Lessons in Learning

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

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

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

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

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

“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

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.