Reminiscing a Rainy Day

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.

A Whole New World

I was distinctly reminded of the song “A Whole New World” from Disney’s Aladdin as I nervously sauntered to my first class, whilst my parents scuttled behind me, excited. The last ‘good-bye’ was murmured in haste just outside class, and I entered, heart pounding. (Incidentally, I was the only student who was shepherded to class by her parents, here, that stops in Kindergarten). There is always the fear of unfamiliarity on the first day of college, those initial jitters, accompanied by slight reluctance. In me, it shows in exaggerated ways. I felt small in this new crowd, like a ship lost at sea.

I surveyed my surroundings….here, someone is babbling on a phone, blissfully oblivious to the surroundings, someone switching on their laptop or an ipod, or reading Marian Puzo with their head slightly inclined. Nobody was curiously peering at anybody else, or fidgeting about in their seats or throwing shifty glances. This I found slightly unnerving, because it was something I unconsciously did in the beginning of a new class. I meddled with my lucky ring, playing with it occasionally to engage myself. Then, the class started.

My art teacher, Mr. Roehl, began the class with a slideshow. The first slide was of a vase painted with Flamingoes.
"Now, Can anyone tell me where the flamingoes are?"
Instantly came a babble of answers.
"Uh--Florida?"
"On the Vase."
"They're sort of standin up...."
"No" said Mr. Roehl, "They're standing in the water, don't you get it? It's Water." and that's how he started off on the importance of art analysis and observation.

The class went fairly well for the first one. I shall never forget it….but I couldn’t help comparing it to my first class back in PU. There, every student was asked to pronounce their name and their tenth standard percentage before class began. And that’s the day we had found our first friends.

It’s been 3 weeks since college now. The “Whole New World” I live in throws surprises at me everyday….I look forward to college. Open Jazz concerts in the Cafeteria, a fountain in front of the library and Graffiti on the walls in art class (named ‘Beautiful Chaos”) are some things which interest me. I find them strange, yet beautiful. The new method of teaching is what I need to get used to, though. I was familiar with my professor nodding curtly and saying,
“Alright, class dismissed.” In his characteristically deep and throaty voice.
Now, Mr. Kline smiles and adds, “Have a nice weekend. Don’t drive home fast and kill yourself, because you better be here to submit your assignment next Tuesday!”As I said, it’s a whole new world.

Saying Good-Bye

There are many things in life that are difficult, and saying 'good-bye' to the people who have been an integral part of your life is one of the hardest. It's time to bid farewell to second puc. With the beginning of the month of December, the number of students who attended classes began to gradually decline. I should have realized it then. But I just couldn’t face the fact that it was time to say ‘good-bye’ so soon. I was unconcicoulsy unwilling to accept the idea, and I rebelled against it as much as possible. “It’s still December, there’s still more time….”
No, I reckon there wasen’t. The disappearance of students was too abrupt to suit me. Finally, there were just 6 of us left devotedly attending classes by Christmas time. All these six happen to be my most valuable friends---Me, Shruthi, Hemavathi, Thunga, Navyashree, Virendra, and Kavya. I reason as to why I attended classes was more to see them, savor those last few days with them than anything else. And I stupidly forced myself into an illusion and pretended 2nd PU would last forever. I wish, now, more than anything else that we could all be stuck in time. For all the seven of us have truly enjoyed the past few days so much, and we understand that these last few memories will be cherished and preserved, because we finally comprehended the gravity of the situation. No, we are honest people and we cannot say “We can stay in touch forever!” because we realize that is something unrealistic. We’re at the crossroads, with youthful ambitions and hopes aplenty, and we’ll be moving along separate channels, into different environments, and perhaps even find new friends. The memories might weaken, but for me, I assure you, they’ll be strong, because these have been the best two years of my life.

The last day of college ended in a somber note---just signing slam books, sitting on a college bench. That is just meaningless, if you ask me. Friendship cannot be defined or written down in words, it has to be experienced. I got a slam book too, just because everyone else had, but the truth is, I’m not really happy with it. A mere 30 page book cannot hold all my memories, it really cannot. If I spill my memories on paper, they’ll overflow. I admit, I am a ball of emotions. It’s hard to hide your feelings when the truth hits you so badly---this will be the last day of classes. It is not just ‘OK fine, bye then!” with me. I see this in a different perspective. It is that deep realization that I shall never be in the same phase of life again—I will not enter the class to witness sixty smiling faces---it’s just over. Done, finished! Some people rejoiced classes are over. But this girl squirmed in discomfort. Things would never be the same again….

Most of us did put on a stoic front, bravely showcasing our indifference, until we understood that the pretence was unsuccessful and the truth was pretty transparent. The truth was that all of us were feeling a bit hollow inside—a sudden void, like something invaluable has been snatched away from us, like time cheated us definitely showed in our faces. Manasa was the first one to remark “I’ll be missing you guys a lot, you know….”
Then came clear confessions, and for a moment, we felt connected in the pain of departure. The last word of comfort came from Shruthi, “Hey, it’s not over yet. I mean, there is still time after exams….”
As I drove home that day, I sensed a sudden pleasantness in the air. The winds hit me powerfully, and I enjoyed it, with Shurthi’s words still ringing in my ears “There’s still time after exams….there is still time…still time…” and I really found comfort in those words. For now, I just liked to believe (foolishly) , once again, that it was not yet the time to say ‘good-bye’ after all….we’re friends forever, we will be, no matter what.

A Change of Heart

Well, my tests are over, the world is beautiful, and I am back to being an active blogger! Ah yes...after a brief lapse when I thought of stopping blogging, I have realized a simple truth. I need a stimulant to make me read, (no, it's not caffine, that's too intoxicating!),and my blog is just the right medicine to boost my neurons to an active condition. If there is a thought clouding my brian, I write it down, or type it into my comp, and zap, it has dissapeared, and my mind then becomes fairly clear, and concentrating becomes easier. I would like to thank Mr. RK, whoever he is, his reply to my previous blog was very encouraging. Thanks for the advise, Mr.Ramachandran also. One of my greatest drawbacks is that I tend to buckle if too much of preasure is put on me. And I have a major exam-phobia, and exams make me mentally ill. I constantly try to push my limits, trying to study for eight hours in one go, etc etc, and that is when everything becomes mundane and quite boring. Constant studying confuses me, and thoughts get muddled up. I guess that's when I need my dose of medicine, and that's when I step into the blogosphere. Besides, I have convinced myself that I won't give up blogging for anything. It only takes five minutes of my time, and it never hurts to take a small break from studying, does it? Being in second year does not mean I need to give up things which I love doing. I can still stare out of the window of the city bus, enjoy the evening breeze, smell roses and relax on a college bench reading RK Narayan's My Days during lunch break...and blog too, cause I love doing it!!

Stray Thoughts

Since the early days, I have always been a writer. Maybe not a very good one, but I have wasted many pages scribbling gibberish in notebooks as a child, and I think I have improved a little, graduating to writing children’s stories. Surprisingly, a piece of paper and pen attracts me more than a TV. I can’t say why. But the thing is that I have always been writing, and it is something beyond a hobby, because recently, I discovered that I can’t live without it. When I was a little younger, my ambition was to become a journalist. All that changed on a memorable day when my English teacher, Mr. AK asked us to write a formal letter, and said that he would pick a student to read it in front of the whole class. I was picked, and later my letter was rated as a 4/10. That was the least anyone got, and from that day, my dream lay shattered.

Well, still, I continued to write, because of the fun of it, never taking writing too seriously. But this year is testing me. It is hard to give up something you love doing. I’m in the second year PU, the “tough” “life-changing” year…and sitting and writing essays is considered wasteful, almost sinful too. Today, we had an English Creative Writing competition in college, and I have a Major test on Saturday. The competition was easy and had just my kind of topics, but it was after college hours, and my hands were twitching to write…but there was also this guilt that I would not study for the test. It took me all my self-control to resist the temptation of participating, so I went straight home and started studying. But I guess the regret is haunting me now, and even concentrating is difficult. I have tried to give up writing because it wastes my time, but it is impossible. You see, because of my regret, I sneaked in 5 minutes from my study time to write this. And after writing, I am a little more satisfied. My regret is dissolving, little by little. Now, I can return to work with a smile. Goodbye!

The Magic of the Rains

Finally, after a long wait the pre-monsoon showers have bought some respite to me. The monsoons will forever remain my favorite season…I eagerly wait for it all year, and when it does arrive, I never forget to give it a warm welcome, a grand reception with one regal smile. I’m thankful for the rains because I don’t know how I could survive without it. It’s that special time of the year, when all of my aunt’s potted plants downstairs attain that lush, healthy look, and there is that sweet smell of the earth again, and the mango tree in my backyard is rejoicing…then there are those coconut trees in the distance adding to all the magic with that rustling music, that gentle sway of those trees, which stand out against the drab concrete buildings in the distance. It is raining outside now, very hard with thunder and lightning, and already, and that mounting tension about the year I am going to face (I’m, entering second PU), that tight knot in my stomach is loosening a little bit. The rains create this new atmosphere for me, and somehow, it dissolves and washes away all my blues. I call this pure magic.

Have all of you forgotten how you used to enjoy the rainy season as children? I haven’t. I know pretty well what I used to do. I used to make those paper boats and sail them in the rains, get drenched (trying to stay outdoors as much as possible), and after the rains subsided, I enjoyed going around, watching all the raindrops collected on the leaves, which really looked beautiful. I used to draw up a chair, and watch it rain all day long. Rains looked like miracles to me, and they still do. And guess what I did today? I have this feeling that my childhood is slipping away, and to make the most of it, I went outdoors, got drenched in the rains, sailed a paper boat, forgot about studies for a day, drew up a chair and watched it rain enjoying a hot cup of coffee. I felt like a kid again...it was a wonderful feeling. I revisted the time when it was not considered indecent on my part to play in puddles of water. There was this carefree attitude that I am so familair with from my early childhood...the times when it was considered OK to not study, the times when I was allowed to race my freinds on the roads. You should see how scandalized my mom looked when I came back drenched from head to foot! Apparently, it was the shock of seeing a young-adult behaving like a five-year old! I got a nice scolding. It's ok if the adults don't understand me. I know, I had done justice to myself, because when it rains, I am a kid again, I feel I a new side of me emerging…and when it rains, I tend to forget manners. That’s the magic of the rainy season!

A Glimpse of Frankfurt

I remember the first day that the channel Cartoon Network was aired on Television. A channel which was packed with cartoon from morning to night, surely, it was a kid’s delight. I stayed up watching the Popeye the Sailor Man late into the night, forcing my Grandma to stay awake and watch it with me as well, because I was scared of the night. Popeye the Sailor Man was the last show of the day, the Grand Finale and I wouldn’t miss that for anything. I remember vividly, another Cartoon which was aired on this channel.

It was called Heidi---the cartoon version of the famous Swiss classical novel, Heidi written by Joanna Spyri. I was too young to bother reading novels then, and Heidi was one cartoon I fell in love with. Oh, it was not one of those ‘stupid’ and ‘senseless’ children’s cartoons with dancing donkeys and talking birds, but Heidi was something which was truly unique and special in many ways. It told a story, packed with morals, life-lessons, and many such things which are absolutely required for the developing child. I was attracted to it because it portrayed a girl who was very much like me in many aspects and I loved to assume that I was Heidi, the little seven year old girl herself, roaming the lush Andes mountainside meadows and picking wildflowers. It told me of a beautiful relationship between the girl and her Grandfather—Heidi lived a carefree mountain life, shepherding the sheep, making friends with birds and goats, and going to winter school. I remember in one episode in which Heidi is dragged away from her Grandpa to the city of Frankfurt. I associated that with me being dragged back to Bangalore after spending my summer with my Grandparents.

I later found out that Andes was a mountain range that really existed, and Frankfurt existed too. I had loved the animated version of Frankfurt so much that I dreamed of visiting the Andes once, really picking flowers from the mountain slopes and of course a nice visit to city of Frankfurt. Many years later, when I was in the Frankfurt Airport as a Transit Passenger, I couldn’t help looking out of the glass windows, taking in the breathtaking view of the city. It was something which was exactly as I had imagined it to be. Somewhere, the story of the little girl seemed to unfold. Slanting red rooftops, houses baking under the warm sun, concrete buildings which rose in the distance, Frankfurt had not changed. Even though I never visited the Andes, I was grateful that I got a small glimpse of Frankfurt. Somehow, for this little girl who has not really grown up, it was not too hard to imagine the smiling face of Heidi staring back at me from the tallest tower of the city.

How blogging changed me forever

Some of you might have read my previous posts. They say that you can judge a person’s character through his writing. If that is true, what are your opinions of me? Let me guess for you. I am ambitious, sensitive, love to write about trivial matters that are not really important, I can get angry quickly, and I am responsive, right? Wrong. All these things do not define me adequately.

I sense a change. This is a recent metamorphosis of mine. Over the years, I have acquired some (dis)honorable titles such as the “incurable pessimist” “The girl who forgets to talk” “meek” “bookworm” “unresponsive” and “shy” “cry-baby” and “nerdy”. Sure, all those characters are part of me. I find it so hard to open my mouth that I remain silent most of the time. If there is a relative in the house, firing questions at me, I smile blandly instead of answering. If you say, “Hello, Lakshmi”, I smile, and retreat politely into the world of my imagination. Oh, I am that perfectly behaved student of course, but not at all sociable. You will usually find me peeking into a thick novel when I am attending weddings, ceremonies, etc. 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. My thoughts were my secrets, my emotions were hidden. The only friend with whom I shared myself completely was my journal. If I was angry, depressed, sad, joyful, jubiliant, or anything else, I shared it with my journal only, and put on a stoic act on the outside. Now, I realize hiding my emotions was foolish.

I have met some wonderful people on this blog, they have been really supportive. I am so thankful. You see, you people have made all the difference for me. I lack all those natural qualities of a normal teenager. I am repulsed by the thought of wasting time in front of the mirror, I am of the opinion that reading a book is a better pastime than watching TV, I hate pizzas, I mingle with kids and old people better than with others of my age, and I study for exams. Unusual, right? Others told me I was weird. You people told me I was special….of course, for the “incurable pessimist,”, a nice comment puts him on cloud nine. I can savor a small 2-word message “nicely written” for days together. I believed that I was nothing special, and that I was sub-normal in many ways. Being a loner does that to you. I am thankful to my grandfather who truly believes that I have certain special qualities, I am thankful to so many others for providing a platform to voice myself. I know I can protest against the wrong things, I know I care for people, and I realize I am not “unresponsive” anymore. Now, there is new courage in me, more self-belief, and tons of hope. Truly, you have worked a miracle.