread your soul over a paddy field, you can whisper to a mango tree, you can feel the earth beneath your toes and know that this is the place, the place where it begins and ends. But what can you tell to a pile of bricks?”
(Nazneen, from Monica Ali's 'Brick Lane')

When I look at the world from high vantage points, my perspective claws out the minute details of the sprawling scenery, pecking at the edges of distant shapes, discerning objects and bringing to focus the complex intricacies that lie below. Perched alone atop the terraces of biology lab in the enervating heat, I didn’t see much that overwhelmed me. An ordinary day decorated by bland taste, a few withering plants here and there and a cloudless sky that held a ferocious sun.

Beneath, a technology infested world talked back. I watched it move minutely, but with such great hurry and heavy deliberation. Everything so immediate, purposeful and directional. Every motion planned, every move, systematic. The busses were prompt. The students wasted no time. Their sharp urgency became my amusement. As I watched technology rumble and tumble all around me, spilling and whizzing away with dignified solemnity, I felt suffocation. Where were they all headed to? Why the need for hurry? Why is the world that rapid? Why can’t we relax and take time off to breathe? Sitting there, I perceived the environment as an organized chaos, a mad race of people, machines, purposes, secret intentions and ambitious desires. But surveying the world around me certainly didn’t make the perspective clear, no matter how hard it tried to identify. Maybe intentions and desires aren’t as easy to separate as physical objects. I felt disgruntled.

I was hardly keeping up with how the world was improving. The fluid passage of time, the smart quickness that governed life, the fact that I was getting older by the day…they were hard to deal with, a source of bother, of perpetual unhappiness. How much harder should I run to keep up? The world was moving! Clearly, my lazy bones had some work to do, and maybe I would finally discover order and comfort in this chaos that surrounded me. A disturbance was building within me, expanding to a din. Watching the chaos, I felt abandoned. I felt horrible, like humanity had overlooked my presence, like this space had left me behind.....

The hiking trail smelled of soil. Well worn feet moved on them, trudging. As the usual summer day’s heat pressed down, I wiped my brows but continued. Silver oaks and sequoias showed mercy on the battered soul, sheltering as much as they could. Of course, the classmates were far ahead on the educational tour, and my lack of energy was making me lag behind. The fatigue was building with inclination. I was trailing. I was still not moving fast enough for the world. I was still left behind. I was still unhappy.

We gently sloped into the woodlands, where the redwoods grew to heights that thrilled. The familiar moisture that lived under them healed my prickly skin. I looked to the trees, and they stole me. “They last so long that you could almost believe it could be forever…” the teacher was saying. I stared from my little nook, the one which wasn’t a vantage point. On the loose soil in the untamed wild, I saw a perfectly still world. Silence, apart from a few distant bird calls. Unchanging trees, that would always stay, fixed and firmly rooted. Secure and timeless. Everything that I ever wanted. This was my inner peace, staring right back at me. Everything that my elevated view that stared upon all of humanity hadn’t shown me.

We headed back now, winding our way through narrow trails. The undergrowth was inviting and fresh, and so full of silent plant life. Even in the silence, there was life. Vitality. An exploding variety of thriving complexity.

Blackberry bushes, trilobed leaves. A mischievous and venomous poison ivy, concealed cunningly in the green. Ferns, that spread their wings to sunlight’s whimsical wishes, thorns that alarmed with their loud presence, webs woven of bewildering sincerity collecting water, bay oaks spreading like nothing could stop them, a sapling emerging tenderly with such dedicated determination, deer that lingered behind trees with watchful eyes, the deciduous leaves that lay strewn all around that were fragrant even in death….my happiness was in this nameless wonder, in being granted enough time to appreciate creation. And today, my happiness had witnessed rebirth. I was, predictably, the last to emerge out of the trail. But here in the wild, it finally felt good, to be left behind.....

(* Special thanks to Ronia for the pictures, without which this post would have been incomplete. Thanks a ton for deciding to share!)

The Right Places

2010-05-18T21:21:00.000-07:00

The pale sunshine bounces off reflecting surfaces, filtering though rough wooden tiles and cracks in between walls. It penetrates the world, slow and sure, and the crows get cawing. Grandmother has just started to heat the water in the bathroom which is steamy from the pervading heat. Utensils clink and clank in the hissing kitchen and outside, the roads are getting crowded. But the six year old mind is asleep, and its brilliant dreams surpass anything that this world can conjure up. She continues to slumber. When from the realm of semi-consciousness, she returns to the present, she feigns a deep repose until her grandmother forces her awake.

“Wake up, and get ready…”

She’s fussy over a ruined dream as grandmother bathes her, and she finishes her prayers dutifully right after. When that’s done, Granny hands her a tumbler of milk, meaning to be a small reward for following up. But she sees punishment in that tumbler of milk, distastefully gulping it down in one go. Few things off the checklist. Her day has just begun—orderly and planned.

The coconut oil is cool on her scalp, and her hair has been quickly plaited for school. She likes it that way, presently. She likes staying by Grandmother’s side, clinging. There is a secret joy she derives from following her commands. When she earns the “good!” from the slightly critical Grandmother, she knows that this means a job well done. There is happiness in doing her Granny proud. The wooden swing in the Verandah, the stashed evening papers from Grandpa’s reading, the framed paintings of a variety of gods above her head, the sweet incense from the Puja Room, her favorite black dog Blackie who’s still sleeping upstairs, the guava tree in the yard, the traditional prayers she knows by-heart, the cheerful Rangoli drawn up front—they are all part of her world; sights, sounds and colors that define home, define her zone of comfort. But stepping out of it is what she forebodes every single day.

School, is not her special place. School is where the reprimands are serious, and tantrums never get her anywhere. Numbers and language. Much of it seeps past the disinterested brain, confusing and muddling and irritating in the process. She uses pencils that she doesn’t know how to sharpen, to scribble symbols which she doesn’t even understand. The wood of the benches isn’t as comfortable as that of the ancient swing which rocks her, making her fly. No, School can never be that special place.

The blue school bag is waiting. The lunch is packed. The mind is brainstorming excuses. Granny is ready to walk her. They start off, hand in hand. Her little hands find granny’s and hang on, not wishing to ever let go. She knows the moment must come, but she suppresses the pangs of cold terror that course through her at the thought. Grandmother is talking as they step into the wide outdoors, and she feels insecure.
“Eat your lunch,” says granny. “And bring back the homework. We’ll do them all together.”

The girl nods, resenting even the reminder of what’s in store for her. The hands cling tighter to the older ones now, clutching. She hates lunch period, where not finishing translates to severe punishment. She isn’t a gobbler, and even a few bananas that grandmother packs for her seem like the biggest meal ever.
“Don’t throw the peels everywhere, Lakshmi. Teacher will scold. Put it in the right place.”

The “Right Place” for the Banana peel had been behind the verandah doors of Grandmother’s home. She cannot think of where else they could belong. After her daily banana was consumed she would place it behind doors without thinking about alternative “right places”. The maid picked up all her garbage the next day, inviting her to fill up the space behind doors with more peels. But school doesn’t have verandahs. She doesn’t know what to do now. This adds to her her resentment.

School looms closer and the staircase that leads her to her hell looks threateningly tall. Grandmother’s hand squirm out of hers and she encourages the child with big smiles. Panic invades. The six year old stays rooted though, hoping, like every single day, that her escapist tendencies might suddenly create a way out. But the Ayah is near, ushering her to the staircase. Every step takes her away from comfort, love, and warmth and she is screaming to run back to it. She desires a release.

As her attempts fail like every day and she unwillingly turns away, tears are birthed at the edge of her eyes. She can’t control the hollowness, and she looks back to granny who’s still watching. She clutches the railing hard, making this a very difficult job for the Ayah...the tears are over-flowing now. The little heart flutters with a whole range of emotions and the eyes strain to hold her favorite person close as long as possible. Instructions echo sternly “Put the Banana peel in the right place”.

“Come back, Ajji,” she silently prays within her head. This prayer is more sincere and fervent than the verses she recites every single morning. Her horror and deepest fear is not spotting Grandmother among the crowd when it’s time to go home. Without Granny’s able hand, knowledge and guidance, she doesn’t know to manage life, the way home and unfinished homework. So far, Grandmother has always kept her promise. And even though she is being propelled into a world which she can hardly comprehend, she finds respite in the thought that Grandmother would keep her promise again today. She knows she is loved, and granny would solve all her problems. That is her sanctuary.

The little creature frantically searches for the grandmother after a few hours, the blue school bag hanging limp on shoulders after the classes are dismissed……..panic is building…..her eyes are continiously searching.......and Happiness explodes in her heart at the moment of recognition, and the face bursts into a smile. They walk back together, light-hearted at the end of an ordeal. She beams at Grandmother for once again saving the day.

“Did you eat your lunch?” questions Ajji affectionately.

The six year old prefers not to answer. She has a chore to complete. Excitedly, she rushes through the doors into the cool interiors, and takes out banana peels from her lunch box which she never discarded in school. Triumphantly, she throws them to behind the doors of the Verandah. She giggles as her heart wells with contentment. She is back, and the peel is behind the Verandah door. All things are finally in the “Right Places,”

She is home.

The Story that never flew away

2010-04-09T19:34:00.000-07:00

On a late evening train, in the middle of flickering lights and dim shadows, senseless aspirations and impossible dreams, subtle rhythm and repeating groans…the ignited cognition had scribbled its first attempts of fiction on a blank paper:

“The feel of the leaves of the pomegranate tree sent a feeling of strange happiness through me. I was in the pomegranate orchard, all by myself – away from my impatient mother. I sat under the tree although the young tree did not provide much shade. How long I sat there – I did not know because soon I had drifted into a deep sleep, away from the bitter events of my life.”

It was one of my first stories. I was fourteen.

Imagination was young, and alive. The heart was untouched by thoughts more confounding than pure wonder. Why I wrote the story, I do not know….but I would have probably allowed the whimsical tale scribbled on cheap paper to flap away with the winds. It would have been another incomplete thought, wasted emotion escaping through the window of the train into the yawning void if my mother hadn’t persuaded me to hand it over to her.

I looked away, ashamed to show my face to her as she scanned my beginning struggles with story writing. Thoughts that had been trapped within my mind were staring at the world through the rusty windows of a speeding train. When I worded them, it was some form of insane liberation. But that knowledge was supposed to have been my little secret.

To be honest, I never regarded my stories in a favorable light. I wrote them to pass the time. And then mindlessly threw them out of my brain or available open windows. I made them paper-planes, allowing them to fly to heights that I believed my words could never reach. That story should have been discarded.

But it had passed many hands instead. Several eyes read through them.

I was the girl who imagined vigorously, but always allowed it to die down. I never considered my thoughts worthy of an intelligent audience, because they sounded so bland and ordinary….even to me. Being the highly de-motivated, self-involved and hesitant high-schooler, I assumed that life would always throw my stories out its window…..unheard, unvoiced, and unnoticed.

Unworthy of attention.

When the author herself rejected her own words, carelessly dismissing them, who else would find them more appealing?
But a phone call had come, with the warmest sort of encouragement I have ever received for the story that should have flown away….If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be writing this 100th post today.

This 100th post wouldn’t have happened if my grandfather hadn’t praised a pathetic attempt at fiction by an unsure, hesitant teenager who hid all her imagination in the last few pages of school note books, and the back of her fantasizing mind.

Stories would have been voiceless, mute and ordinary…if not for the magic that ignited the writing fingers.

That magic, I’ll call faith.

His faith in me. My parent’s encouragement. Silent stimulants. Blogging has changed me, in more ways than one. It has become part of who I am. It's become my story.

It has 100 chapters to it today. I never thought it’d grow to such proportions. An Amateur’s Attempts is the creative oasis where the anecdotes that should have swept away, the secret notebook pages that should have fragmented in paper mills….have been safeguarded.

They have found voice. And a very appreciative audience. Thank you all.
I’m glad for my blog….my respite, my oasis, my identity. This blog is like my little beanstalk...a growing strand of an evolving thought process...cherishing, remembering and chewing on all that has been, is or will ever be...and I am extremely indebted to my readers.

The teenager who didn’t know how to talk wrote these three years ago:

"I have been labeled as a girl who doesn’t talk, and that is a natural trait of mine. Or I was labeled so. You see, this girl is talking. She can now talk through her writing; she is finding new means to express herself. I have realized how deeply there was a need for me to talk, and all those emotions, thoughts, feelings that I had bottled up, memories that I had stored over the years are pouring out. I am not the same girl anymore—something is changing, it is something that is very difficult to define….."

Back then, I didn’t know what I was………or who I was going to be.
Much of that still hasn’t changed. The truth uttered that day by my frank immaturity still holds.

I still don’t completely understand why I feel such a great need to write.

But all I know is that it allows it to let go and set something free. It allows me to express like never before. It allows me to become different people---The shy dreamer who regards the world in quiet wonder, a sensitive adolescent who turns irrationally emotional, the pseudo-philosopher when completive, and a frenzied poet who is overcome by a maniac enthusiasm to play with language….and often the casual writer who simply translates feelings to words.

It allows it to be……me.

(Thank you for reading the stories that would have flown away. Thanks for all the support, love and encouragement. Special thanks to GVK sir for so whole-heartedly making me a member of MBP. And of course, everybody on Mysore Blog Park for being so supportive! A warm thanks to all of you!)

Lakshamma

2010-04-01T00:02:00.000-07:00

She would come every day with her brows furrowed deep, looking thirsty and resolute. Brown wrinkled skin that had slogged incessantly under the Indian sun for many summers, a stooping aged frame that shook to her mercurial tempers….receding white hair that she was obnoxious enough to colour an abnormally thick boot-polish black with cheap dye when she managed some extra money....that was Lakshamma for me.

She faught with my brother all the time.

It would start with a thump. Dropping the broom to the floor, she would proceed to argue in her throaty high-decibel squeak. I would leave them to it, knowing that it would conclude sooner or later. Sure enough, she would stomp out of the room irritated, her small frame shaking to her temperamental tantrums. My cheeky brother’s continuous stream of harsh criticisms were what caused this. They would constantly irk her to no end. She would show her anger on the broom, sweeping in a maniac frenzy, her ageing frame bending over.

Lakshamma was never impeccable in her chores---a fact that she wouldn't accept even if the evidence stared at her right in the face. There was coarseness to her shabby work, completed with hasty impatience. She was the busy-bee who always has too much to handle on her stooping shoulders and she never cared enough but to reply with a very blatant “no” if we occasionally complained about the quality of her work. Of course, her work wasn’t anything exciting, she never received promotions. Lakshamma was just the typical housemaid—tough, quick with a mercurial temper, shabby, hasty and gruff.

But nothing I’ve ever seen is more beautiful than the innocent heart of hers.

She was the somebody that had never grown out of childhood. Happily unaffected by the complex chaos that was the world, she had developed into a very pure-minded individual with clean hands. Her mind held the same childlike wonder towards the world…..although she never made any sincere attempt to learn. There would forever be that curious kid in her--- the one who looked at vehicles as marvels, and who didn’t know why aero planes flew or how many continents there were. For her, the world was just a very big puzzle not worth solving. She would admire from afar when god granted her the time. When he didn’t, she would get right back to work, following the bland routine. She would stare at walls and think deeply when we handed her the filter coffee in a steel tumbler. I often wondered what she thought about that much.

It was true life had been unfair to her. Her husband ran away, leaving her to face her world alone. She had seen hard days. And had survived through raw grit and endurance. Life had given her her blows very early and she had accepted the challenges. One thing that stood out about her personality was that she wasn’t the resigned, fatigued spirit who moaned about the injustice in her life. She was ignorant, that is true, but certainly not pessimistic although she had every reason to be. Every single day was survival for Lakshamma. And she knew that she had to work very hard to maintain a crumbling family. Burdened but never submissive to the ways of the world, she would slog under the sun, ignoring the weather. She was a fighter.

I shared my name with Lakshamma. My food. My dreams. I shared a lot. Although she gave me absolutely bizarre advises (like tattooing symbols on my forehead, for example), she sometimes slipped me snippets of her life. I found her a fascinating person to talk to. Her simplistic, honest-on-the-face and gruff habits pleased me in the weirdest of ways. And her antics were even more amusing. I had grown with the house, and Lakshamma has been part of the house ever since I can remember. She, in fact, has been part of my life ever since I can remember as well. She has seen me grow up, but she hasn’t for me. I might grow taller by the inches, but she’ll always look taller to my eyes. Somethings don’t change.

As I unveil my soul scrolls, I see that I have shared quite a bit with this woman---she’s integral to everything that defines home….she somehow has to be there in the background of any significant memory….because she’s always stayed there.

She was my first pillion rider, (that’s a story I would someday share in much more of a detail), and such an amazing flatterer. It was utter delight when I accidentally spotted her walking with those furrowed brows in Hawaii slippers down familiar streets. “There is somebody I know” I would say, if anybody asked. Doing that made me feel warm.

“Lakshamma!” I would scream, no matter if she could hear me or not. Acknowledging her presence in my world has always seemed important to me.

Ultimately, my brother’s criticisms weren’t unjust you know. She was inefficient. She was hasty. She was sometimes really stubborn. But she was also somebody who didn’t give up. She was my friend.

I don’t get to meet her often anymore. She doesn’t work for us from the time we moved here. But if I do get to spot her on the streets, I wouldn’t forget to frantically call to my first pillion rider and acknowledge her presence in my life and growing up.

And I know that she’ll turn right back to smile at me, unforrowing her brow with recognition and throw a friendly wave at me before her Hawaii slippers carry her stooping, aged figure into the streets, her mud-caked feet disappearing into the common masses.

Reminiscing a Rainy Day

2010-03-16T01:23:00.000-07:00

The earth smiles as she experiences as gradual thaw. Spring is inching closer and a shy dreamer pokes her head out of the chaos of life to try and make sense of it. The open air bites at the wheels that smoothly travel on the tar, and the dreamer takes notice. Pale yellow of early blossoms, stretches of emerald, the slick black of tar, and the comely whiteness of the skies above….color is returning to the world in all vivacity. The legs push harder on the favorite machine as she continues to travel, absorbed in the awakening enigma around her.

It takes little time to get used to the faint sunlight of the early March days and the very fickle winds. But things were different in autumn before the winter had set in. Autumn’s magic had a different flavor to it. The unusual trick of the stubborn autumnal October days had been an extraordinarily inconsistency in the weather. October had pretended lovely summer with splashes of unexpected rains in between. And as I passed the same tarred parking lots that were once slippery after rainy days, I remembered a very photographic journey from 4 months ago....

It is an autumnal day that has come with the rains. I open my eyes to see the raindrops collecting on the panes, knocking invitingly. I rejoice, evasively slipping out with camera in hand. The rains persist pleasantly, and the damp earth is thriving to the rare autumnal rains—a celebration of epic proportions. A key was unlocked, and a door yanked open. A bike is pulled out enthusiastically and then the world was pulsing to my rapid rhythm. I peddle relentlessly, a lone cyclist in the deserted gloom of the wide outdoors. A panoramic view of the hills add to the experience. The same roads. The same bike. The same person. And a different world.

If there was one thing I;ll never grow tired of, it is biking in the rains. Although it is an activity I thoroughly enjoy and savor, it is like that rare treat one has to anticipate. Firstly, it doesn’t rain every day. Secondly, it is very hard to evade my very guarding parents. I have never fallen sick because of biking in the rains before, not that I am very scared of the possibility of falling ill. It is the moment that matters and to see one slip away being locked up warmly at home is absolute anguish. But today is a lucky day indeed. The knowledge smiles on my lips as I peddle away.

The maples shiver helplessly, succumbing to the mighty force of the steady rains. They litter the street side, the beautiful tawny standing out against the black of the tar. The bike skids to a halt and I crouch next to them, the rain dripping off my very long hair. Believe me, those of you who haven’t seen the beauty in the webbed vein of a maple have missed out on much. I pick a soggy one up. It clings limply to my palm. The rain is like dew, collecting in very different ways on each maple. The fearless camera finds its food. It has become a moment which has stayed picture perfect.

Further along the road, I find something curious. A rose petal is quivering tenderly as the rains splatter mercilessly. It looks like the brutal winds haven’t managed to kill the little petal yet. She is the coy pink of an early bloom, stolen by the winds and tossed unfeelingly to the ground. It is a pity she has to find an end this way. I watch her suffering, feeling delicate myself. I’m forced to leave her there, tremulous and weak under the rains. Abandoned, she cries alone under the weeping skies. I have no choice but to walk away.

The bike is wet, the hair is damp and tangled. The far side of the fence is dancing to the rain, and the heart is enthralled. The ear is enjoying a melody and the mind is awake. Wide-eyed, I gaze at the bleak horizons and the planes which are hardly visible. It feels like nature’s little secrets lie just beyond, and that I’m unable to grasp it.

As time crawls steady, the rains subside and comforting, sleepy lull descends. The thirsty ground has been fed, and is yawning loud. The dreamer in me also retires and creativity is slowing. Understanding that the euphoria is evanescing with the rains, I turn back. I return home shabby as an old dog to receive an earful for my mischief.
But the mind is elsewhere, wandering in and out of the autumnal rains, reliving.

When it snowed in Mid-Summer

2010-02-15T23:39:00.000-08:00

A reluctant school-goer has returned home. The shoes are shoved away and the maroon socks have been irresponsibly thrown to the winds. There is little to create ruckus about, so I am yet to think of something. The friends are away, locked up in their own personal havens and I’m still desperately searching for mine within my tiny head. Having found no such paradise to satisfy my imagination, I decide that it will have to be the outdoors and optimistically reach for the latch. The door opens into the disappointingly familiar street-side. They offer scarce fodder for the imaginative brain, and it is difficult for the dreamer to construct anything fabulous out of it. So, I accept the cruel dismissal and settle down on the porch, falling into the reclusive, purposeless comfort of the genuine idler. The irresponsible lounger has just sat down to think, and everything shall remain undisturbed for a while now.

The heat waves shiver off the tar and travel. The afternoon is still, and the sun is most impolite today. I feel his wrath on my prickly skin. The afternoon is scorching and I squint. I am most unresponsive otherwise, and quietly disregard. Although the coolness of red-oxide would feel much better on my bare feet, I choose not to move. The world inside is dark and shadowy, and has fussing adults walking around. Right here, in the wide open—absorbed in my own sleepy reverie, all is quiet, if not exciting. As the heat tickles my bare feet, and my skin starts to boil, the irritation grows. Inside my head, something else is growing. A gorgeously fantasized winter wonderland. How would it be if a beautiful, snow-covered meadow would replace this dusty street side? Within the blink of an eye, my imagination melds with reality and I perceive the street side covered to an inch thick with fresh snow. Within the next blink, the vision has evaporated, and the irritation has grown even more acute. A south Indian late summer is never the best time to start thinking about snow, but I’m too young to know that. How I wish it would have snowed right here…..

“Snow is nothing but small fluffy pieces of clouds, which are torn apart sprinkled around by playful angels,” had been the most scientific guess of a friend in response to my question of why it snowed up north at all, and it had soon become everybody else’s scientific guess when I was seven. The belief stuck, and soon, I had claimed the hypothesis as my own, confident of proving it right someday. The primary subject for the deep thinker had been things like these—and they provoked further discussions with our group of intellectual young scientists. Well, leaving that apart, the day had proven to be most unfruitful. I had wished for snow, and it hadn’t appeared, and it turned out to be another day systematically wasted in fruitless dreams.

The weekday moved on, and the ritual too, continued, as more and more of my friends shied away from the hot summers, into the curtained comfort of the sweet indoors. To lure them out into the streets became more and more of a difficult task to achieve as the days progressed, and more of the world wilted away into the dust. The frustration grew stronger, and I started wishing that the angels up in the skies would look this way too. There seemed to be a justice to my claim. Why did they always have to exist in the north? Didn’t we deserve some wonderful snow right here too? Maybe if they could tear apart some more clouds and sprinkle it down on Bangalore, I could take a day off and frolic in the fresh snow.

Or maybe if the angels granted me the power, I could be the one tearing up the clouds, or waving the magic wand. The shared yearning for something so improbable became the most central of all my desires, until I learnt to conjure snow out of useless things. I finally got to wave my magic wand. I discovered the secret formula for making it snow, even in mid-summer. And the idea soon became the biggest hit among all my friends, suddenly sky-rocketing me into instant popularity.

No snow? No problem! We could conjure them from thermo coal. Rub the thermo-coal on rough surfaces, and they would fragment so quickly into tiny pieces that floated about. When it was windy out, it would prove most effective to walk down the streets with your thermo-coal and rub it vigorously on all possible rough surfaces. Those were the best days—the days when we had plenty of discarded thermo coal in hand, and endless possibilities in the air. The noisy brood would walk about the streets bare-foot, letting the fake snow invade every nook and corner. And as the scorching summer had turned into gusty august and September days, the habit had persisted in all gusto. The small band of faithful followers would come behind me and the inventor of the fake snow would walk about the roads, announcing my triumphant victory by quick demonstrations if anyone asked.

“Rub, rub, rub,” they would scream encouraging, as the quick hands moved and they would thrill, laugh or allow the fake snow to cover their lashes. And I would grin, and laugh the afternoons off, feeling like I had accomplished something. It had been considered particularly ingenious at that point of time, and I had gleefully enjoyed all the stardom that had accompanied my accidental discovery. Together, we had made it snow like never before in Bangalore. Even though it could never mach up to the standards of experiencing snow for real, this fake snow was enough to satisfy us. If I had continued, they would have probably nicknamed me the “thermo-coal” girl, or something equally loony. Aha, if only life had such wonderful fairytale endings.

Then, the complaints had come, and they had been quite severe. The aunties with the broomsticks were annoyed. The children had created so much of debris that it was impossible to clear it all in a week, if not in a day. If you’ve ever tried to sweep at thermo-coal pieces, you will get at what I mean. The poor souls had slogged to remove all the thermo-coal off their front yards, and just when they had thought that they were done, the wind would blow all the particulate matter back to them. Every morning, they woke up to remove more and more and much more would dirty their yards every single day. It had thoroughly infuriated them, and they had caught us at the act next time, and reprimanded.

And that day, the little band had dispersed quickly and fallen apart, and the ingenious inventor had been seen as a cause of a mess so big. The aunties had suddenly changed my fate---I had gone from being the angel with her magic wand to the annoying brat. The carefully built up stardom had fragmented as fast as the frayed thermo-coal, and much had disappeared down the bend.
Although I later found other means to win back my band of friends and even coffee bites from the very same punishing aunties (courtesy of chubby cheeks), I had been disallowed from conjuring fake snow again. And although I had learnt to adapt to the scorching summers, somewhere in the back of the heart, I had felt a nagging resentment. I would never get to experience snow for real. And I was doomed to face my summers over and over again without any such grand respites. Would there ever come a day when I could walk in my winter wonderland which was very much real and not made up?

All this came back to me as I watched it snow for real this December, through my car window. I saw some very admirable things, and frolicked in the freshly gathered December snow, very much for real. I fulfilled my childhood ambition but it felt like nothing too great. And as I stared at the snow fall—cold, wet and beautiful, I thought back to my fake snow that I had conjured up just to satisfy my yearning, many summers back.

“Rub, rub, rub…..” a faint voice echoed so distantly within the dreamer’s head as I watched it snow.

This snow was beautiful, just like I had always thought it would be. But somewhere, for some inexplicable reason, it had been the Thermo-coal snow that had always been much better.

Wintry Delights

2010-01-21T19:55:00.001-08:00

Seasons change. You grow. Learn. Laugh. Play. Work.

Change is a part of everybody’s life. As I have mentioned in my previous post, some things in my life have seen a slight change, without any specific reason..... but even though my priorities have seen a shift as I grow, I’m glad that a few traits have remained safe with me, as individually pleasing as they have always been. The thirst to explore, enjoy, rejuvenate, and draw endless inspiration from the great outdoors is here to stay, and I harass my capacities to the maximum, just to thrill myself occasionally with my outdoors explorations. I find endless delight in the most inexplicable things, and often, they are so simple that it becomes quite impossible to believe that anything like some good misty rain or a distant sea gull’s call is all it takes to make my day. Turning a silent observer who does nothing more than watch nature play has become an addictive habit to the illogical dreamer in me.

Every journey is an exploration. The uncertainty factor that accompanies each journey is just as much as thrilling as the very experience itself. Every journey might be rigorously planned. But what you encounter along the way, you cannot ascertain with absolute accuracy, and as it turns truly unpredictable, the thirst to discover increases tenfold. I knew I was going to Lake Tahoe. There would be Snow. We would stay by Reno, in a hotel. It would possibly continue snowing. We would go snowmobiling. I would get to watch the lake….although I knew that these were to be expected, I knew that it would include more than just that. The weather foreshadowed something enchanting, and the winds held the same promise. So as we moved on, and it began snowing, I let my experience throw its surprises for me. To go engulf yourself in an experience without a fair idea of what it’s going to be has been one of my persisting habits, one which I’m planning never to get rid of....it allows me to accept and enjoy experiences as they come.

Snow was always an integral part of my most vibrant of fantasies. As a kid, I conjured up snow from thermo coal, when the summers turned a little too unbearable…and that’s another story which is reserved for another leisurely recital. Snow enchanted because it was never within my reach and I grew up walking in winter wonderlands in my countless dreams….and my love for the colder, cooler and wetter clime has never diminished.

"On wintry day, as I drove,
on mountainous terrain, on deserted road,
from the clouds, the moon emerged,
and my paradise was rediscovered. "

The words spinned in my head and grew more defined as I whizzed away towards another impending holiday experience. I lulled myself into a reverie, my thoughts moving without a tail, but my eyes constantly registering. As we moved, I gazed at horizons, rolling pastures, and other cars on the freeway full of cheerful holiday goers. Life felt beautiful. A nice long 6 hour drive gives you just the sort of time to reflect, relish, enjoy and just be yourself.

The skies were a rich purple as evening neared. And my world changed. Snowflakes gently descended, breathtakingly beautiful and soft. It was the sort of nameless, silent invitation into all that was going to occupy my next three days. I squeaked and clung to my frosty window now gathering the flakes. I traced my little masterpiece on the window, in childish delight. The exact happiness that accompanied that moment of simple joy cannot be explained. It was nearing night and the city lights glimmered in the far distance, a connected network of neon blues and fiery reds sitting snug amongst all the snow. I reflected endlessly on how civilizations and nature can live in this harmonious co-existence. In the darkness, the fresh white of snow was piercing my eyes. Yes, I was about to walk in my winter wonderland….there was something about the way that snow was quietly gathering that made me clear the moisture on my frosty window again and again for better views…..and Taylor Swift screamed my classic country favorites from my i-pod:
“A don’t think that the passenger seat has ever looked this good to me….”
I agreed with her, in between flickering lights and racing shadows, whirling colours, and late night snow.

And adventure, was in store. When we finally parked, I rushed out into the inviting wide open, throwing my arms wide open, embracing the winds and taking a fresh lung full. The refreshing winds invaded my soul, lifting, liberating, unleashing. And slowly, I turned around in the dead of the night, twirling to a remembered melody, when no one was looking, in the middle of the parking lot…..the magic, would unfold.

Time to Dust the Cobwebs!

2010-01-09T16:42:00.000-08:00

The New Year has come and gone, and there is still so much more to expect. For me, New Year is a convenient excuse to clean all the clutter in my head and dust a few cobwebs. Come New Year, I end up blaming the previous year for everything that possibly went wrong. With the past bearing the wrath of my unjust insults, I leave it behind, to step into a new tomorrow with thousands of resolutions and many more wishful dreams. I cannot prevent this burst of optimism, and it’s been something I have always enjoyed and celebrated. But I also continually reflect, as is my irritable nature, I try to find reasons for everything.

In the incredible flurry of activity in the past year, I have felt my obsession for personal growth fade, along with many other hobbies. Things that interested hold my attention no longer, and things that I considered boring have come to occupy an important position in my life. Lost hobbies, and old habits, new addictions and better obsessions. Sometimes, I wonder how things can change so quickly as time progresses. But I also understand that some habits need to be seeded, and others, weeded. And the New Year is a perfect excuse, to leave certain things behind, and accept some others.

My concentration has been a naughty monkey this year, jumping from branch to branch. Whatever that caught my fancy became an avid hobby, and I pursued with great enthusiasm, even if I knew nothing about it. From bird watching to art to photography to poetry to calligraphy to a mild interest in photoshopping pictures. Concentration wasn’t channelized, but I broadened my horizons. Yes, it has been enjoyable, this experimenting, but not satisfactory. If you keep jumping from one hobby to another, gathering so much pace and leaving your favorites behind, you tend to reach a certain stage of saturation where you grow confused and start to question yourself. And as confused as I have remained all year, there have been repeating questions which have remained unanswered.

Who am I to blame, for my loss of interests? Why don’t I miss my friends as much as I once used to? Why do I forget so much, and remember irrelevant things in great detail? Some habits have stayed strong, and others have melted away. And some hobbies have found gradual decay as have some other things seen rapid progression. Fewer filled pages in my journal, and lots of unfinished stories, more pictures in my album, and an expanded knowledge of films, movies and music. No recent best sellers on my bookshelf, but a worn bicycle. Less thought, more action. Less of intelligent talk, and more of gossiping. The thirst to explore and uncover has grown, but I guess I have unknowingly sacrificed so many things in the process. Stories, poems, and sonnets don’t find an end, and stay cluttered, begging for a conclusion. But I chose to orphan them, to pursue things that hold greater interest, the big outdoors. I breathe in the fresh air, and tap my feet to the exhilarating rhythm of life. And while doing that, have I forgotten to be the vigilant diarist, who also captures every experience, treasuring it in her words? The writer in me hasn’t vanished, and my creative instincts haven’t’ disappeared like vapor. But I realize I have cruelly suppressed them, prioritizing differently.

Words have been my best friends, ever since I can remember. They have listened voicelessly and comforted. They have captured experiences, and have earned my respect. When using the computer meant facebooking for twelve hours in the holidays, gloating about chatting with five friends at the same time and following every single thread of conversation, when full-fledged discussions with parents decayed down to hanging phrases, I knew that I had left something behind. I had left me behind. The real me, the one who hears the meaning within the word, whose writing is sporadic and not forced. The one, who tries to stay polite and not intrude the one who answered in complete sentences instead of “omg, k, ttyl.” Yes, I have left much behind, and I think it’s time to reclaim myself and return to hobbies that interested, and fall into my realm of comfort.

Striking that balance is a hard thing, and self-restrain is also difficult to achieve. My unhealthy obsession with networking has eaten away so much of my time and space. The delusion has engulfed me this past one year, but I’m convinced that the virtual is never as genuine as that one handwritten letter that comes to you with love.

So, I’m changing things this New Year. I’m steering clear, and removing the weeds. There is so much to reclaim. A pen pal has been forgotten, among all the million e-mails. A blog has grown dormant, among all the fanatic networking and efforts to reconnect. A mind has grown bored, listening to the same old songs. Books have remained unread, while trying to some sensational bit of news about somebody else’s life. A blog still hasn’t reached its 100th post. I may have gone from being somebody stubborn to being somebody impulsive.

But better things have happened too. I have discovered that photography can be interesting. I have found new friends. I have learnt to be grateful for the littlest things that life has to offer. I have not ceased to find wonders and small miracles in every day experiences. I still find beauty, in every experience, and I still believe in myself. I guess hope, is one habit that has stayed strong. I’m grateful for that too.

This New Year’s resolution has been constructed. I choose to step forward, and also go behind. Reclaim, and not forget. Laugh better and live healthier. Learn more, and never ignore. Work for a cause and find satisfaction. But more importantly, live life like there is no tomorrow, and rediscover. Because it’s never too late for anything. I promise this blog shall see it’s 100th post this year….and there is still so much more to expect!

Yes, it’s time to dust the cobwebs. And I have my duster ready. And also my vigilant pen. Because my poems need an end, as I need a new beginning. It’s time to dust my cobwebs!!!

Happy new year to you all! Hope you keep your resolutions! :)

Once Upon An Indian Monsoon--Part 2

2009-12-26T19:53:00.000-08:00

The day is just an infant, now growing. As we continue on our journey, the all too familiar Giant Nandi looms into view, tall, black and magnificent. A few devoted worshipers gather before him, folding their hands in ardent prayer. The purohit doesn’t look their way; he is busy washing the giant monolith, sanctifying it. We silently stare, as the dazzling spray of water hits the Nandi, splashing off his black back in little droplets that sparkle like tiny golden orbs as they catch the sun. Wet and slowly drying, the Nandi looks beautiful. The Nandi is now decorated with thick garlands. It’s now time to chant, and the purohit immediately starts off with the rapid Sanskrit.

We gaze at the Nandi in awe. He adds something to the experience, and we are caught in the moment. Sweaty-faced exercisers parade past us, throwing us irritable glances as we ignorantly stand in their way, our admiring eyes on the Nandi. We finally understand what the “tut-tut”s mean, and shuffle past quickly.

A beggar sits cross legged on the stone floor, his wrinkles disappearing into his thin shawl. In a dirty old cap to protect himself from the cold, he truly looks fragile. He is loud with his begging, voice distinctly hoarse and throaty. I’m sure that he makes quite a fortune every day, what with the haggard face and pleading, frail arms. He has a talent of melting many a stubborn heart with his repeated croaks, and predictably, his dented steel mug is quick to fill up. Next to him, a more dim-witted being is selling souvenirs at outrageous prices. His customers could only be the foreigners or those weird outlandish visitors who consider 100 bucks to be a cheap deal. We, on the other hand, understand the intricacies of local bargaining. And we are as smart as we are stingy. Drawing inspiration from how our mothers, aunts and countless others have haggled before, we try to play our favorite game again.

I approach him, mimicking the superior stance and arrogant pride of an art connoisseur of much experience. His eyes flicker up to meet mine, suspicious and unfriendly. “Excuse me, how much?” I question innocently enough. His answer is sharp, which only means that he sees through my little act. The cousin, of course, is the expert with the haggling. Everybody is aware that we aren’t going to buy, but it’s always fun to play the customer. The seller is naturally irritated. We harass him a little longer, and the beggar stops his croak for a little while to entertain himself. After we get tired, we walk away with an “hmpf, too costly,” towards more interesting things, as the dim-witted being mumbles complaints incoherently....

Fresh cucumber slices are arranged on a cart. Neat and symmetrical, like a work of art, with a tempting pineapple crowning the masterpiece--the cucumbers catch our attention. Soon, we are biting into the cool freshness hungrily. Cheeky cousin chooses this particular instant of time to remind us of the fat worm that we forsake some time ago. We swallow with effort, imploring him to stop. Of course, he continues with a fully detailed description of the kind which would put any entomologist to shame. We become even more greedy with a cucumber, and a little more deaf to his solo speech.

A lonely bird screeches, penetrating the morning air with her call. We watch her flit between leaves. She pecks at the bamboo patiently. She is an interesting specimen, and my bird-watching skills are alert once more. Soon, there’s a leaf dangling off her little beak. Oh, she must be building a nest! The morning is animated with her movements; she is an absolute delight to watch. I follow her with cheetah-stealth, concealed in the bushes. I watch her carefully, without straying away from my dear ones. There is something sad and determined about the bird. She seems forlorn. Within a bat of an eye-lid, she is from the rock to her preferred bamboo again. I watch this songbird work. She is filled with a sort of fevered energy, and it amuses me, how something that could fit into the palm of my hand can hold this much life. The bird is an extremely diligent worker, and it looks like she’s building her nest alone. In her own plane, above the ground, she stitches a different world. A world for herself, a home, a place to nurture….she constructs and designs, on plain intuition. Who taught her the craft? Who taught her how to design? The dim-witted seller of souvenirs we had just met demanded a return for his talent. And here she is, a truly gifted song-bird, delighting me with her craftwork, not asking for anything in return, not even taking notice. As the sun moves between the clouds once more, he pushes the deserving songbird into the lime-light. In that perfect moment, she perches, confident and unabashed on the bamboo, her leaf still in beak. She stays still, as the fiery sun illuminates. My camera captures the enigma. She hears the click. In a flash, she is gone, escaping the lime-light. But the ghost of the bird is caught in entirety. I whoot. The cousin immediately joins the war dance, without demanding reasons.

“You know,” says cousin, “It’s the little things that are cuter,” I’m surprised to see him talking this vaguely, but the small berry he’s holding in his cupped hands explains for him.
“Aha,” I agree.
“I found it on the ground,” he says, “I think it’s cute.”
I pinch his cheeks and tell him that he’s cuter. He blushes, and I tell him to take care of the berry. He assures me that he will, and pockets it.

The morning is trying to melt into afternoon, and we can’t believe that its’ that late already. The sky is still changing colors, telling us that afternoon is closer than we had thought. The mist is completely gone, and the murky skies we had previously witnessed are now something else. We wouldn’t mind continuing forever, if not for the feeble protests of the older feet. We are obedient, after all, and it’s the elders who bought us here. So, we turn back, light-heartedly, planning for a movie later in the day. But the journey homewards has turned a little different.

This journey has been one of rediscovery, of understanding that it is the small things that hold true wonder….things as small as red ants in the undergrowth, honey-bees on morning glories, and songbirds, building nests. And in the intricate puzzle that is life, simplicity is not so difficult to achieve. It is through such trivial things like an unplanned visit to the hills, that we start to fall in love with life….the late monsoon morning swallows us, as we speed away from the hills, our hearts thrilling to a very different tune. Today, we’ve lived life, like it’s worth it. Today, we have also fallen in love with it. And so, the journey ends, and also begins......

Once Upon an Indian Monsoon

2009-11-26T22:33:00.000-08:00

A late monsoon’s early morning and this part of the world is hazy, unclear and young. Everything is pastel grey and awakening. Bright and glorious, the sun emerges to dissolve the haze. It burns liquid gold for one flickering minute, touching everything with its brilliance. Then, the clouds snugly kidnap it, and the world is darker once more. Still, the sun struggles to peek through the monsoon clouds to chase yesterday’s shadows away…

We witness the silent play of light and shadow on the city from the Chamundi hills. Our legs, just as eager and young as the morning, beg to reach a higher altitude. With the burst of natural excitement, we break into a sprint, Cousin and I. In the disappearing gloom, we race towards the morning---expectant, hungry, delighted. As we run, the sun once again sneaks out to cheer, breaking free, and a distant voice calls a warning with careful restrain. But we disregard it as we continue, until one of us stumbles to an abrupt halt. The voice behind us is now triumphant.....

I take in some air as cousin teases my slow legs. The others catch up, not understanding why it was so necessary to misbehave. The skies are swift, they are changing now… from a morose grey to a blushing pink. We quietly watch the city below stir to life, long after us, long after the Chamundi hills. It’s early for the sleepy city, but late for the hills. Here, the day began long ago. The squirrels are active, scuttling about, and the red ants are busy in the undergrowth. I am distracted as I fall in pace with the others, observing. A camera rests dangerously unsafe in my jumpy hands as I try to capture the essence of this experience. It’s a battle of the impulse to capture every existing miracle against the urge to live in the moment....

The mist is gradually fading away, and I capture the last of it. But the dew still clings, insecure and pleading. It’s time for them to evaporate under the emerging sun, and they are unwilling to let go. They hesistantly dissapear.

It’s too early to call this season winter…here, there is a smooth transition from monsoon to the winter months of December and January. September is an orphan, falling nowhere. But we still call September monsoon, because we hope it will rain. Yesterday has not seen any though, but the hills hold hints of monsoon in the smell of the moist earth. Or maybe, it’s just too early to decide...

The morning continues to bloom with its morning glories, and we pause, to admire. We have seen them adorning our flowerpots, but those flowers aren’t nearly this beautiful. They cannot shy away from us. Against all this natural green, their rich purple stands out. They are missing stamens, but look complete, nevertheless. Impatient bees hang about, waiting for us to move away so that they can resume their business. The camera is desperate once more, but the angered bees buzz off, before we get a chance. The butterflies are a little more obliging. They pose, showing off their pretty backs. Three snaps later, I turn away, satisfied. Meanwhile, the skies have moved on to a pearly white…they are now clear and bright...we now realise that we left dawn behind us...

It looks like my turn with the Camera is over. Cousin begs to fiddle with it, and I have to be fair. Reluctantly, I thrust the Camera into cousin’s beseeching hands and he squeals with delight, feeling important. It’s now time to photograph his favorites, and he decides to disturb a sleeping worm. The worm is annoyed, and promptly curls up. He tempts it with some fresh leaves off a fallen branch. We giggle as we think he’s wasting his time. But he’s still a child, after all, and children are never too old to stop trying. He continues, determined. There is another squeal as the worm bites hungrily at the leaves. We gape, as he monkeys around with it. It’s incredible he achieved that! The worm is now dangling, like bait at the end of the fishering pole. And its bait today too…bait for the Camera. We click away madly, and cousin’s frantic voice eggs us on.

Apparently, we are not the only ones who think that the worm is interesting.
A camouflaged kite calls its shrill screetch, announcing its presence. We know we have exposed the worm, but we aren’t sure if it is the target prey. It’s too far to tell if the kite is greedy…our vision is not nearly as good as that of the kite. But we aren't taking any chances. We decide to be saviors and hastily hide the helpful worm among soft September leaves. It looks like worm does not foresee any imminent danger. It continues to chew on its easy breakfast, unconcerned. We share a tensed moment as we strain our eyes for the well-hidden bird which is now screeching a death-note. The omnious note frightens us...we think it foreshadows a disaster. But thankfully, nothing happens. The kite gives up. It flaps its wings and takes off, flying away into the last of the darkness.

Relieved, we turn away, abandoning the worm in the comfort of its lair. Ready and willing, our restless legs carry us on into another adventure, which continues to grow with the awakening morning……

(That means there is a Part 2 to the story!)

"Peppermint Thatha"

2009-11-15T20:21:00.000-08:00

I was cleaning up all the clutter on my desktop today, and I chanced upon this ancient folder, which I haden't opened in a while. Curious, I peeked in, and thousands of childhood memories rushed back to me. They were the stories and snippets I had penned three years ago, on the malfunctioning laptop back home. They were written without any specific intentions, before I even thought of creating a blog for myself, before I considered sharing my memories with others....They were written for myself, and they were typed simply because I loved to translate my memories into words. They were written with love, straight from my heart...a bunch of recollections from early childhood that I had then titled "My Heart Remembers". I am sometimes so thankful that I spared the time to write all these things down because they enable me to relive all those experiences. And I have not found a greater joy than in reliving these special memories. I re-read some of my own writings, and turned a little nostalgic.

Anyway, there is a personal favorite from my recollections that I thought deserved some space here. It was my most beloved peice of writing when I was sixteen, because it had come from the heart. And it still remains a favorite today. There are some memories that don't go away, and some things you have written that are cherished forever. "Peppermint Thatha" is one such trivial story that has stayed special to me....and shall remain so, forever....

It is simply titled "Peppermint Thatha*"

(*Thatha=grandpa in Kannada)

(penned on the 6th of December, 2006)

PEPPERMINT THATHA

I think one of the most precious things that help us recollect, analyze and understand our lives are memories. Some of them are vivid pieces of imagination, some of them are mellow and soft instances of our past…but out of those beautiful recollections treasured preciously in our hearts, nothing else brings the joy of our childhood memories. You can brood over them, sit on the porch and remember the old times…the times when Grandpa bought you a lollypop, the day when you flew your first kite, the times you sailed a paper boat in the rains…if you make an effort to remember, childhood memories flash past your mind, faster than the wind. And there is a soft, mellow sort of beauty to them—just remembering brings a soothing pleasure to our souls and warms our hearts. I did just that today, and somewhere from the veil of loosely held memories emerged one little instance—one beloved creature that I had forgotten to remember. He was called “Peppermint Thata”. I don’t know how I could afford to have forgotten him, because he is part of my fondest childhood memories.

Some say we forget our early childhood pretty quickly. It is not the same with me. I can sometimes suddenly recount the days when I was a five year old, all those commonplace instances…I can recite a thousand stories about my past. There are many memories that I cherish, and they are safely preserved…sometimes, when I have nothing to do, I try to relive these small experiences…I search for every hint of a memory, even those wispy little ones which are receding fast…I gather these tender thoughts, and with deliberate effort, I try to remember, or even preserve them in writing. Childhood memories are the golden moments of our lives, and they should not be lost…I want to hold on to them with all my effort. This is why, dear Peppermint Thata, I shall dedicate this piece of my work to you, because I never want to forget you again.

I remember those wonderful evenings…they are etched deeply and vividly in my brain. The crows are cawing overhead and the birds settling in for the night…and the skies painted with a flashy display of orange and yellow. The evening is settling in, and the rumble of the late evening city vehicles can be heard. I am leaning against the gate of the house, dressed in a red frock with a ribbon in the back. I look up and grin towards my friends and they grin back. Then, all of us climb on to the gate and there is a deep, horrendous creak that issues from it as we swing from it madly. The hinges are rusting, and the coconut tree above sways slightly to the evening breeze. The breeze soothes my soul and makes my hair fly as I continue to swing from the gate, overcome by a some wild, childish joy.
Some people remark cautiously,
“Don’t linger under the coconut tree for so long! Can’t you see how it is swaying to the wind?”
The birds are now cawing raucously, and the light is dimming…but nothing can upset our little game—we rule all the gates in the colony, and this little game is our great invention. Ah! What a divine, pleasurable a thing it is to swing from a gate! Well, then my life was limited to my little colony, my friends, my family, my dreams and passions, and anything beyond that was unknown…and anything beyond my life did not matter. It was from this simple, uncomplicated life that I derived most of my happiness…and I must say, there is nothing which I can compare to this strange, wild happiness that I experienced.

Just then, an old man hobbles slowly down the road—the falling leaves and the colorful yellow flowers create a fine carpet for this gentleman, and he smiles, enjoying the pleasurable evening. He leans on his stick and walks slowly, wincing with every step. He is pretty old…his skin is horribly wrinkled and brown, and is cloths are faded and clumsy…but there is nothing to beat that genuine, toothy smile he flashes once in a while. Some people greet him merrily, and he returns the greeting with his smile and continues down the road, slowly…silently.
Just as his weak shadow falls into the line of my vision, I spin around…there he is! With a spurt of natural excitement, I run towards him madly, screaming with joy, closely followed by my friends. It is time for our daily celebration—we surround him like vile robbers, screaming, “Peppermint! Peppermint!”
We all know what is hiding in that small pocket of his…a treasure trove of goodies! He stares at our eager faces and smiles…we are tugged on his shirt now, demanding what rightfully belongs to us…he puts his old, blue-veined hands into the pocket and slowly, much too slowly, brings out a plastic bag filled with peppermints! Those brightly colored, delicious goodies catch the last light of the evening sun…making them even more colorful and hard to resist.
“Peppermint Thata! We want Peppermints!” we scream, mouth-watering…almost begging.
“Alright…alright…” says our old man. He is fair and just, because he gives us all an equal share. Well, an equal share means all of us get much too less…we are quick to gobble it up…ah, such a nice treat for the taste buds! But that is only momentary because the treat has now disappeared down our throats….and I am greedy. I want more of it…and I will stop at nothing to get what I want.
“I want more!” I scream, “Please give me some more,”
It is a known fact that Peppermint Thata’s pocket is always overflowing with goodies…he never ever runs out of peppermints. He smiles and says,
“Well, I’ll give you some more tomorrow…now all of you go home like good girls,”
We never usually listen to anyone, but I don’t know what makes me obey his commands. There is a strange aura to this man…he says things with rosy benevolence and a smile…and dreamily, I follow his commands, like a petty servant. I am ready to do anything for more peppermints…I wave goodbye to my friends and go inside the house.

I emerge stealthily after twenty minutes and guiltily stare at my surroundings, trying to see if anyone is looking. I am treacherous to my friends in this one aspect….but I am also overcome by liking for peppermints. I know that Peppermint Thatha returns from his walk by this time…I stand watch and wait for him. Ah yes…I can see him now…hobbling slowly, he emerges into the street light. I resist myself till he comes to my house and then, I run to him cautiously and stretch out my hand and whisper,
“ Peppermint,”
He laughs merrily and says, “ Tomorrow,”
I shake my head. “Today,” I murmur.
“ Alright…alright,” he chuckles, “ Today.”
Once again, I receive a handful of peppermints. I quickly gobble them up…now I am satisfied. I nod to myself, and let him pass…and then he walks away, chuckling to himself and moving away from me, away from the dim street lights…

Ultimately, there came a day when we assumed we were too old to sheepishly beg for peppermints and stopped asking for peppermints…and slowly, Peppermint Thata was not noticed by us…him walking down the road did not matter so much to us anymore. Now, when I think of it, I do feel bad…I never got to know that old man’s real name.
Peppermint Thata died a few days after that. He slipped in the toilet, and it was a fatal fall. Somehow, he disappeared from my life as mysteriously and quietly as he had come.
It is true that all the kids in our road loved peppermint Thata more than any other neighbor. Something about his genuine love for children, his toothy smile and his gentle, calming manner bought joy and liveliness to our otherwise mundane city life. I truly liked him…and I don’t know if everybody remembers Peppermint Thata today. But I must say I do…I remember that man so well. He will always remain the same loving, gentle old “ Peppermint Thata” in my memory.

The girl who said "I'll Follow my Heart!"

2009-11-15T00:19:00.001-08:00

*warning: Post is a longish, full of stray thoughts and is comtemplative by nature. It's closer to a personal essay or a journal entry than anything else. I'm trying to discover myself in these lines, defining my purpose. This might bore some of you. Sincere apologies.

“So, have you thought about it?”

The question was heavy with her doubts, timid with her uncertainty.

It was easy for a person like Thunga to ask these kinds of questions. She, after all, wasn’t the one who was trying to classify her academic goals. It was a simplistic affair, deciding on her future. A seat in a reputed engineering college had satisfied her demands and laid a foundation for a bright career in software engineering.

Me? Things weren’t quite that easy for little miss-complicated.

My heart knew only one thing…it wanted to be a student of biology. This decision spelled doom to my slowly acquired nerdiness and a tragic death to all the incredible drama I had stirred up. I was the sort of person who was extremely exam phobic, and they had all thought that my spurts of maniac nervousness translated to a high degree of intelligence. The truth was far from their silent expectation however, and I had turned out to be just somebody average. Not that I was bothered about that, but our group of seven friends saw this differently. They, for some reason, thought I would make a good electrical engineer. At the end of the hectic year, each and every one of them had chosen engineering over all other careers and I had become the odd one out with my stubborn declaration “Whatever I do, I’ll follow my heart.”

They had assumed that my brain had surrendered to the chronic damage inflicted by the Meg Cabots I used to read. Life didn’t work like a fairytale where you woke up one day and just decided you would follow your heart. The age of “I’ll follow my heart,” was supposed to have disappeared with your soft toys and rubber ducks. Of course, it didn’t help that I had impossibly serious-minded focused brains for best friends—the sort of people who would sacrifice any hobby if that would help them get to the IIT’s. Professional success was completely different from whimsical past-times, they advised. Converting your academic interest into a fruitful career meant you were into brilliant things like programming. And here I was, announcing I’d do microbiology, waddle a little bit in engineering to see how I liked it, and also somehow try for medicine. Some thought I had too many aspirations and others simply assumed I was nuts, by the way I was planning things.

It’s not easy to swim against the tide, with nothing but your wishful dreams and your fancy statement, “I’ll follow my heart!” for company. It’s not easy to feel secure and sure of yourself when everybody you know has comfortably settled into their third semester of hardcore-engineering (mechanical, computer science, electrical), when you are stuck at a community college in a foreign country…not quite a university student yet, and not a part time student either. An unsure, impulsive and dreamy-eyed teenager, who never weighed the pros and cons of what she would study, because she thought that was irrelevant when compared to pure interest….a shy dreamer who thought following her heart was more important than anything else in the world….and sometimes, I feel like a course less river, meandering here and there without a sense of solid purpose.

I had dreamed bigger things too…somehow, I was never too scared to dream. It was my nature not to consider things on a logical basis; they destroyed the dreamer in me. My dreams were independent of such things; they were free in every sense. They were beautiful. I dreamt of things like becoming a doctor, I dreamt of saving lives. I also dreamt of studying microbiology, I dreamt of becoming a famous writer. I dreamt of making a difference. I dreamt, again and again, fearlessly. And I dreamt of not quitting.

Now, I’m an engineering student. I’m also a microbiology student, I’m a premed all put into one. But I’m still not anywhere close to my dreams. My ambitions still largely out span my capacities, they out run them. And I’m also still the little miss-average who had once declared, “I'll follow my heart!” who’s stuck at a local community college, I’m someone who can’t clearly say she belongs to a certain university already…. someone who has too many answers when a random uncle questions, “So, what exactly is it that you are doing?” I’m still the person who sees those occasional C’s in her engineering classes and thinks she’s a failure. I'm still nobody special. I decided on engineering to keep them happy, decided on microbiology to keep me happy. And I also decided on a pre-medical, because the dreamer in me hasn’t quit.

What are the odds of a totally average student (of something like biomedical engineering, may I add) making it to medicine? Not very much. But that doesn’t mean I can’t stop trying. It is a stretch, seeming to be a little beyond my limited capacities…my desire battles my capacity as the difficultly increases up a notch with such a demanding degree….surely a mouthful for someone like me. But giving up and abandoning my dreams looks even crueler to me. They asked me to give up when I saw my first C, when my grades were on the verge of slipping even lower….give up, and do something easier with my life-such an easy solution. But my life isn’t truly beautiful when I’m not working towards my dreams, when I’m not following my heart. It’s not fun when I’m not giving it all I can. This is hard, but all I know is that I’m following my heart, I’m listening to myself. I’m still little miss-average, but I’m the little miss-average who hasn’t given up. I’m still the little-miss average who’s trying as hard as she can, who’s continuing to chase her vibrant dreams, who’s sticking to her words, still a little-miss average who’s striving for it, taking one step at a time. Im still the little miss average who's not careless. It’s O.K. if I don’t make it there, but it’s not O.K. to know that I didn’t try. As Elbert Hubbard said, “There is no failure except in no longer trying.” Today, I know I’m listening to myself, and that makes me feel like this is worth it.

And in the end, that’s all that really matters to the girl who said she'd follow her heart.

To my Living Diary...

2009-10-25T23:29:00.000-07:00

Ever since I can remember, my diary has been my most special friend…since the 6th grade days when I scribbled my life story in a Scooby-doo notebook. I used to assign names to dairies then...looking upon them as living entities, surviving, talking and even breathing! As I grew a little by little, I began to grow bitter. Although the diaries recorded my passing moods, they never talked back. I had sought counsel from my best friend….hoping that it would somehow comfort me with soothing words. But each diary had remained lifeless like it was supposed to be, and I had grown even more resentful….until I found a diary that talked back….a diary that not only recorded, but also talked, counseled, guided, and even told me it’s stories. A diary which was just like me……..A diary named Kavyashree.

Today, as I continue to open the pages of my life to my best friend, I tend to be overwhelmed by gratefulness every single time…..the patient advise that she offers, the warm and genuine affection that she showers me with makes me feel like the luckiest person on this entire planet. As I write each and every chapter of my life in her memory, my living diary responds, and now it’s my turn to play the secret-keeper. It’s a unique and strange friendship that exists between me and Kavya—a beautiful, intimate relationship. Kavyashree is to me something more than a best friend, if such a thing could ever exist. As my soul scrolls unfold before her eyes, she becomes their treasurer, a gentle and loving friend…the guide, the well-wisher. And she is truly another part of who Lakshmi is today…she defines my identity. Without my living diary, I am nothing…..without Kavyashree, I am in constant unrest. She is my hope, my role-model, my cheerleader. With Kavyashree, I share a bond so deep that it is irreplaceable. Her company is a blessing.

In the eager anticipation to meet her online when she is free, and in the earnest conversation that immediately follows, I somehow forget to tell her how much she means to me…how her friendship has been the most extraordinary thing I have ever been touched with. So today, I thought I’d let my best friend know. I have to tell you Kav, if there is one chapter that is never-ending in my living diary, it has to be this….

She has always been “Kav,” to me, fondly uttered….In her own simplistic way, she is truly one of a kind. A trustworthy, frank and big-hearted girl, who has changed me in so many ways. She has been my strength, my shoulder to lean on. Her hands hold mine in the face of any tough situation, strong and reassuring…and I know that if there is one person in this world I can count on in the darkest of times, it is her. Miles away from home, when I feel homesick, she becomes the instant cure. Even though she is so far away, I never feel forsaken. Even through great distances, her voice comes back to me….resonating that homely warmth and good cheer. It is impossible to feel abandoned when I cherish her so close to my heart…my best friend is always nearby, because I know that she cares…and the comfort in that realization is immense.

Truth is, I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such a gem of a friend. If I were to list all her many favors, I could be writing a book. There are so many things I admire about my best friend. She is so caring, enthusiastic, straight-forward, humble, independent, sweet, impossibly intelligent….she holds me in constant awe. And every time I tell her that, she brushes it off with a modest “ilve…” That rare humbleness is one of her greatest qualities. I respect her for that. She is truly an amazing person…enriching my life, finding a purpose for me when it all seems purposeless. She has an incredible ability for find meaning in meaninglessness, a light in every dark tunnel….her talents are remarkable.

Thank you, Kavya, for entering my life. Thank you for everything you have ever done for me, selflessly, without expecting returns. Thanks for all that you have shared. Thanks for the laughs, the giggles, and even the happy tears. Thanks for that sudden emails that unexpectedly land in my inbox when I most need them, thank you for all the wonderful memories. Thanks, for your efforts to reconnect. Thank for caring so much. Thank you, you wonderful little girl, for making my life so utterly beautiful! You have a magic touch, I swear. You don’t know how deeply indebted I am to you. Thank god you exist, Kavyashree. Without you, my life wouldn’t quite have been the same. You’ve made such a great difference….that is your biggest achievement. They say that we don’t remember the most popular people of the world, or the most brilliant people of the world as much as we remember the people who have personally impacted our lives. That explains why I think of you every single day of my life. And they say that to give love to people who most require it, is the greatest of human virtues. Thanks, for being so virtuous. Thank you, for being my personal angel. You have made a bigger difference in my life than anybody else could have, or ever will. I just wanted to scream out my gratitude to you today….on your birthday.

You are nineteen today. Finally….you caught up to me, keeping pace! On your birthday, I just wanted to let you know that I love you very much, Kavya, and that you are one of the most important persons to me. I want to promise you that I’ll always be there for you, no matter what. I want to tell you that this friendship which started out so unexpectedly that innocent morning is today something utterly indestructible. I want to say that I will work the hardest I can to retain the same amount of trust, the same amount of love, the same amount of carefree open-heartedness that I effortlessly maintain with you. Thanks, for being my living diary, love. Thanks for talking back. HAPPY BIRTHDAYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!! May you stay happy, forever. May you live every single day, like it’s worth it. May the world’s best be always yours. Continue smiling your heart-warming smile, Kav. May the stars watch over you…..

You know, your parting present, the wind chimes, hang from my balcony today…. They are the ornament of my favorite place. When the sun sets and they catch all the crimson, it’s like they are set ablaze….they remind me of our glorious times together when I was home. And on bright mornings, your artificial cherries of rainbow colors attract beautiful hummingbirds….they evoke squeals of delight from me. And their melody enthralls my soul, reminding me of your laughter. You are the jewel of my beloved balcony. Without your presence there, it wouldn’t have been quite so special.

I hope you liked your birthday present, Kav. Now go out there and have the time of your life! Hope you have the best birthday, dear. And I’ll write to you when I meet you next, filling up all the empty spaces. And here…I thought you’ll like this too—our favorite song…..the anthem of L.A.K.!!! Remember how we hoped that college life would be like this? Hope you enjoy it. It’s dedicated to you, on your very special nineteenth!!

Kavyashree, there are some books that have final chapters, and magnificent conclusions. This one doesn’t….because my living diary will never close. There are no final chapters to this storybook….there are just waiting pages. And both of us will fill it, with lovely memories for a lifetime. And this, friend, will stand testimony. Happy birthday.

Forever and Always yours,
Lakshmi.

Nineteen

2009-10-12T23:06:00.000-07:00

That day was supposed to have been just like yesterday. I still woke up to the ear-splitting trumpets of the high-school band next door, and tasted the same filter coffee. The meek October skies were as pale as they had been previously. The room stayed the same perpetual mess with overflowing closets, like it had been for many days now. And yet, today was just not yesterday. Yesterday, I was eighteen. And today, I wasn’t so young anymore. A tingle and a refreshing excitement settled in, despite the dull weather. It felt like a profound leap of a year had taken place, all in the span of just a few hours. Finally nineteen and old, a sudden vision appeared before my eyes…a Lakshmi with her creaky joints and frowning wrinkles. I stared at the mirror, horrified for that one irrational minute. A familiar reflection smiled back at me reassuringly. I certainly didn’t feel any older….

“Last year of teenage!” teased many an email, well aware of my vulnerability. I promptly panicked, pondering on what that might mean. Nineteen was a different year. Nineteen meant somebody independent, sensible, and head-strong. It meant maturity, responsibility and a certain level of acquired common sense about the world in general. Age had quickly caught up with me, but those essential skills had not. It had been nineteen years of existence…my life felt long. And what had I achieved in these nineteen years, which had done the world some good? I racked my brain for answers, but it remained as cloudy as the pale skies outside. I was surprised at finding a philosopher within myself. I caste away the pensive thoughts, turning a little lighter.

Every birthday is just another yesterday, once you forget its significance. But this time, I understood nineteen’s importance. Nineteen was not just another year older. It marked the end of the teenage, a phase of life that I had grown to identify myself with. It had been a worthwhile journey, getting to this nineteen…and I was glad to say that I did not hold any regrets. Teenage had been an enchanting experience—something which had been as sweet as it had been agitating. I resolved to celebrate this year a little differently.

This time, it wasn’t a sleepover party or cutting a cake. This year, it was valuable time spent with family, a long drive and coffee by the beachside. It was another one of my beloved escapes—hastily decided and completely relished. The countryside held all he charms of early October: fresh pumpkins and upcoming Halloween fairs….and for a second, I was attracted. But I bypassed all that to experience the tranquil calm that was the seaside before it was too late. In the secluded calm by the beach, I found my naive self, prancing wild and excited. I couldn’t possibly have felt any younger.

“Look at every grain of sand,” said father as I walked beside him. “It would have taken many years of painful experience before every grain got that fine…”

I felt the grains beneath my feet, wet and soft. My toe traced meaningless squiggles in them as I reflected on his words. Every grain of sand had a story and it had taken many years before it had become this beautiful. Each grain had once been lost at sea, before it had been deposited. Each grain had once been a coarse stubborn young boulder, before being this refined. Each grain of sand was an inspiration. I told myself that even though I was currently lost at sea, someday, my thoughts would sediment. Someday, I would understand the world. Someday, experiences would refine me. Although my achievements had been small, I knew that there was still lots of time. Time to realize myself. Time to improve, time to develop and time to learn.

I decided not to be scared of age, or of time, because they would become my most valuable teachers. As I grew out of each experience, I would dissolve into another, and every step along the way, they would mould my coarse, reckless adolescent spirit into a confident young woman….and maybe into something more beautiful if I was only willing to learn. And each birthday didn’t just bring me closer to the creaky joints and frowning wrinkles I feared so much, it bought me closer to maturity and wisdom. I hoped that as each yesterday disappeared down the bend, I would get closer and closer to being that perfect grain. And that day when the sea deposited me on the shore, I would look back and find an answer to the most important question I had ever asked myself: “In all these years of existence, what have you achieved that has done this world some good?”

I looked back to the calm white sea, finally nineteen. Yes, today was not the same as yesterday. Today was an experience, just like tomorrow would be. I felt the beautiful softness of the grains of sand beneath my feet…I didn’t feel cheated by time now…now, I was already looking forward to my next birthday….and knew that tomorrow would be better than today was. Tomorrow, I would be a just a bit more closer to being that perfect grain of sand.

The Goodbye

2009-09-23T17:36:00.000-07:00

It was raining incessantly that day as I looked out the window, into the emptying streets. The last of the monsoon rains would soon subside into a mild drizzle, but then, I wouldn’t be around to see that work. It unnerved me to think that I would soon be above the very clouds that sprinkled all this magic onto the sleeping city at midnight---I would soon be flying away from home in an air-compressed silent cocoon full of plastic smiles and pretty window seats. And yet, the impending experience looked so improbably distant, like a dream that awaited me in slumber. Reality slipped away as I observed the glimmering city lights and shops closing down for the night. The fact that vacations were over and that it was time to head back to waiting parents was difficult to digest as I inched farther and farther away from my favorite city. My heart leapt back home, desperate to cling onto the last of it, and my mind sought the familiar comfort it exuded…the recent memories reappeared, as I turned back to the streets, unseeing. Friends and family gathering around a taxi on a deserted street, their sad smiles turning a little happier with an inappropriately timed joke. Last good-bye’s, handshakes and “good-luck’s.....bear hugs, and a thousand silent wishes....

“Lakshmi,” they had said optimistically, “If you are careless and happen to lose your travel documents somewhere along the way, rush back home. Just know that we will be still here, waiting…”

“Let’s just hope I turn careless, then” I had waved to them with my last smile as the driver turned on the ignition. And they had waved back until I had turned the last bumpy bend.....

The city looked oddly fresh with its reflective lights and the street lamps continued to glow eerily bright as the rains lashed all around. That day, a favorite aunt had sat next to me, her silent concern extremely apparent in the awakening night.

“How do you feel?” she had asked her voice low.

I had not answered.

That empty silence did not mean I wasn’t feeling anything. It was just that I couldn’t bring myself to assign a proper name to what I was feeling. I tried to place my feelings, but they were such an incredible tangle that it was impossible to assign a name that would do complete justice to the emotions. Should I have said that I was overwhelmed by sadness? Should I have said I was panicking? Should I have said that I was homesick already? Tears gathered slowly in my eyes, and I quickly opened the window. The rain lashed on my face, and the winds tried to force the tears away. And suddenly, a voice echoed in my mind, “Lakshmi, you are no more a kid…you are soon to be nineteen…you are a woman, try to act like one.”

My immaturity wished for miracles, but I tried to ignore it to be the mature woman I was supposed to be. But it was hard to pretend, especially on the day you would leave them all behind. The Mobile ringed sharply, even as the car approached the airport, and warm voices flooded me with their good wishes. I thanked the invisible hands held mine when I needed them the most.

Aunt’s question remained unanswered until I boarded the flight. The rain drops gathered on my window, the world looking somber through their convexity. The plane took off into the welcoming night, and the glistening raindrops gently slid off the glass window. The city gleamed softly beneath, winking and beautiful. I found presents stashed in my cabin baggage, and I looked at them like a child would at Christmas. As I tenderly began to unwrap them one by one, I stared back into the night and answered my aunt.

"Grateful,” I said, as monsoon clouds snugly enveloped Bangalore beneath me.

A Paper Plane to the Devils from "Hell"

2009-08-01T22:12:00.000-07:00

(Warning: Looong post!)

The end of another school day and its time to go home. They gather on the stone pavement, their polished shoes soiled, uniform carelessly stained with the afternoon food, and toffee wrappers stuffing their small pockets. It’s the middle of nowhere, this stone pavement, in front of someone’s little house. The pavement lines a very small road where scooters honk past them but they are oblivious. It won’t be a long wait for the “van-man.” Meanwhile, they engage in light conversations: their uncomplicated lives revolving around passing rumors. These conversations are fleetingly held, there is no stuff to them. But it is these the trivial talks that hold them together, building a steady friendship that may last a lifetime.

The “Van Man” honks a multiple times as soon as he arrives. It is his way of announcing his urgency, and of letting them know that he hasn’t got all day.
“Hurry, hurry, I have three more schools…”
They pick up their bags and squeeze into the backseat, five in the place of three. The Van has been maintained in a good condition, its sickly green color and the Venkataramanaswami sticker on the back tinted glass still intact. It’s a decent van see? In “veerry good condition” he says (although the same cannot be said for the five poor souls crouching in the backseat.) There is a quick inspection before the engine roars to life, and the van disappears into the winding by lanes of South Bangalore.

They are talking loudly in the back again. The “Van Man” glances at the high-schoolers creating all the ruckus. He sighs. Why can’t they behave? Isn’t that what they are trained to do all day long—obediently sit with their hands on their knees and simply listen to that overbearing teacher up front? What makes listening to his simple commands so different? But he doesn’t know the secret the school kids do. He doesn’t understand what happens as he drives: all he can hear is incoherence. But it is in that incoherence that so much is understood….in that jumbled madness of loud voices, awkward positions and smell of burnt rubber, they are learning to discover themselves. Here, they are truly themselves, letting go of all their stereotypes in leather-beaten (dis)comfort. Laughing, swapping life-stories, creating memories….in that twenty minutes of shared fate, they are learning to get the best out of any “sticky” situation. They are mastering the talent of extracting happiness out of difficult situations such as these. And the “Van Man” thought that there was no meaning to the incoherence in the backseat? Maybe he should look harder…until then, this shall remain a precious secret.

The backseat of that van is a place of small miracles….Two pipsqueaks of girls discuss their Nancy Drews, growing up together. The Eight Standard kids plot to steal Gandarva’s pencil-box just for the fun of it, and Manasa finally finds someone to whine with her: “There is too many mud in my shoes yaa…”

Life changes for the high-schoolers on examination days. They are forced to go home with gooey-eyed kindergarteners of all shapes and sizes who cannot tell the difference between a neatly pressed uniform skirt and a leather-beaten backseat. It comes as no surprise to the others that the little kids should try to snuggle into their laps as they continue to cry themselves hoarse. The high-schoolers are angry at this disgrace. No one wants a screaming child on their lap. The children are apparently supposed to be in a state of confusion too-finding five extra bodies solidly occupying their territory is no mild shock to a five-year old. The children continue to scream helplessly. The “Van Man” screams back at them and leaves them suspended in the chaos.

The high schoolers also complain, but no one listens. It is a known fact that the extra years discredit their rights—just because they are scrawny teenagers now, they are expected to bear this a little bit better than screaming five year olds. The high schoolers are upset. But it is impossible not to feel a genuine sympathy when one of the snot-nosed little ones clings tightly to the two girls in the backseat with terror clouding his brown eyes. They feel sorry at his helplessness. The next day, one of the book-loving girls in the backseat donates her old colouring book to the five-year old. Rishabh writes his name on it and smiles back warmly at her. The book-loving girl knows she will never forget that smile.

The kids scream so much everyday now that that its’ unbearable. The elders in the Van find a more dignified way of expressing their anger. The Van has been bought from Hella manufacturing company, the sticker above the left window says so. They work together to scrape off the “a” with their fingernails, rechristening the little rectangle on wheels “Hell”. Giving a name to all their anger makes things a little bit more tolerable. In hell, difficulty is acceptable, and the screaming of kids can be considered a celebration. After all the hard work, the high-schoolers lean back, satisfied.....

.........It’s been over an year, and a lot has changed for “Hell”. The two best friends in the backseat have deviated from Nancy Drews into more serious types of novels. Gandharva has gotten used to having his pencil box stolen everyday…but some things still stay the same. The high-schoolers continue to play their pranks, calling names at the passerby, delighting themselves in the knowledge that the harassed man cannot punish them for their mischief in any way.

“Kalllesssshiiiiii……did u forget to shave this morning??” they yell at the blue scooter and speed away even before the tired looking businessman has time to look back. The rest of the afternoon is spent flinging meaningless accusations at everyone through the tinted glasses of “Hell”. After all, living in “Hell” is no pleasant experience, and they are to keep up to expectations---Hell is a place for devils, and they are deciding to be just that. They don’t realize this is wrong to be doing this, this is simply their idea of fun. And it makes the girl who gave the colouring book to Rishabh giggle beneath the bedcovers at night. She is in no hurry to grow up, and belonging to “hell” remains one exciting experience...

On the last day of school, the devils from Hell decide to celebrate. It will be the evilest of rituals, tearing up their spent class note books to make paper rockets….lots an lots of them. All the awful formulas, discriptions of famous wars and plant anatomy sketches will be forgotten in revengeful celebration…the paper rockets are to be thrown at random people. Even the book loving girl has sacrificed her geometry book today. But the last day, the Van does not arrive on time….the last day, they don’t live in “Hell” together. They never get to fling paper planes at others and clap their hands in delight. “Hell” has dismissed them. The demons don’t realize this will be the last time they shall be seeing each other together again. They disperse quietly, all celebration subdued. And “Hell” dies that very day….the little sticker on top of the left window in that green van frowns sadly at the missed opportunity.

No one would have ever thought that the demons from Hell would become anybody worthwhile. They were the immature fools, struggling to grow up together. No one ever imagined that the prankster of a boy who always stole Gandarva’s pencil-box would go on to become a very responsible school-leader. The timid girls in the backseat went similar ways: One of them entered medical school, determined to save lives and the other came to the United States to pursue her BS and hopes to work for the healthcare industry. The little boy Rishabh is probably in fourth standard now, and might be a very good artist already. Perhaps, the devils from hell were not devils after all….they were all angels, who simply didn’t know their worth. Although they didn’t know it then, those twenty minutes in “hell” came to define school-life for some of these high-schoolers….those days in hell were not to be easily forgotten.

You know, I shouldn’t be missing Hell this much. It was uncomfortable, that van. I had a thousand reasons to complain. But maybe, some things in life are just too strange. I still miss going home with that cheerful crowd, I still remember school by it. We never threw those paper-planes at anyone that last day, but I want to fling them towards everyone from “Hell” now: there is just one small difference. My paper planes are different. They’re not made out of old notebooks, but made with love and best wishes. I hope my paper-planes don’t crash into someone else’s pockets. I hope that they fly….fly higher with every single dream of the angels from “Hell”. May my paper plane stay afloat to applaud when every angel achieves something big.

I wish my friend Medini from the backseat of that Van the best of luck at medical school (You are still welcome to drop by my house to borrow those Nancy Drew’s for your little sister!) and hope every other person from “Hell” continues to live the colourful lives they do now. I yell at all of you through my tinted glass...... This is just to let you know I miss you very much.... I sincerly pray my paper plane reaches you! Happy Friendship Day to all of you!!!

Signed,
The timid book-loving devil from the backseat.

In My Element

2009-07-09T20:09:00.000-07:00

It is quite hard to be in your element when life turns routine. Daily chores make your days normal, and everything chugs on in the usual way. And sometimes, that is all it takes to rob your mind of its creative instinct. It is quite easy to fall prey to life’s monotony. When you don’t spare time to smell the roses along your journey, your creative senses start to hibernate quietly. You know you are thinking differently when you wake up to listen to the news instead of the cheerful wind chimes in your balcony, and you begin to worry about how you’ll cook for lunch instead of being excited about trying something new. You realize it when you start to write only to discover that it now takes some serious effort to narrate those same old stories which flowed with effortless grace though your fingertips a long time ago. If your creativity isn’t fluid, you will now see nothing of interest in places that hold even the most precious of secrets. And I guess that’s why I’ve been away from my blog for an entire month.

A mystery novel lay forgotten behind a heavy chemistry textbook. As days wore on, the pages of the chemistry book turned. They were highlighted, underlined, dog-eared and understood. The Agatha Christie beckoned, but I told myself I was just too busy. The four letter word was an answer to all complaints. It was easy to play the blame game. It was after many days that I admitted that I needed to catch up with life. I guess life was waiting for just that. It was kind enough to immediately change the plans for me. It made sure that I had one of the most relaxing summer holidays ever, allowing me to escape routine so quickly.

Something stirred deep inside when I looked out through my car window and thought the midsummer skies were beautiful. Favorite rhythms repeated in my ears and the drive turned longer. The world dissolved into a blissful daydream, imagination reignited. It was a quiet getaway like none other. I was off to Big Sur County.

I never knew this place, and didn’t have expectations. But the experience gave me much more than I thought I would receive. When I arrived, the Pacific was at it again. Squeezing through the gaps in crumbling rocks, twisting through them to sculpt caverns, creating tide pools which hid a thousand life forms. These sights held me long. I enjoyed the scenery. There were the picnic benches and the lively laughter. I was shoeless on the shore, talking....Now, the world awakened to my provocation, more bold and interesting than ever.

There were also the panoramic views of sandy beaches, and I nostalgically recollected my visit to the 17 mile drive. The bloated ocean calmly sweeping such large expanses of water aroused so many mixed emotions. I was breathless. Engineering marvels of bridges captivated me. I was thankful that I was looking at them in those terms instead of viewing them as to merely consist of steel and arches.

Late evening was spent relaxing by a creek side, legs thrown into the cool waters. Steaming coffee, the comfortable shade of trees and soft singing. Receding heat and changing colours—it was contentment at its deepest. I observed the little rocks inside the creek catch the sun, a blue-jay fretting about innocently. They both looked beautiful. People sang the songs I had heard so many times. But this time, something was different. This time, I actually listened, keenly following the words being carried away by the wind. This time, I appreciated & applauded. The blue-jay hung about to listen too and that excited me. Yes, something had changed again, my brain said…and I couldn’t possibly have asked for more. In that deep contentment, I realised at the bottom of my heart that I was back in my element....

When I went Rafting

2009-06-02T16:58:00.000-07:00

It was not too difficult to be poetic there. The lively energy of the environment, the breathless excitement that mounted with every second, the sudden increase in adrenalin at the unpredictability of the situation inspired creativity in even the most dormant of minds. That day, the world had changed. It now consisted of nothing more than high-pitched crackles which rose and fell with an energetic rhythm of a river, an insane spinning and twirling to the pull of some unknown force and the co-coordinated effort of a bunch of muscles at the command of “Forward!”; Then, the relaxing of tendons, the awakening of more subtle of sensations, and the surroundings returning to soft focus... and at that instant of momentary calmness—time enough to get a greedy eyeful of clear May skies, barren rock faces, and golden eagles gliding along gracefully in the distance….before the river plunged you into another intense experience. For me, rafting along the Folsom proved to be an experience of a lifetime.

Sanskrit has a gender for rivers, and poets have descriptions. I have emotions. I closed my eyes for a second and heard the river chuckling. She seemed to be laughing sometimes, and sparkled every time she caught the sun. I could call her mischievous, grinning at our plight, toying with us like we were mere playthings. We urged her every so often with our muscles, and she responded by bouncing us through some insane rapids. She hid her naughtiness carefully whenever she turned sympathetic, but it was the careless Folsom that I preferred: The gurgling rapids which tossed me about with a wild abandon: careless, sprightly, and fearless.

Yes, you can tell, can’t you, that this is my first time rafting? I have been unsuccesful in shrugging off the excitement! The best part of the experience was the changing environment which shifted and pulsed as the river turned and meandered. You were greeted by some magnificent rocks at some point, and the next moment, they disappeared in the frothy excitement of the water which splashed about playfully, obscuring your vision. You admired the knotty pines which grew so quickly, and then they glided effortlessly away from the field of your vision. Folsom’s chuckled again, saying, “Don’t look back now, friend…there is much more I need to show you…”
I remembered Pocahontas’s “Just Around the River Bend…” that day. Every river bend seemed to promise me something, and didn’t leave me disappointed.

As the day wore on, energy didn’t wane. The sun was strong, but the river was stronger. She made sure to soak us to our bones, and when she didn’t we made sure that we were soaked. Water wars and battles prevailed and Folsom continued to chuckle. She knew that we could defeat each other at silly water games but we couldn’t win over her: she still decided on the direction and we bumbled along helplessly to her will. But she ensured that we enjoyed the thrill of that experience: sharing her enthusiasm with us when we approached the rapids, delighting us to some fantastic sights as she calmed…she made me feel blessed to be a part of this.

As I rushed home towards unfinished homework, upcoming tests and a mound of assignments, I remembered the voice of the lady next to me screaming “This cost me as much as Disneyland, but for all I can say, this was more worth it!” I couldn’t help agreeing with her more. For that day, the world had turned smaller and much more meaningful….and no amount of drudgery in the days to come could undo the excitement of this experience. Yes, I told Folsom, this had all been worth it….and heard her chuckle in agreement somewhere in the distance.

"Because I want to Learn..."

2009-05-17T21:30:00.000-07:00

The sun seemed very ill-tempered as I peeked into the classroom. The Physics professor was still explaining his complex differentials to a bunch of bored students. That meant that I was quite early for biology classes. That also meant that I had to spend the next ill-fated twenty minutes boiling under the hot sun without a sense of purpose about me. I grudgingly settled down on one of those little concrete benches outside of class, and tried to count the minutes.

I saw her then, her head bent over our biology textbook. Her hair was in a hurriedly tied up bun with a pencil sticking out of it. It was one of those things which I found curious about her. A most unassuming woman, she seemed to be. Uncomfortable in the sweltering heat, I tried to play a mind game. I turned observant, silently eyeing that hard-working soul who was bending over her textbook. Tall. Intelligent. More than forty. Old--But still my classmate. How should I address her if she decides to look up? Drop a careless “Hey there, how’s it going?” or would a polite smile suffice? I didn’t know. She was one of those people who had appeared amicable from the start, but I hadn’t really gotten around to striking an intelligent conversation with her. It goes without saying that I’m very bad when it comes to starting conversations….I hoped she wouldn’t notice me fidgeting there, next to her.

“Oh hey there! Sorry didn’t see you before. How are you?”
I jolted. She was smiling back at me light-heartedly.
“I’m fine. I just arrived.” I tried to sound cheerful amidst the heat which was now pressing down on me.
“Hmm….so there’s a class going on in there, huh? Mathematics….”
“I thought it was a Physics class…”
“Oh is it? Hmm…Physics! Gosh!”
“Yeah, I know. It must be so hard! I always found it insane and difficult in high school.” I responded.
She smiled. That smile was mysterious…there was something that smile implied, which was beyond me. I simply waited.
“I once majored in Physics from a University in England, you know.” She declared.
“Oh!”
The fluid conversation effortlessly hid the fact that I was embarrassed. The woman was at ease, talking about why Physics had appeared so interesting to her. She didn’t boast, but I knew that there was some zest in her, a degree of intelligence which gave her the appearance of a smart intellectual. I saw the vitality in her eyes, speaking to me with so much cheer. Wow, she was a very different kind of a fifty year old.

Slowly, a slight suspicion started weaving a web in my brain…if she had a good job now, knew her Physics right, why is she returning to learn Introductory Biology? I wanted to ask her the question without appearing like an interrogator. But I wasne’t given a chance to ask. Because she answered it before I could even mouth it.

“One day, I went to my doctor. He spoke about my health. He spoke medicine….and I told him, I’m very sorry sir, but I don’t speak doctor! Then I thought….why can’t I? You know, I always knew my Physics right, but Biology? It was so unknown to me! So I thought…why not learn? Why not update my knowledge? So I decided to take this course…”

“Why are you taking this class?” she asked me.
“Because I’m a biochemistry major” I said involuntarily, “You?”

“Because I want to learn…”

Her words immediately reflected the lack of depth in my answer. They also made me think hard. The woman was taking these classes not because it would benefit her professionally or earn her more bucks. She was returning to learn undergraduate level biology simply because she wanted to know….she still wished to be the student....

The physics class dispersed. I picked up my bag which was now slipping off my shoulder. I was still thinking…would this be something I would ever do, given a chance? Would I ever come back to learn Art Appreciation or Psychology when I was fifty years old just because I didn’t understand these subjects? Would I still remain curious about my surroundings, and retain the zest to learn, understand and interpret the world through various means at the age when all one wants to do is take one long vacation? Maybe not, I thought…maybe not. But as I observed her cheerfully shoot some creative doubts to the teacher that day, I changed my mind. I promised myself that when I was old and weak-kneed, if a doctor ever spoke to me in a language I didn’t understand, I would go right back and take human anatomy classes without hesitation. This woman taught me something. I made a mental note to remember that that I’m always a student and it’s never too late to learn....

Given Up Yet??

2009-05-02T13:03:00.000-07:00

Until a few days ago, there was a cozy nook in the blogosphere for a 16 year old to talk about his life. It was an amazing blog. The 42 subscribers of the Laptop Dairy will know, and so do I. I would often hop into Mohammad’s little space whenever I felt like taking a break. His posts entertained me, and told me so many stories. Those blog posts didn’t exist to glorify him, they were there to voice his thoughts. They talked for him. They taught, and retaught. They weren’t always about wry humor or random complaints. They were original, from the heart and very much special. The Laptop Diary has disappeared today with “One Last Story…” .Although the reasons for the blog closing down remain unknown to me, I shall say that there are many people who will miss his journal entries in the days to come. It feels like Mohammad left a story unfinished….

Many teenage blogs start out with so much optimism and confidence. Some of them gain popularity, and others melt into oblivion. Either way, it’s unfortunate that most teenage blogs die out pretty soon. They are discarded, dormant or neglected. But they all have something in common: Most of them start out with big dreams…sometimes, these dreams grow to unbelievable heights. The initial optimism associated with starting something new can colour a person’s thought.

For example, a 14 year old might dream of that day when a very willing and generous publisher chances across their little space on the World Wide Web and exclaims in delight upon a marvelous discovery. They might imagine their blog becoming that bestselling book—on the same shelves as your Twilights or Harry Potters. Or they might choose not dream. They might just take to blogging on a whim, and not care about what they write. Both species exist, but I feel that most young bloggers fall in the former category.

Why then, do talented teenagers give up blogging so easily? There are so many reasons which can hamper them from blogging on a regular basis. It might be the parents telling them that its time to give up on their hobbies once they enter 12th, the lack of encouragement, or even laziness. Looking back, haven’t I considered giving up blogging on so many occasions? When my brain couldn’t voice my thoughts as effectively as it once did, when that unknown uncle at a party said, “Aha, 12th, is it? Time to say good-bye to your hobbies, dear!” and when someone scribbled “Your blog is so much crap!” I felt like simply deleting everything and giving up! It felt frustrating to put up with all that, sneak in some extra time to jot something down here when I could be doing something better with my life. But I loved to write, and that’s the only reason why I continue to blog, irrespective of how many people are actually listening.

Sometimes, as I go back to read my older posts, I feel that some of them are pretty immature. I could delete them, for all I care. But I don’t. Preserving them is important because they reflect how I’m growing up. Many teenagers don’t do that. They are ashamed of the stale poetry they scribbled when they were fifteen-somethings:

“I like pretty butterflies,
I think they are so cute…
I like they way they flap their wings,
And go from flower to flower…”

That’s why some of these blogs close down. It’s the author’s decision, but a whole bunch of wonderful stories and poems are lost. Others give up when they enter 10th or 12th grades, and think that their life will be affected by blogging. Although this is arguable, I personally think that blogging doesn’t have a negative impact. Sparing something like 20 minutes per week will not ruin your life forever. In fact, I do not regret blogging all through my PU days. If I hadn’t, I would have forgotten those wonderful experiences which are so dear to me.

The next time you drop by that random teenage blog of that thirteen year old who scribbles three poorly constructed sentences with lots of smiley faces in between ( with 0 comments below her post), don’t just smirk and think she’s wasting her time. Drop a nice, “Hello…it’s nice you actually decided to blog, even amidst the thousand things that occupy your life! Happy Blogging!” Sometimes, encouragement and support is all it takes to make a fantastic blogger out of a shy and talented thirteen year old. It can do a little something to sustain such blogs.

As for me, I hope that there are no more “One Last Story”ies in any of the teenage blogs. I also hope that Laptop Dairy’s “One Last Story...” means “A New beginning…” somewhere else on the World Wide Web. For all I can say, blogging is an experience which is well worth the effort. It would be easy to give up, but it would fruitful to continue. I wish that these teenage blogs continue to stay alive simply because I feel that every teenager has a story to tell....

At Pismo Beach

2009-04-13T20:44:00.000-07:00

The beginning of the spring quarter is a new start. It is the time of the year when the earth looks splendid, but you can’t really spare the time to recline on a summer chair and leisurely build castles in the air. But you can do the next best thing. You can steal a few hours to build sandcastles by the beachside instead and soak your legs in the briny waters. The sands do shift fast and the waves come crashing towards you at a terrific pace, don’t they? It’s better to surf the calm seas before they turn turbulent in thunderstorms. I used this heavy logic to convince myself that I needed a quick break to rejuvenate myself before I immersed myself in another intense quarter. It was a decision which made my weekend positively exciting because I was down at Pismo beach with family and friends this weekend, having just the sort of quality fun that I crave for.

It was Sunday. The sun was shining, and the Oceanside was mildly crowded. But the people were lazy. Even the little sandpipers looked quite at ease with the world as they walked about here and there, pleasurably gulping down little worms along the way. It looked like the perfect illusion of peace---it was just that sort of little place which makes you feel like time is slow and always handy. It’s that exact situation where you feel humbled before the vastness that is the ocean, yet enjoy the sublime experience of having all your fears swept away. My heart throbbed as I stood by the ocean, and felt the sands below my feet shift and move away rapidly with the waves. I enjoyed the sensation. After the initial reluctance, I dived right in. We formed a human chain and screamed at the top of our lungs as we bobbed up and down with the waves. It is one of those very stupid things which bought immense relief. The sound of the waves in my ears has a strangely soothing effect on me; it echoed deep harmony and oneness with the Ocean. But I could also feel the pulse of the pacific as the waves hit my back and I screamed in delight. I felt absolutely wild, untamed and free—like there weren’t any rules to life. I felt like I could have stayed there forever.

That was only until I observed that the shadows were growing longer and my feet, more numb. I thanked the pacific, and waddled towards the beach to spend the rest of my meaningful time building a sand castle with a five year old, who cheerfully re-taught me long-forgotten rhymes.

“I love the mountains; I love the rolling hills,

I love the flowers, I love the daffodils…”

I giggled as I sang along with her, understanding how happiness could be so easy to find. I repeated in my head, “I love the beach, I love today….I love the way we had fun, and wish for it stays the same!”

At the end of the day, my hair was tangled, my feet was caked with a considerable amount of beach sand, and I was shivering in the cold. But I was still grinning as we headed back home, singing “I love the mountains…” again: The world seemed perfect once more, and it would take quite some effort to break that spell again!

My First Award!!

2009-03-29T23:15:00.000-07:00

A special thing happened to me a week ago-A recieved my first blogging award, which had me delighted! Thanks, Nimmi, for the wonderful award, :-), I'm still smiling!!! As per the way things go, I think I'm supposed to nominate my own list of bloggers who deserve an award for showing "attitude" and/or "gratitude" through thier blog posts. Now, this is especially difficult for me because I realise that there are hundreds of blogs out there which showcase these qualities, but I've decided to stick to the blogs I frequent the most. [ I've decided to exclude Mysore Blog Park members from my "nominees" because I feel ALL of them show great attitude (why else would Mr. GVK include them into the community??), and it would be impossible (and possibly unfair too) to just select 10 bloggers out of our blogging community!]

The Rules:

1. Put the logo on your post.
2. Nominate 10 blogs that you feel show great Attitude or Gratitude or both.
3. Make sure you link your nominees to this post.
4. Let them know they received the award by commenting on their blog.
5. Share the love and link to this post and to the person from whom you received this award.

So, my 10 nominees (in no specific order) are:

1) Sush : A Teenager with such an original attitude towards life and growing up!

2) Walk the Wilderness : A superb photoblog showing gratitude towards nature. The photographs are truly a feast for the eyes!

3) Shambhavi : She truly deserves one for her confident attitude, enduring optimism and such wonderful achievement!

4) Anandi : For continuing to blog at the age of 75, for her wonderful optimism and positive attitude!

5) Arise India Forum : Although still devoloping, the blog does manage to reflect the great attitude of the members of "Arise India" organization: their commitment towards thier cause and immense gratitude towards their natural heritage.

6) Pradeep Biswas : For telling me stories, sharing great experiences and showing such a genuine attitude towards life!

7) Prashanth : Although not a "blog" in a strict sense, I love Mr. Prashanth's photographs on aminus 3...they reflect his attitude towards life and his surroundings: A bit fun-loving, very observant and very interested in capturing those wonderful moments that some of us take for granted! And yes, he is immensely talented too!

8) Karthick : Great blog!! Love it again for the awesome attitude, for thoughts so nicely conveyed, and for being such a devoted fan of Mr. Tejaswi!!! :-)

9) Deeps : For deciding to blog at fourteen, for not hiding your "attitude" towards growing up and learning so much,...and yes, for being such a good friend!!...and this is expressing my gratitude too! :-)

10) Chutney: Of whom I've long since been only a silent admirer (never commented on her blogs.) But loved her attitude towards life...love her posts equally too!

So those are my 10 nominees!!

(PS: Those of you who follow my cousin, Sneha's posts (she's on my blogroll...due to some weird glitch in my blog I've somehow not been able to update it! Will look into the matter soon, Sneha! :-)), kindly note that she has shifted over here...and one of my very good friends, Mr.Pranesh has newly taken to blogging. He has started blogging here. Do visit them in your spare time! And yes, my holidays have ended, and I'm back to facing another quarter again! Have a great week, everyone and keep smiling!)

Another Saturday Hike

2009-03-29T22:32:00.000-07:00

I was on an exile last week, enduring a set of difficult final exams. Well, by the end of the day, the sun was still shining and I caught my reflection grinning back at me from glass windows of the science building. Finishing off another quarter naturally makes the world look more beautiful to me. I stop to catch maple leaves before they slip helplessly to the ground, and enjoy the crunch, crunch of the dead ones beneath my feet as I hurry home. My heart is lighter, and my mind is busy delighting itself in holiday plans. Well, as far as my holiday plans go, it looks like they are directly proportional to unforeseen disturbances and deliberate excuses (some real and most hypothetical or invented). So this time when I declared that I wanted to go hiking, I did it without any serious expectations.

I was jabbed awake on Saturday morning by my father with a “You said we’ll go hiking!” Sleep was still heavy on my eyelids, but I knew that my sense of self-worth was in serious jeopardy. I’m not the sort of person who likes to get taunted for being fickle-minded. So I shrugged and decided to get ready. It was to be my little Saturday adventure outdoors…I was granted some time to satisfy my whimsical wishes, and I didn’t want to miss such an opportunity.

Well, for that slow trailer such as me, the these trails are quite a task. I don’t complain though, because there’s such a lovely creek which bumbles along with me as I walk, reminding not to take it so hard. This is exactly why I hike—it’s not because I enjoy sweating so much…it’s because hiking makes me feel like I’m blending into this entirely different world. It’s an escape from everything I don’t wish to remember because I become that silent dreamer when I take a walk—I transform into that annoying squirt who shuts into herself and smiles without knowing why. I’m unusually unresponsive, and do look lost. But the truth is, I enjoy every precious moment of that silent experience…dreams swim and take shape, I become calmer, happier and strangely detached. Somehow, loud jokes and cracking laughter destroy that tranquility within me—they are better suited for those special sleepover parties or family get-togethers. Hiking is everything about catching up with yourself, and everything not about mechanically burning calories in my opinion! :D Well, hiking is also about appreciating the little rewards of mild spring days before sweltering summer and another busy quarter come hurrying into your life.

(The sun has been especially cheerful the last week, as you can see!)

I have also done a lot of prodding around on this trail—everything from disturbing that meek little creek to staring at farm sheep. I had stopped by to listen to this old lady’s lecture about poison ivy the last time had hiked but I couldn’t spot the “dangerous plant” this time…looks like the ivy is scared of the spring! Meanwhile, I can feel it getting warmer here, and the skies are growing clearer by the day. There is very little cloud-cover and one feels the urge to star gaze into the depths of the sky. I wished on a star yesterday, as I stared out into the night, hoping for more such pleasant experiences to bring respite to me in the fast approaching hotter summer months. And I still have my fingers crossed!

Remembering the ‘March Finals’

2009-03-17T21:47:00.001-07:00

Sometimes, life comes at you fast. I thought so as I rushed to pick up my books before my afternoon session of classes. I spied on my brother’s calendar for no particular reason and observed that it was already the 17th of March. It didn’t mean anything significant, other than the fact that it was already over a year since I wrote my PU boards. Here I was now, a year later: absorbed, confident, and inching towards the uncertain boundaries of the future. It was as if timelessness had enveloped my life, as if I had forgotten myself in it.

As the realization stuck me, I felt like that person who had seen a ghost for the first time. Life had moved on at such a terrific pace that I actually struggled to realize that it was already the march of 2009. I wouldn’t have disagreed if someone had asserted that it was still last year. Things had certainly changed since then, and it made me catch my breath in surprise.

The exams had been so slow back then. All had been different in the season of the ‘March finals’. There had been that tingling sensation in my nerves as the boards loomed closer and closer. I can clearly recall staring out of my window, escaping to the most fantastic dreamlands when studying felt too draining. I remember I had even religiously given up on reading the paper and answering the telephone because advises had made me even more nervous. In the ‘March Finals’ season, everything had felt important. My entire world had felt like it depended on this one experience: The exams were my life, and March seemed synonymous with only that. The days had stretched on endlessly, and the nights had been too short for revision. There had been pencil marks at the back of the textbook to tick off the end of every exam. I had cursed time for being so sluggish, as if everything on was its fault.

This March is so different. I write many exams, but I don’t panic. I don’t feverishly recite a million formulas in my head before entering the exam hall. I don’t wrestle with a teacher to complete lengthy passages anymore. Sometimes, I wish I could. For one thing, I don't hear the wisper of "All the Best," anymore. But March still stands for the same old things for all those students who are writing their exams this year. I caught myself asking these standard questions to my cousin who’s writing the boards this year. “How have you done? How much do you expect?...” almost slipped out of my tongue. It amused me how I was now not that timid cow nodding her head to all the advises. I was actually the one spewing them out. “Don’t refer to Deepa Publications for Chemistry, it’s a horrible book…” "Refer to MES for Physics if you have time, it's so conceptual..." She then listened to me with rapt attention, like I was that enlightened one with all the answers. But I certainly didn’t feel any wiser! True, it seems like time is trying to change me too...But here’s wishing my cousin Renu, along with dearest friends Medini, Shravya and Monisha who are writing the boards this year all the very best. May luck stay with all you, along with the unwavering confidence that is always yours! Let’s hope that time is as kind to all of you as it is to me! And yes, I shall repeat that same old phrase without which no board exam is complete: "All the very best! Slay ‘em gals!" :-)

A Letter to Uncle Pai

2009-02-28T23:54:00.001-08:00

Dearest Uncle Pai,

There was a day when I bought my first Tinkle. You became my hero then. I just wanted to tell you that you ranked better than Hrithick Roshan on my “favorite people” list, and I was such a devoted fan of yours! Well, you already know that you have a tremendous fan base out there, don’t you? Everyone from those backbenchers who read those Suppandi tales in between class periods to today’s middle aged fathers, who grew up reading your Amar Chitra Kathas love you! Oh sure, you’ve earned some great names. They call you the “Father of Indian Comics,” The “Genius” behind Tinkle….those names do sound grand. But to me, you have remained “Uncle,” Pai, the world’s best editor.

You are a very unusual person, Uncle. For one thing, you take time off to reply to nearly 100 letters a day, by hand. I wonder how you do it…you’ve been at it for the past thirty years, and things haven’t changed a bit for you. Maybe you write because you realize how important that polite hand-written rejection letter is to a kid who has sent in his first story in the hopes of becoming famous. Maybe you know that there is such a big difference between that warm letter which comes home with your encouragement when compared to just another e-mail in the inbox.

Maybe you understand how such small things can affect a child. I respect you for that. Because you know, you have made a difference, at least in my life. For that sensitive kid who visited the post-office on a late January morning just to mail her first story, and waited for three entire months before she got her first rejection letter, it made a huge difference. Your hand-written “Try try again and you will succeed,” was more powerful than a “We are very sad to inform you that your story was not accepted” ever could be. It was the most beautiful rejection letter I have ever received in my life, and I cherish it today. I wanted to frame that letter as a testimony which declared that Uncle Pai had written to me—the famous Uncle Pai, Tinkle’s editor…I remember how happy that rejection letter made me feel, you didn’t disappoint. You can covert the most difficult moments into something memorable. It’s amazing how you can do that.

Well, life has moved on, hasen’t it? Tinkle is more than 25 years old already, and it must have been an exhausting journey…and now, a lot more has changed for India’s favorite comic. For one thing, you aren’t the chief editor anymore, and India Book House has sold the rights of Tinkle through ACK Media. The Amar Chitra Kathas can now be read on mobiles with Vodaphone, and a large number of your magazines have been digitalized. I was sad when I learned that you were retiring from the post of chief editor. But I hope that the next generation of kids can receive those same warm letters, I hope you can somehow continue to keep the smiles alive on their faces. Thanks, Uncle, for everything you have done for us. Your fans are loyal to you, and I can assure you that they will always be.

I remember how frustrated I was with my name once….”Lakshmi,”---it had been a name I had shared with so many aunts and family friends. There had to be a “Lakshmi” in every crowd, in every family gathering, in every single place. My name was so standard, and so very common! I remember what you told me one day: “In the past few decades, the name Lakshmi has become so uncommon. Glad to know you have such a lovely name. May the Goddess Lakshmi always bless you with good health and wealth.” You have no idea how much those simple words affected me. They made me feel so wonderful, and today, I’m not complaining. You really do have a way with children and teenagers, Uncle, because you understand us so well.

Thanks again for being such a great friend, supporter and editor! Thanks for all the lovely words of encouragement, and thanks for simply following your heart. If you hadn’t challenged yourself to become an editor—a profession so deviant from your educational plans, we wouldn’t have seen such a great magazine today!! Chief Editor or not a chief editor, it does not matter to me…as a person, Uncle, you truly are a hero, and I shall be your starry-eyed admirer forever. You are an inspiration, and will remain so, all life through.

Yours Affectionately,

Lakshmi

(Uncle Pai's first letter to me...Its a letter which is still very close to my heart.)

Picture Perfect

2009-02-19T23:06:00.000-08:00

When we bought a new laptop a few months ago, I decided to search for a perfect background image. I wasn’t going to settle for another African Savannah in the twilight again! This background had to be something which would be pleasant, meaningful and memorable. It had to be that perfect picture which would cheer me up as I opened my computer to type up another academic essay, weary-eyed. Searching for that photograph was like a fanciful game I liked to play—something which kept me engaged when the weather turned too hostile.

I was already bored with those dreamy award-winning snaps of sparkling beaches, tumultuous waves and calm backwaters of distant rivers. They had been used too often. I tried to experiment with funny comic strips, trying to make them all fit in together….I was picky with the Japanese Anime’ images which could suit as a background. The result was a distorted puzzle of a desktop which resembled a virtual version of a newspaper with some bothersome icons floating about like they never belonged there. My computer was the pathetic shade of bright orange and yellow of the Savannah again as I considered coming up with something better. Why not a family tree? I thought, and instantly tried to collect photographs of every relative I knew. It was a time-consuming and challenging process, gathering photographs. Trying to tailor them together into that organized family tree proved impossible as grinning uncles disappeared under the heads of my younger cousins and the aunts were buried below half-smiling friends. It was a complete mess of a collage, and my desktop became a painful chaos of smiling faces. I painted them beige in the hope that they would look more diginified and uniform, but it seemed like the collage could not be mended. True, I did play with some nice photographs, but they lost their meaning when the computer stretched them too much. The Savannah had won again, and I thought my computer would stay sickly orange forever.

The collage had discouraged me from designing a family portrait. Why bother? I thought, Just get used to the Savannah. I remembered how there were plenty of albums back home which affectionately treasured the most precious of memories…they would have made wonderful backgrounds. But they still required to be digitalized, and I was sure no one would waste their time on such things. One day, someone decided answered my prayers. I was considerably surprised when a cousin offered a digitalized version of an old 1994 family portrait out of the blue…and I knew my search had ended. There we were—the family, all together frozen in time…our smiles intact, and so very genuine! I don’t know why the photo looked perfect to me—but it seemed ideal. It was just the thing I wanted….that rare picture I had been craving for. I was delighted. Since that day, this family portrait has remained my desktop background, and I loose myself in it every single time I switch on the computer....and fond smile answers the question when someone questions inquisitively, "Is that your family up there?"

(PS: You can click to enlarge. And can you guess where I am?? :-) )

The Swallows of Kabul--A Review

2009-02-16T21:12:00.001-08:00

“In the middle of nowhere, a whirlwind spins like a sorceress flinging out her skirts in a macabre dance; yet not even the hysteria serves to blow the dust off the calcified palm trees thrust against the sky like beseeching arms…”

Start a book like that and you can be sure that I’ll stay up reading till midnight! The Swallows of Kabul started with these words, and I soon fell in love with the author’s writing style. There is something to his poetic descriptions which make even the most boring events look like something interesting. There is a rich narrative quality to Khadra’s books—s(he) is an amazing story teller who always leaves me in a haze after reading his books. (It’s interesting to note that Yasmina Khadra is actually a pseudonym. The author is actually a retired Algerian Army general who adopted this name to avoid being recognized.) The Swallows of Kabul does not exactly have the most gripping storyline on earth but an unexpected climax more than makes up for it. The lyrical quality is just amazing. Even though the book is translated from French, it does not seem to have lost its charm, and the story is transporting in every sense of the word.

What pleased me was that this book wasn’t just a solemn complaint about what is wrong with Kabul—it was surprisingly mellow for something which is set in the backdrop of war, terror and unrest. The book tells me that there is tenderness, a residue of hope, optimism and happiness in people even under oppresive conditions...but also tells me that this can be slowly gnawed away by time. People who live here are frustrated, but still find ways to smile. Although the book echoes the pain of being bound so completely to the rules forced upon by the Taliban, it also talks how hope can live on in some form or the other. True, the book is realistic in it’s portrayal of the state of affairs in Kabul. There is the stoning of people to death, men who roam the city with rifles, and duties which are forced upon innocent people. But the book also shows me that there is also an inner world in the hearts of men—a world which can be altered by the deadly influence of the Taliban. It makes me question as to how a person can retain love, affection and ethics when the entire world is falling apart. The theme of the book revolves around the lives of four central characters, all of whom are completely different from each other. It is the story of similar destinies controlling entirely different people. Although fate is cruel to the people of Kabul, they do live their lives unassumingly. The plot itself is something uncommon, but has a tinge of excitement that you will definitely enjoy. The Swallows of Kabul is not something you will simply read and forget. It has a tremendous moral impact, making you reconsider the way you look at Afghanistan. The skill of the author in making you see the world through the eyes of his characters is something which deserves appreciation. He can easily make you realize certain subtle cultural messages that you might have otherwise ignored. You will have thousands of questions and opinions after reading it. Well, I wouldn’t want to spoil the fun for those who are intending to read the book. I would definitely suggest it for anyone who wants to give their brains some serious exercise. The story is beautiful, especially for something taking place in a desolate, crumbling city. Khadra itself communicates this very well. "And yet it is also here, amid the hush of stony places and silence of graves, in this land of dry earth and arid hearts that our story is born, like the water lily that blooms in a stangant swamp."

The South Florida Sun-Sentinel sums up Khadra’s book as follows:

“Brilliant…accomplished…[Khadra’s] portrait of the Afghan tragedy is unflinching, his lean prose and story telling skills unimpeachable…The bleak portrayal of life under the Taliban contained in this brief straightforward narrative musters the complexity and moral impact of a much bigger book.”

I guess you don’t need much more to grab this book from your nearest library!!

The Book

2009-02-11T00:06:00.000-08:00

It had been a tiresome day for me. I returned home with my head fuzzy in the effort of remembering long-forgotten formulas. It had been an experiment which had drained me of my patience, challenged my intellect and ultimately tested my practical skills. Somehow, my observations felt wrong, my calculations steadily grew to maniac proportions. I couldn’t help feeling cheated. Those awful numbers had tricked me again, and it would be painful to search for mistakes. I was naturally a bit frustrated at the end of the day. I came home and tried to snuggle myself into a blissful sleep. I waited, but sleep did not come….the memory of the disaster of an experiment was like this constant irritant to my brain…a strand of thought continued to stretch endlessly. I sighed and tried to forget.

You know how your ears grow even more sensitive when you are unable to sleep? Every little tick of the clock, those small insignificant murmurs in the distance suddenly seems to enter your audible range, don’t they? Your senses are sharper, keener and quicker when you are in that phase. As I tossed and turned, my earns picked up laughter. My mother was speaking to Grandpa on Skype, and it looked like he was chuckling at the other end too. Must be one of those standard jokes they crack once in a while, I thought, and dismissed it.
“Lakshmi, are you still awake?” I heard her call.
“Yes,”
“Come talk to your grandfather. He has something to tell you.”

Amused, I shuffled out the room to see what the big news was. I learnt that grandpa had discovered a book I had written when I was nearly seven years old. It was an old classwork book with stories and incidents scribbled in with pencil in an unsteady hand. Some of them were figments of my childish imagination; others were vivid memories, all full of misspelled words. I saw a struggling writer within my seven year old self, someone who was prying at those words which are just beyond her grasp…someone who tried to communicate with poorly constructed sentences, hanging phrases, and incomplete passages. But that is not what attracted my attention; it was the incidents I had talked about. I had talked about rescuing a “baby mynah” from a nearby tree, about wriggling into a gutter to retrieve a pencil-top, about my grandfather’s home which I had considered an “animal home.” I had talked about how monkeys often came in to grab bananas from the kitchen, about the unfair death of a kitten, about the fun times with my friends. The stories that I had authored were worthless, but they had those wonderful “happily ever after,” endings. I laughed a lot that day. I laughed remembering all I was, all I have been and all I am right now. It was downright amusing-- remembering how such little things were so important to me back then. They seemed to have been important enough for me to write them down with so much of an effort. I had wanted to preserve them, as proof that I could think, perhaps. I also felt a very complex feeling tugging at my heart as I remembered those days. How my priorities had changed over time!! Now, all I thought about was completing my homework on time, retaining that perfect GPA, and expanding my social circle. That little book had been a remainder from the past, intruding into my present life to help me see clearly--to help me re-examine myself. I wondered why those little things were so insignificant to me now…I thought about how I had changed. I remembered how free my mind was then, always inquisitive, always ready to imagine. There had been an unwavering optimism towards everything that was my life, and a graceful acceptance of everything that my childhood had offered me. Revisiting those times, I could not remember a single incident which had been full of pain. I saw colour and freshness in every single memory; I saw happiness which was so apparent in my childhood. I also realized that today’s world looked splendid too. I stared out of the window, and felt blessed when I saw those clouds hanging about lazily in the sky. I let my mind relax, and altered my priorities. What my little book had taught me was a lesson to remember. Finding pleasure in the smallest things was important. As I attacked those calculations again, I remembered how my hydrated magnesium sulphate had so closely resembled Mentos Mouth Freshener, of how my sample of unknown chemical had crackled like something yummy being cooked on a stove, and how my carelessly recorded data actually had many smiley faces hidden in between those scary numbers….and I found myself laughing again, until my stomach ached from the effort.You see, learning to love life is a simple thing...its just a matter of searching your memory for happiness, and happiness will be yours!

Do keep smiling!

(PS: To read blog posts from my grandfather, please go here)

On the Death of a Library

2009-01-25T17:16:00.000-08:00

Update: *This article finally made it to Deccan Herald's Education Times. :)

It’s just another busy afternoon. The librarian sits with his door graciously open in an attempt to tempt a few interested visitors into his little abode. This library is not the kind which loudly calls for attention, squeezed as it is between a clock repair shop and the dry cleaner’s on one of the lesser roads of Basavanagudi. There is no dearth for people on this road, that’s true, but they move about purposefully, forgetting to even glance at Mahesh Circulating Library as they turn this way. The evening traffic rumbles on perennially, choking the world outside with smoke, noise and partially burnt carbon. People shout, children scream, and pandemonium reigns.

But the library is a strangely soothing place--its walls are immune to the changes which are so constant to the world beyond its threshold; it is the guardian of the world gone by, preserving faint traces of what belonged to the past. It has books which try to remember the ancient times, and is a loving home to the words of imaginative minds whose voices linger, unspoken, through the many bound novels which rest peacefully on its shelves; it doesn’t have those popular newspapers which always talk about depressing disasters on the front pages. In fact, almost everything here is old: everything from the cheap paperbacks of the seventies to last year’s Kannada dailies. Some of them are withering, yellowing silently in their respective shelves, slowly accumulating dust with every passing day as nobody cares enough to dust them once in a while.

A little girl waits as she turns a bend on her way to the market with her mother. Her eyes search for that little inconspicuous bit of building, and she smiles when she is reassured that it is there like it always is. She breaks free of her mother and rushes in, to see if the library has received new comics. She gets the same answer she has come to expect. The librarian replies in the negative. But she is optimistic that this time’s denial means a double bonus for the next visit. Once again, she has to make do with the 1993 fortnightly editions she has already nosed through a million times. But she finds pleasure in digging through the haphazardly stacked comic books, earning that August edition with missing pages that she loves so much. It’ll cost her fifty paisa per day, but that’s OK. She knows she’ll be done with her Tinkle in about an hour. She glances back at the library, hoping that she could have been allowed to sneak in one more novel.

The little girl is a little grown up now. But she’s faithful to her library, which was the first one she has come to know. Some people do frequent the library, but they happen to be the retired folks and occasional housewives who drop in on sultry mornings to collect some wisdom, or learn new recipes. There is no one here in the late evenings, and a ghastly silence descends on this forgotten corner of the street. But the girl wants to visit it every single time, her eyes feasting on the rows of those bound novels. They are the mystery she cannot reach, filled with words she cannot understand, and stories which she cannot crack. She wishes she could grow up faster, into a fine young lady who could listen to what they have to say. But for now, she must satisfy herself with the puzzle in the recent magazine Highlights that she has borrowed.

The library is growing old too. Now everyone notices the books which are falling apart, wasted crosswords which are already pencil-darkened, and a missing copy of Highlights comic which still hasn’t been returned. Looks like the little girl buried it below her bed and forgot about it. The library is not doing good business, and how can anyone survive with a mere two rupees a day? Even the beggars on MG road do better than that. The manuscripts here are in various stages of decay….and no one is sympathetic anymore. But the little girl is still a visitor; she’s too young to notice flaws. The librarian seems to have forgiven her past mistake of losing a library book. She still hasn’t found it, and she is lazy enough not to burden herself with such meager activities when she has already been pardoned. She now reads her Nancy Drew’s, borrowing one each time she has a holiday. They are yellow, 1960 editions, and don’t smell good. She wonders how they were when they were fresh off the press, smelling faintly of paper glue and ink. She wonders how Mahesh Circulating Library was then too, once upon a time when it was painted freshly for the first time, and brand new books were shelved. The librarian must have beamed, and there must have been a lot of customers. The girl fantasizes to think that the library receives mysterious shipments every week, but they are more likely the second hand books donated by a nearby paper walla who dumps his useless booty here when he finds no further use of them. There are generations of books here, wormed through many times by silverfish. They still wait pathetically for someone to pick them up. But the girl is already done with reading her Nancy Drew’s and she now even owns some of the 1993 Tinkle comics. She is also disinterested in the old bound books on the higher shelves. After all, she still has a lifetime to go through them; the library will not evaporate into thin air, anyway.

The girl is now not a frequent customer. Gone are the days when she wore satin frocks and bounced into the little place with expectations. Her world is bigger, and she’s happier buying off books from road spreads instead. Meanwhile, time is slowly advancing, and the girl forgets to realize this.

One fine day, the girl remembers the library. She remembers the joy of delving through 1993 fortnightly editions of comics to find that perfect book. She remembers the expectation, remembers the copy of Highlights book she had misplaced somewhere. She remembers how there weren’t any corridors, how the books weren’t catalogued, and how she wasn’t even a member but the librarian had simply trusted her to return the books without even recording them in his log. Mahesh Circulating Library is just a corner away, and she decides to drop in there, more to remember her times there than to borrow anything. But the library is closed. It’s not a holiday, and the girl does not know why the library is locked. She asks, and learns that it’s been this way for quite a while, and nobody really cares why. The closed doors bother her; she does not enjoy seeing it this way.

One fine day, the doors of that little place open. Sunshine pours into that dingy place once more. That small room even looks cleaner, brighter, and wider. But the books are gone. The lingering smell of old books has been replaced with the smell of kerosene, turpentine and car grease. The painted letters of “Mahesh Circulating Library” have been wiped clean. It is now the mechanic store, a place for broken tires, old cars and vehicles that need fixing. There is noise, and the revving of engines. It’s the quick repair shop, and is popular too. People throng the place, it’s always busy. Everything is painted a bright shade of red to emphasize its presence. It’s a wild transformation of proportions which discomfort the girl. And she had thought the library could not disappear into thin air! She is overwhelmed by the loss. The mechanic store is a welcome change to many, who see the usefulness of the transformation, but the girl is probably the only one who mourns the death of the library. For others, life has already moved on. She thinks could have reached those bound books by now…sadly, she never read them.

That girl is 18 years old now. That girl is me.I finally found the copy of highlights under my bed one day. I don’t know where it is now. I don’t even know if it has been thrown away, but the copies of 1993 tinkles are safe in my personal library back home. I have since roamed many other libraries, where finding a book of choice is an easy thing, but the only library which I have come to miss is the one which had denied me that very privilege.

To my mother, with love

2009-01-19T16:58:00.000-08:00

When I look at myself in the mirror, it surprises me how remarkably I look like my mother. Everything from the hair texture to facial features show an uncanny resemblance, and our childhood photos look exactly alike, with the only difference being that hers is in black and white, and mine are in colour. I’m proud of the fact that I resemble her; I’m elated when somebody points it out too. For me, my mother has been perfect, and the fact that I have inherited her features is a source of fascination and pride.

The third week of January is not like all other weeks because my mother’s birthday happens to be on the 20th and it’s a day which deserves some celebration. But by some cruel coincidence, I have always been occupied in the later weeks of January, having time enough to drop an apologetic smile at her and say, “Happy Birthday!” before heading off to face some preparatory exam or another before the season of march finals.

On such occasions, my mother has never even faintly looked disappointed. Her birthdays often meant Rotis and Malai Kofta at a nearby restaurant, and then the next day would resume in the same way. She still made all the coffee, and smiled before I rushed off to face another day at college. Thankfully, this year is not like one of those years. This time, I wish to gift her a bigger present, by recounting those little things that will hopefully make her happy. They are the things I have never told her, although she must have already realized them by now. Some words need not be spoken; some messages are silently understood without a single utterance. My mother knows all the things I wish to tell her today, and she needs no reminding. But on her birthday, I just wanted to announce to the world that I love her very much, and that she is more special to me than I can ever tell. She has looked perfect to me ever since I could remember and has understood me better than anyone else on the planet. I thank her for simply being all she has been, for being my moral support system and for converting those simple moments togetherness into unforgettable memories. From my love for her also springs pure admiration for everything she is, and a faithfulness which surprises me with its strength.

I shall never forget the day when I finally called her “Amma” instead of “Binni”. It had been a nickname I had been unusually fond of, and addressed her as “Binni” whenever I wanted her attention, forgetting her yearning to be called “Amma,” even once. The truth had stuck me suddenly, and she had hugged me proudly that day when I had fondly uttered that word, on our way back from Shantamma’s house. I also remember the day I had returned sobbing my heart out after quarrelling with a best friend in tenth standard and the way she had consoled me. I remember being that five year old, in whose eyes her mother is the greatest person on earth. I remember those days of silent expectations, the times when I waited in impatience for her to appear on TV (She was then a news reader), anticipating a friendly wave from the screen that had been promised. When it did not come, I would cry for hours on end, until she could return home to comfort me. I remember waiting for her after school, panicking quickly if she was late my even an instant. I would be lost without her guiding me through every little hurdle of life, and I thank her for letting me hang on.

So, here, Amma is your little birthday present from my side—A banquet of memories. Hope you enjoyed remembering, and hope we could create even more memories together, for us to recount when we are older. Once again, I love you very much, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

Lessons in Learning

2009-01-11T20:26:00.001-08:00

English classes for me always meant a worn out copy of some ancient book, with pencil marks underlining boring quotes that the author had conjured up. Our essays most often had to be stories, or hypothetical experiences and tall tales spun intelligently to make them sound astoundingly like real life experiences. It was those students who got all the good marks, the ones who talked about extraordinary encounters with wild animals, and imaginative descriptions of wonderful things which had come to powerfully alter the course of their lives. Research had never been a requirement and our opinions were unaccounted for in school essays. After all, who really cared to listen to the opinions of teenage pipsqueaks who knew nothing about the state of affairs to talk about them in the first place?

I was hence very much surprised when I took English classes in college here, which turned out to be a very different experience. Essay writing was different here, and I had to do painful research to support my claims, and had to have a clearly established thesis in support of some well-defined idea. In other words, I was to have an opinion on something, and it had me scratching my head. My opinion? Who really cared for my opinion? Did it matter? Firstly, I was not the sort of person who ventured far enough to have strong opinions on anything. Occasionally, a singular point would either irritate or interest me, and I would try to drive my point home, upon which the other person would often exclaim the exact opposite of my assertions. I would then stutter, back out of the dangerous conversations and let my moderate nature show itself. A simple “Whatever,” or “I know,” or “You’re right,” would dissolve the talk, and I would be all too happy to get on with my life without much ado. Taking sides was never my cup of tea, as I usually found myself unable to debate. I have learnt, through years of patience exercise, that peace is often achieved when I simply keep my mouth shut. Debate never stuck me as a mild and peaceful activity, and I found meek compliance to another person’s claims as the best alternative to shouting myself hoarse in order to justify myself.

What happens when you are forced to justifying your claims? And when your GPA counts on it? What happens when it becomes a requirement for you to look into matters, establish opinions on them, and dwell on matters that interest you? I say, it makes you a more perceptive individual. Although I complained a fair number of times when I was stuck with an incomplete essay one day before it was due, I must say I learnt a lot in the process. I learnt to think deeper, and widen my perspective. I developed opinions, and someone was even willing to listen to them, which astonished me. I now think that it would be better if this approach was introduced in our country as well. A simple “What do you think?” or “Why do you think this is correct or incorrect?” would work very well in teaching instead of forcing certain thoughts on us. A mere mention of the facts and simply by-hearting them should not become the requirement, but rather, a natural extension of concepts to challenge our thought process should be incorporated. I guess it would wake up the droopy eyed boys in the back benches too! Instead of saying reservation is necessary for government posts, one should ask why? How is it correct or incorrect? I remember that in our tests, especially civics tests, we were forced to by-heart whole sections of our constitution, and spew it out on paper. Wouldn’t you think it would be better if we were allowed to express our genuine understanding of what we learnt in our own words? Or maybe even our own interpretation of the constitution? Sadly, I don’t even remember the Preamble I by-hearted back in eight standard when I am supposed to have known what it was saying. All I can recall is that a bunch of backbenches had been giggling that day, on a joke about the teacher’s hairdo. When the whispers had spread to our bench, we had laughed too, forgetting the desperate voice which had been screeching, “We the people of India…” somewhere up front because we could not grasp the meaning of these words anyway.

New Year Wishes

2009-01-01T21:47:00.000-08:00

This year’s December has been too cold for my liking, but it has still remained one of my favorite months. One of the things that makes this month enjoyable is the holidays I have been blessed with, and the sheer laziness which accompanies it. The world is too dark on December days to be out bird-watching anyway, and so incredibly cold as to numb me if I cross the threshold of my door. This has served as an appropriate excuse to lounge on the sofa, reading the good old Calvin and Hobbes comic, occasionally giggling to myself as I stretch my legs, savoring what little pleasures feel like.

True, Christmas has been a subdued issue this year, but I have been all too happy to simply stare at artificial trees, baubles and electric lighting to experience the Christmas cheer. In light of the recession, I don’t think anybody’s spending a million on presents anyway! Also, the world does not look very pretty through my balcony anymore—just greyer and more forbidding. My mind does not enjoy being passive so I have allowed it to explore, and currently, it seems to have been devoting a tremendous amount of time in capturing dialogues of movies in its grey cells to challenge itself, and is feverishly drawing up resolutions which it is bound to break because the year is ending, and it needs something to do anyway.

Now, it’s the New Year’s time, and is one more reason to celebrate. It’s that time of the year when hope revives, and that is the best part. A half-hearted person sees his hopes reemerge and finds a fresh confidence awakening within him, unless he does not happen to be an incurable pessimist. Ordinary people start dreaming extraordinary dreams, and hope stirs in some part of their hearts--A hope that things can change if they have not already, that the world can get better, and that wonderful things await them just around the river bend. Individual dreams revive, and the New Year always seems to hold a promise of something extraordinary. Some people see January first as just another day. Although it is true, I’d say it is plain boring to look at it that way. January first is supposed to be a beginning—a beginning for better habits, happier days and a transformed world. It’s time to start dreaming, to be comforted, and to laugh off your burdens. It’s time to welcome hope, which is more important that welcoming the New Year. This is the secret of the New Year, which is not just about parties, balloons and cutting cakes. And this is another reason which makes December special to me. It’s very last days are what I wait for—because they are something very close to magical. There is nothing like some Christmas cheer and New Year hope to boost your confidence which helps you accept the grim facts like that of your term days starting, and that your Chemistry professor being rumored to suffer from extreme temper outburst with perfect enthusiasm. I never realized hope could be so powerful! Well then, I’ll hope for cheerful days and peaceful times for everyone. I’ve made better resolutions this time, including becoming a more frequent blogger. And hopefully, I’ll keep my promise.

And to you, friends, I wish a very Happy New Year!!! Keep wishing on stars this new season, and buy new dairies to record your life. Make promises you can keep, and may your hopes stay alive!!! HAPPY NEW YEAR!

An Escape

2008-12-19T16:39:00.000-08:00

When the skies are murky and I can’t see stars, or when the thundering city traffic unsettles me, I feel lost. On such occasions, I have often complained I should have lived differently. A rustic environment, somewhere up in the mountains, where I could hike everyday and find wildflowers behind every boulder seemed to me a perfect existence. An attic, a fireplace in front of which I could relax, and snow in the winter. What could beat that? This had long since been a childhood dream. Thoughts of such a life used to fuel my imagination when I was bored. “I’ll grow up and live my life on the easy chair, staring out to the skies….,” I used to think. This seems to have been inspired by the life of a fictitious girl by the name of Heidi, from Joanna Spyri’s classic Swiss novel by the same name. It was one of those stories which was very close to my heart, and the more I thought about it, the more I felt like associating myself with the character of Heidi. I had dreamed over and over again, of a villa nestled in the heart of a lesser mountain range where I could be homeschooled and a quaint little cottage by a riverside….those were the kind of places which were ideal for living, I thought, and such a life was easy.

Well, this time, I came very close to experiencing what a solitary living feels like, and I must say I was considerably surprised by my reaction to it. Initially, of course, I was thrilled to know that we were going to be spending some time in a distant cabin somewhere in the middle of Yosemite National Park for the holidays. It inspired the same childish delight in me that I associate with prolonged family outings, bringing to the forefront countless memories of yearly visits to granny’s house, warm reunions with cousins and the laid back days which were my summer holidays. This was going to be an experience to savor. This trip was going to be unique for many reasons. For the first time, we were to reside in a cabin instead of one of those standard American hotels with 2 beds, framed watercolours in the background and an old TV with pay-per-view. Oh no, this was going to be a very real experience and I was ready to enjoy it!

When we arrived, it was late evening. I had expected to feel happy at the sight of the cabin, but strangely enough, I felt a brooding fear of visiting an unfamiliar place instead. The sight of the cabin, forever hiding in the shade of tall Californian redwoods looked more spooky than welcoming. Further, the person who had tastefully decorated it seems to have enjoyed a certain savage pleasure of hanging dead deer heads all around the place, and they stood like ghostly remainders of some deadly event. The nights were absolute in their quiet, and suddenly, I did not feel so grown up anymore. For one thing, I knew I would start screaming if they locked me up in the attic for too long! I knew the forests were absolutely spendid, but I haden't taken off time to think that they might be scary too. Surprisingly, I longed for familiar sounds, like ticking of a clock, the whizzing of an overhead fan, and laughter. This felt unreal, lonely, and very much unlike home.

The second day, we decided to hike up Vernal Falls. It had rained previously, leaving the forest floor moist and the air stinging cold. I scrambled across rocks and uneven surfaces. I saw boulders, with pretty wildflowers growing behind them. They looked beautiful, but I also realized I was panting. I had hiked up an inclination to see this, and I was tired. I realized that finding wildflowers behind boulders was not easy, nor was living in the middle of the forest, as I had assumed. But it was different, and very meaningful. Life in the forests is definitely unique, but by no means easy. There is plenty to explore, unearth and uncover if I am in the mood for an adventure. Although I felt an emptiness staying away from Cupertino for so long, mesmerizing waterfalls, winding forest trails, and leisurely evenings more than made up for it. I returned home after catching a glimpse of a solitary life that was Heidi’s and I returned with a satisfaction of a lesson well learnt. I came back rejuvenated, with plenty of photos to remind of the experience which was an eye opener.

Arise India

2008-12-08T23:30:00.000-08:00

Recently, I was shaken by the Mumbai terror attacks. A few days later, I watched the movie, A Wednesday, and this had my head spinning. The news of death, destruction and a movie concerning terrorists made me feel quite ill. I grew a bit pessimistic about the fate of my country. Then, a friend was kind enough to remind me that all was not as bad at it seems. When I ventured to find out what this person was talking about, I stumbled across the Arise India organization. I was awed by the work they were doing, and was so inspired that I practically begged to write a guest post on their blog. I thought it would be apt to discuss the work they are doing here. (http://ariseindia.blog.co.in/2008/11/26/a-guest-bloggers-opinion/)

I was genuinely surprised with their story. Arise India was formed by a bunch of teenagers who have recognized that there are some problems in our country that need fixing, and that youth participation is vital to bring about change of any kind. They conceived a vision, and Arise India project was born. I was delighted to know that some of my former classmates had become active participants, along with many other faceless friends I am yet to meet. I salute their efforts, and am truly fascinated with the way they have managed to achieve all that they have within a time span of less than a year. They have been involved in a massive effort to change the way our teenagers think. They have been talking in schools, trying earnestly to revive patriotism in the hearts of children who have a very constricted view of this country. Today, they have broadened the horizons of thinking for many, and they earnestly hope that their movement will assume national proportions. What has interested me is that a majority of Arise India are teenagers, no younger than nineteen years of age, and they have already managed some media attention, and have established their cause. They are rapidly progressing towards success, fundraising, speaking in public forums and discussing issues of importance on the internet. Talk about achievement!

I learnt that it just started as a group of friends---teenagers who were fed up with extended holidays and thought they needed to do active work of some kind. They were lucky enough to receive guidance and encouragement just when they required it. A common passion can changed these people into truly committed individuals, and I have witnessed this. Passion stirs them, catalyzing action. Today, I am really proud of my classmates, and many other teenagers who have shown (and are still showing) the world that change can come only if there is participation.

They have taught me that the youth of today hold the promises of the future. They have shown me our future middle-aged citizens are not going to be careless fools like most fear and they have revived my hopes and interests in my country’s future. I thank them for that. They have received only a limited attention from the public, and a lukewarm response to their wonderful efforts. So, I felt it was befitting to inform you of their existence, and am respectfully completing this duty. I wish them all the best for all their future endeavors.Please do go through their website if you do have time to learn about how they plan to bring about change. (http://www.ariseindia.net/) I encourage everyone who lives in Bangalore to become part of Arise India. For those who are part of it, I think it will be an experience of a lifetime.

A Walk through the Woods

2008-11-20T17:15:00.000-08:00

The week before last, we wanted to take a walk through the woods. It was not an easy wish to be satisfied, considering the nearest woods were an hour’s drive away from home and cost $5 per person. But even flimsy excuses never work with it’s a holiday and there are four people in the house milling about aimlessly. Surprisingly, I was even willing to sacrifice a nice sleeping-in-on-a- holiday session for this trip, and that happens only on extremely rare occasions. So we packed our lunch before I had time to change my mind to snuggle back into bed. A previous trip to Muir Woods was too long ago to be conveniently forgotten, and I didn’t waste my energies to try and remember. My energies had been solely reserved for the greater adventures of the day, and I didn’t want to waste them on daydreams.

An hour later, this felt too good to be true. It was incredible that I had escaped the drab old concrete of the city and the discomforts of congestion, in a matter of less than an hour! It was also hard to believe that true paradise existed so close to home and that I had been so blind to it. The Muir woods stood beckoningly before me. I took in grateful lungfuls of air, enjoying the smell of Californian redwoods, and the rejuvenating freshness of the air. There was a surreal perfectness to these woods, and they were exactly the way I had pictured them be. Something about the way the light came down in dim, magical streaks to the world alive in silent seclusion enchanted me. Surrounding me was a colourful little world full of pleasant smells, moisture which clung to my body, and incredibly tall trees. They reminded me of countless fantasies—everything from the Forbidden Forest of Hogwarts to the forests of the Land of Narnia to the recent fantasy movie A Bridge to Terabethia.

I remembered that the redwoods were one of the tallest tree species in the world. The fact looked undisputable as I stared up to the skies, trying to gauge the lengths to which they extended. There was an air of permanence about the place, like these mighty trees had lived for all of eternity. It was hard to believe that they would fall one day, when I observed how clearly rooted they were to the ground, and how they clung to the earth with a solid force. I took time to read those little information boards all along the way. Apart from describing plant anatomies, they told me stories, making me want to attribute character to each tree. They were the voice of these ancient gaints, echoing the many years of growth, experience, and struggle of the trees. They told me of trees charred to death by forest fired, yet miraculously produced shoots next spring, of weather-beaten trees too old to live who had bravely continued to stand against all odds. “This tree is Wise,” I felt like saying, “And the other one over there is a grouchy fellow….” I learnt of the way the redwoods guarded the tender world below them by diffisuing sunlight. And by doing that, they were painting the world below with splendid colours. Everything from moss to ferns thrived in the gracious shade of the redwoods. We hiked through a forest trail (although a not a very challenging one), reveling in pleasant talk and clicking pictures. We did spot a little deer (it definitely looked like one), feeding on some leaves by the side of the little creek. That had me all excited. I definitely felt refreshed, and couldn’t believe I had actually considered sleeping-in to this heavenly experience.

I was also reminded of one of those episodes on Discovery Channel. It is about ‘Forest Therapy’, and also about the way in which some civilizations worshipped the forest. Some civilizations actually believed that the woods had some untapped healing power…..a way of gently cleansing you of respiratory problems, curing you of mental sickness and reviving you. A walk through the woods was supposed to be the answer to your sickness, a gate key to heaven. As we rushed back home through the crowded streets of San Francisco, it seemed like someone had wispered this timeless secret in my ear. I knew, without quite knowing how I knew it, that there must be some hidden wisdom in that belief after all.

(The credit for all the pictures goes to my little brother, who was adamant to capture as much of the experience as possible.)

Monsoon Memories

2008-10-28T13:50:00.000-07:00

“Dear Journal “I had scribbled in an immature hand, “Today had been so much fun. It really was wonderful,” and had simply left it at that. For a person who is reading this one and a half years later, it is quite an arduous task to sift through her memories to remember what had been so fun, and what had made her feel so wonderful back then. Sometimes, I despise my own journal entries because they do not tell me everything. They merely reflect my mood on some particular day, or record the irrelevancies of my life which are of no significance to me now. For some vague reason, I was perturbed. I went to sleep with a question prodding my mind, like a playful cat toying with its food. “What had happened that day? Why was that day so wonderful?”

In sleep, something intruded into my dreams. It was a tenuous wisp of a memory which answered the puzzling question. I saw it clearly in my brain:

I remembered that evening. The day was done for the most part, and we watched the people worm their way homewards, through the muddy roads, dressed to evade the rains. The rains had been especially torrential, and many had grown weary of them. But we didn’t mind, my cousin and I, we loved the monsoons. That evening, a mild rain started off again, and we watched fascinated, like children. Soon, there was power-cut, mystifying the environment. We couldn’t have waited for a better invitation. That day, we called the neighbors over, and we soaked to the bones, screaming with delight as we drenched. We laughed and sang as the thunder set up a tempo. Oh yes, I remembered now, writing to my journal in semi-darkness, scribbling badly because I couldn’t see in the faint light of the lamp. “Today had been so much fun. It really was wonderful,” Nothing seemed more obvious, and my experience seemed to require no further explanation.

This was followed by one memory after another.

It was another wasted day, and I was slightly grumpy. I had finished my homework, devoured all the available novels, and wrapped up my studies. Nothing had interested me, and I felt strangely detached. I slipped outside, into the backyard, and saw no stars. I sought comfort in staring up at the skies, seeing those smiling stars winking at me. But that day, the skies were an ominous grey, and they frustrated me with their solemnity. But there was a wind, so I settled down, enjoying it. And gradually, the winds got stronger, and a rain started off, washing away my frustration gracefully. I was not cold, but I closed my eyes, and found thrill in the sensation of rain drops landing on my arm. I knew no one would think I’m crazy to be wetting myself in the rain this way, simply because no one was watching. I hummed a nice melody as I swayed with the wind. Minutes later, my frustration felt unreal, and I returned to my room, smiling without knowing why.

It was the holidays. I was relaxing in my bed, reading a somewhat boring book called “The Haunted Island,” My concentration was slipping away, and my eyes were running down the sentences without understanding them. I heard a rumble outside, and I threw the window open, and waited. The rains lashed outside, and I enjoyed listening to this. Suddenly, the book became a favorite. I stayed up, reading it until it’s finished.

I woke up with the memories still clinging onto my eyelids and squinted. The Californian sun was blazing outside, intruding into my bedroom. I stared out of my window. It looked quite sunny, but I knew I would shiver if I stepped out. The world looked a bit too bright for my liking. The autumns here will be uncertain; they always play with my senses. The weather changes rapidly as it fancies, and is very inconsistent. I scolded my inquisitive brain for making me remember the monsoons. I was missing the rains again, and sometimes, I thought, it’s better if some questions are left unanswered. The next day, I was blessed with mild rains, in the middle of autumn! I would never have expected it, that too in California....It looked like someone had suddenly decided to change the weather for me. I'm enjoying it while it lasts, this brief spell of rain, revisiting my monsoon memories again and again.

Virtual Dreams

2008-10-14T22:34:00.000-07:00

I was once a millionaire who owned a sprawling mansion in the middle of nowhere, cared for an exotic azure cat, and constantly saw to it that fairies sprinkled pixie dust all along the way. My world was utopian, perfect, exciting. The only problem was, it was virtual.

I was introduced to a website called neopets at the age of eleven---the age when my common sense was slumbering peacefully somewhere in the back of my brain. Neopia was the promising land where all my desires could be fulfilled. There were unlimited games, virtual rewards, and an opportunity to claim a non—existent creature as my own. The internet told me an attractive lie, and I easily fell into the vicious trap. Every day, my “virtual” pets would demand some food, clothing, shelter, a companion, and it was my responsibility to satisfy their cravings. I soon developed an emotional attachment to them, even though I knew, somewhere in the depths of my heart, that they were not living things, but merely an artificially programmed images, and very immature imitation of biological beings. Another reason for my apparent addiction to the website was that the virtual me found success very easily, and was more responsible, skilled and purposeful than the real me. I saw a superior image of myself projected there, and it soon grew into an obsession. I wanted to keep on going.
I spent more of my sunny days that year, ruining the keyboard, than stepping outside to breathe in the fresh air, skip about the pavement, or feel the grass under my feet. Soon, I was not even a millionaire. I now was nearing a billion neopoints in my virtual bank, and I seized every opportunity to work on the website. One day, my father took me to the library, to browse for books, but I wasted the day using the library computer instead, playing games, earning more neopoints than ever before! It seemed like an achievement, and in that moment of blissful jubilation, I forgot to log out. I was ecstatic all the way home, I kept reciting to myself, like a familiar mantra, “Hundred more points for a billion….hundred more….”
As soon as I was home, I rushed to the computer again. My eyes were never tired of feasting on my exotic pets (I had now painted them purple), and my fingers never fatigued in the effort of dragging my virtual car (which was being bombed by the enemy) to safety, and my mind never took a break from trying to crack difficult anagrams. All these would earn me neopoints, and I logged on to the computer again. That day, my bank showed I owned no money, my deposit a horrifying single “0” where there supposed to have been 9 of them. My inventory had been robbed, my pets stripped of their luxuries. That day, I faced utter devastation.
My eleven year old brain was shattered, I sobbed into the night. My parents told me it was nothing to worry about, that my fears were imagined. Neopia was not real, so was my loss. I lived in denial of the fact for many days, finding the truth hard to ingest. Gradually, I grew out of it, started spending my summer days skipping on the pavement, rather than shopping in a virtual supermarket. It was easy for me to forget my addiction, but it is not so for millions of kids around the globe. Virtual heavens and computer games have tremendous psychological impact on a child. I know it from experience that there is no good to be gained from them. I’m not saying this because I’m not a virtual billionaire anymore, but I’m saying this with the realization of the amount of time and effort I wasted to nurture false dreams. Such things are nothing less than self-deceit. What bothers me of late is that more such websites are cropping up everywhere on the internet. Much to my disappointment, my favorite magazine, Tinkle has launched tinkleindiaonline.com, a very similar website, which rewards kids with virtual money for playing games. Although the games are considerably less violent, they can still addict kids. It’s a major issue, and I have no answers to resolve it. All that I know today, as I breathe in the fresh air, and enjoy the moist of the very dewy grass below my feet, the world is beautiful. More importantly, it is real, and very much here. I just hope that computer game addicts would sense that, instead of chasing after something which only superficially looks splendid. True splendor can be uncovered in the intricate web a spider builds, or a mountain flower in full bloom. Today, I am grateful for that helpful guy who robbed me of all my virtual money. Without him, I would never have understood the simple truth that this world is the loveliest part of my existence.

A bitter-sweet day and a promise

2008-10-04T20:11:00.000-07:00

The 17th of May 2008, was a very special day for me, and I realized that as soon as I woke up to feel the warmth of the sun on my face, and observed that the curtains were all aglow with the eerie early morning sunlight. There is something to be said about this, because I normally (make that never) wake up on early mornings voluntarily. It was pure excitement which made me unable to slip into that state of passivity I enjoyed so much. Yes, that day was going to be special, and I had made arrangements to see to that.

That day was going to be bitter-sweet. I knew that because it was the day I would say my official ‘good-bye’ to my best friend in a very grand way, and it was the day we were going to watch a much-awaited movie. When my friend and my cousin came over, we hired an auto to MG road. The newest of the Chronicles of Narnia series, the movie Prince Caspian was out, after a month of eager anticipation. We were wild with excitement. The experience was ultimately rewarding, and we watched it with mouths agape, like the old times. It was still very early by the time the movie ended, and we decided to do something fun together.

There, in a coffee shop, sipping some Butterscotch Frappe’, we let the conversation carry us endlessly from one topic to another, shifting pace, drifting into one memory after another, and thoughts of how much we would miss each other in the days to come. And then, we made a promise, the kind teenagers these days never do. Deepti and I decided to become pen-friends.
It is true that we are markedly alike in our tastes, and our perspectives often collided with surprising similarity. That day, we swore to keep the promise alive. We believed in the joy of handwritten letters, of the warmth it bought to you…..because we had never experienced it. I, at least, never had a pen friend in my life, and the whole concept was new to me. I was tired of the adults reminiscing about the good old days of the handwritten letters. I still believed there were ways of bringing things back. We could reach each other easily on email or on orkut, but that wasen’t really the point. The point was that we were trying to experiment, to find out how beneficial writing was.
2 months after coming here I received my first letter from Deepti as promised, I experienced an inexplicable thrill. The day seemed suddenly more colourful. Oh, how lovely it was to find my name written on a brown envelope, which has arrived all the way from India! I now seemed to grasp the secret appeal of letters, and comprehended with perfect clarity why adults turn nostalgic about them.

But day by day, it is getting more difficult to keep that promise alive, since both the letters I wrote to deepti never reached her. And with the postal prices skyrocketing in India, I do feel a twinge of guilt for making her spend so much for me. But all I’d like to say is that we will maintain it as long as we can, because none of us are willing to let go.
Deepti wrote this for my upcoming birthday, when I’ll be turning 18:

“May you be happy throughout your life
May you keep love and joy always by your side,
May you experience the magic of being fully alive,
And may life’s best be always yours.”
And they are best birthday present I have received so far.

(Read Deepti’s response on http://deeptiraghuram.blogspot.com/2008/10/reply-to-friend.html)

Biking

2008-09-25T20:01:00.001-07:00

A few months ago, I chanced across a very good deal while shopping---a brand new mountain bike for 64 dollars, and it seemed like nothing in the world was fairer. The bike conveniently appealed to my taste, with a coat of metallic red which literally shone to heighten it’s presence. A little tweaking here and there, and the bike was ready to come home. We bought it along with us, with the bike securely attached to the back of the car.

The next few days were spent in admiring my shiny new cycle from all angles. It was obvious that I was excited, but I was satisfied enough by simply by staring at it. Then, I delicately locked it away. Only when my brother accused me of not using my cycle for anything did I resentfully take to biking. I only did it to prove him wrong.

Today, biking has become an obsession. When my life relapses into that habitual phase where everything follows a customary order, and everything falls into a predictable plan, It is often my impulse to do something to break the pattern. The pre-decided sequence of things seems like a comforting regularity for many people, who are all too happy to get adjusted to the monotony of daily life. I feel the simple life of college, homework, studies, reading novels, sleep, and food lulls my senses into that sleepy condition, until even surprises look ordinary. And this time, I have taken to biking on a whim, simply to break that sequence. There is nothing like cycling away aimlessly, letting the hours slip by irresponsibly. Having a friend tagging along in your worthless pursuit adds a little more spice. My favorite times to bike are in the evenings, when the heat of the morning fades away like it never existed and the sparrows throng the fences, chirping away madly. I immensely enjoy those moments of waywardness, feeling the winds on my face, allowing them to whip my hair around me playfully, I love the sound of the wheels on the tar, and the honest sweat on my brow as I continue to peddle forcefully. My friend maintains a continuous babble behind me as we peddle and it is now my responsibility to insert a “whoa!” “uh-huh” “Great!” in the conversation. At least, that has grown to be the silent agreement between the both of us.

Well, we bike until late evening until my weary joints stop assisting my urge to continue with this forever. The magic fades, and I return to my daily routine life, my heightened senses quickly slipping back into that dulled stupor, but I look forward to the next day optimistically, promising my friend a greater adventure in the days to come.

Student Psychology

2008-09-08T22:27:00.000-07:00

(cartoon from the book The Complete Idiot's Guide to calculus)

In the beginning of the second year of pre-university, most students do the easiest thing they are allowed to do for the year—they set up a goal. It is a fairly simple thing to do: to say something like “Father, I’ll get a 90% in the final exams because I am going to study five hours everyday!” But the student discovers, much to his dismay, that the individual who authored his physics textbook fancies writing in a forgotten dialect that he is unable to comprehend.
“Not my fault I didn’t understand! The textbook is too complex!” he whines, conveniently blaming the defective book for all his agony. Just as he is about to sneak out of his bedroom, his mother spots him,
“Why are you not studying?”
“I can’t understand the textbook, ma. It’s so horribly written! It has a ton of mistakes, printing errors. I don’t know why I bought Bosco publications, I should have gone for MES publications. Studying is a serious business!”

The next day morning, the student’s (study) table is cluttered with stacks of newly bought textbooks, homework helpers, logarithmic tables, CET and COMED-K guides. The student intuitively realizes that there is no other excuse—his life and bookshelf are now crammed with these things.

Now, only the student is aware of the bitter truth that most of the books he has bought (which is the only thing in the world that his parents are willing to spend an infinite amount of money on) are unworthy of his interest and attention, and that they mean very little to his colourful life, a greater part of which includes eating pani-puri from a roadside stand and zooming away on a bike. The initial plan is abandoned, and those books which treasure all the wisdom of the world are now free to collect dust on his clumsy bookshelf. In the end, the student has just enough time to go over the textbook he detested in the first place, and prepare for the final exam. When Second PU finally concludes, the student views this as an appropriate time to dispose of these unwanted things and he now rushes to the paper waalla to exchange them for worthier rewards like money (which will be spent on the in the noble past-time of eating pani-puri from the roadside stand.) Some strange teenagers even pass on ‘knowledge’ in the form of careworn textbooks as legacies to their favorite siblings with the safe presumption that their books will be made use of. After the second year concludes admirably fast, the student assumes the powerful title of a sagely and wise creature, someone from whom the so-called “juniors” can draw inspiration from. They view him with awe-stuck wonder, and faithfulness as he shares his invaluable information with them. He is now the guide, the person with answers. And what does he tell his juniors?
“Look, there is nothing like setting up a goal, like I did. I promised myself that I would study 5 hours a day. And I was determined enough to follow my dreams. I referred all the study guides I could, I revised atleast 7 times. Don’t ignore your textbooks, they treasure all the wisdom in the world.”
The others are left to prospect how much of truth there is in these words.

The 17 mile Drive

2008-09-03T16:23:00.000-07:00

[This is on my visit to the 17 mile drive, a scenic drive along the sea side. We visited this place on the 1st September 2008.]

Driving along 17 miles of road, in this sweltering Californian heat isn’t exactly anyone’s idea of fun, but it helps when the sun is forgiving, and the turbulent sea is by your side always, and the numerous crashing wave pools send some sea froth flying to you in welcome. It does lift your spirits, making you forgot how sapped out you were just a few hours ago. One of my favorite things to do on the 17 mile drive is simply throw away my burdens, spending those timeless hours gazing into the horizon. I am carefree here, careless in my observations, (which is rare for me), wasting away those unhampered hours doing nothing significant.

( Seen above is the sunset I witnessed. )

What is not beautiful about the seaside? There is something enchanting which delights your eyes, calms your waywardness, caresses your face with that gentle touch. This place has attracted me three times, but with every visit, I fall more in love with it. And there is this raw beauty in everything around me, right from the crooked, bleached, ghostly trees, to the red moss which hangs limply onto the rocks. This place is the unmasked, bare face of nature and it is animated with life—and that is why it appeals to me even more.

(The little bird I could capture---unfortunately, I couldn’t capture a sea-gull! )

The emotional person gets confused here, because everything looks metaphoric. For those who can extend their visions beyond what they can see, they sense a deep solemnity and a silent majesty in the presence of the lone cypress (which is a tree growing out of a rocky cropping, with very less water to support it, and still has survived for nearly 150 years)….and of course, the sea always seem to be smiling. Yes, I stayed back to watch the sun set over the pacific, and I admit, it’s one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen in my life. Well sorry, i’ve been unable to inform you precisely of how my journey was, as I am not much of a researcher, when it comes to writings. I could have provided you with more factual information like how far the sea coast is from freeway 101, and how to get there. It is just that I look at life a bit differently. It does not matter how I got there, or which freeway I took, it only matters that I enjoyed the experience. And that is how I choose to remember most of the things which happen to me—only experiences remain understood, while all the facts are mysteriously erased. Yet, one fact I do remember, that this has been my most enjoyable weekend in America this year. I have had a lot of fun on the trip, and I’ll cherish that.

(Sunset)

(The sea in the evening.)

(The lone cypress tree---one of my favorties.)

[Click to enlarge]

Giving your Imagination a chance

2008-08-12T19:47:00.001-07:00

I have often been confronted with the question that why is it that I spare so much time and effort to write something as puerile as a children’s story when I could be writing something more profound, mature, realistic. Now, I shall ask you a question. What is that you most enjoyed? Cuddling in your granny’s lap when you were small enough to fit in it, listening to the Ramayana, or the Sunday newspaper you read last weekend?

I believe that a child’s imagination, in all it’s innocent glory is the most splendid thing on the planet. As I have said before, children can dream, dream without any sort of limitation or fear, and this makes their thoughts so original. As we grow up, our creative skills become atrophic, and suddenly, there are no more monsters in your cupboard, and there is no rabbit skulking in the waxing moon. With the emphasis given to logical thinking, imagination normally relapses into dormancy. Even venture to think about something immature and then you’re brain will say, “Now that’s most improbable! There are no fairy princesses…” That’s why, great fantasy writers are so rare.

It is good to occasionally let your imagination run loose and slacken your firm hold on the creative brain, and simply think without reasoning. That’s when you get wild stories of monsters, princesses, witches and beasts. And that is where your children’s stories come from. And there is an enjoyment to be derived from it too, which can soothe your stressed mind. When the world seems like it’s going to collapse the next moment, I find writing a children’s story or doodling something stupid as the ultimate elixir.

Much to my delight, another one of my stories found publication in Tinkle Children’s magazine this month. Given a chance, I would much rather be an Enid Blyton than anybody else….you see, there is a child in everybody that some have imprisoned. In me, That child seems to have a stubborn immaturity that I simply can’t get rid of!

(The above illustrations from my story are a copyright of India book house pvt ltd)

Travelling by bus

2008-08-01T16:10:00.000-07:00

At times, something as commonplace as a bus-stand can provoke you to write something. I passed one while returning home today and it instantly had be reminiscing. This made me think about how my college didn’t even have a bus—stand! It was this very girl, two years ago, who went to college with a wry face, constantly whining that our busses were not on time despising this mode of transport.

The third week of college, I remember having first boarded a bus from the relatively peaceful NR Colony to Gowdanapalya, with my over-protective mom pleading another student to ‘help me out’. It was a new world to me, travelling alone like that. People pushed you, you somehow forced yourself to hang onto a piece of metal, and that’s all the space you got. You could never sit down, because every bus has fat bossy women or wobbly old men. You were still a kid who was squeezed against the window to make place for four people. Oh, I couldn’t stop ranting about it.

And then, it was monsoon season. My college bus-stand is nowhere, so all of us assembled like stranded travelers in front of this filthy bakery by the roadside (which was great for the bakery, I’m sure). The roads weren’t tarred properly, so the sludge of previous rains still lingered, making everything look muddier than ever. We had street dogs too, some which looked seriously rabid….they were always prompt to clean up that piece of cake you might have dropped. And people who barked worse than dogs, campaigning for a new tutorial which had opened up somewhere, promising you instant success in IIT. Beggars dropped by occasionally, adamant not to go away until you handed them money. I boarded the bus cursing my fate that day, but then someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I was pleasantly surprised to find a classmate from school smiling back at me.

As the days progressed, I chanced upon so many things in bus 210 N. I met my old school friends on it, once, even my tution teacher’s mom, and my biology lecturer. (Didn’t know whether to shout ‘goodmorning mam’ or pretend not to know her!). Sometimes, old men who would start rambling about their college days without any provocation, and even my college friends followed me all the way home on the bus, to wave me off. Life on a public bus can throw weird and unpredictable surprises at you. Two years later, I tell a different story. There is nothing quite like a bunch of college students travelling home by bus, gossiping their heads off about the new movie in town, blissfully unaware of where the journey will take them. There was a charm to that which I had forgotten to realize, and when I did, life had already moved on. Memories are strange….they make you enjoy those experiences which you most despised some years ago, and there is a charm to that too, which is quite difficult to explain.