Lurid Orange Underpants

I climbed a tree in front of the Parsi Dairy. It was fun. I went for a midnight carriage ride on Marine Drive. It was also fun. We helped a stranded five year old wade out to sea. Brave little brat, came up to two complete strangers and asked to be taken to the rocks popping out of the sea. We obliged, we gave a lecture to her sisters who had left her on the shore while they enjoyed the view from the rocks. We got called Aunty. It was fun. Except for the “Aunty” part.

I’ve spent the last couple of weeks sleep walking through Bombay. I’m sorry, you deserved better, maybe next time. This Sunday, Divi and I went to see “Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf” at the Prithvi Theatre. I put my head on her shoulder, shut my eyes and listened to the dialogue as it was mercilessly mangled by the actors on stage. It wasn’t all a bust though, while my eyes were open, Nick dropped trou and the name of my future band was born.

Get the guest. We played it last friday, or rather it was played on us, Divi Hakuna and Me. We tried playing humiliate the host, but didn’t get too far. All in all, the weekend gave me a lot to think about. I wouldn’t have thought much about the play without Friday and wouldn’t have given two hoots about Friday if it hadn’t been for the play. Do you enjoy being nasty? Do you notice it when you’re being an unpleasant prick? How do you shut up, get up and get out before someone gets hurt? When I wake up from this daze I’m in, I shall think about it.

“It was because you taught me to do things right, that I’m being forced to do them the wrong way” I’m translating and paraphrasing Rocket Singh, but you get the gist of what he and I are trying to say. The movie ultimately ends up implying that you can do things the right way and do them the right way. It becomes a tad preachy and it’s not as smooth as Chak de India, but Ranbir Kapoor’s colourful turbans and cute butt more than make up for any other flaws.

I leave you now, to look for a drummer , a bassist, (apparently if I can be the vocalist, Divi can be the Guitarist, we’re just THAT good) and a hug.

Dear Mumbai,

I first came to you, back when you were Bombay. I was three or four, maybe five, and had been sent to stay with my aunt while my mother dealt with an illness and two babies. I hated you. I hated the fishy smell, the cramped high rise apartments, having to walk up the dingy 5th and 6th storey staircase because I couldn’t reach the 7^th floor button in (on?) the lift, the barren playground with the incredibly high see-saws and most of all having to stay in a crèche while my aunt worked. I was too much of a scaredy-cat to enjoy Essel World and Fantasy Land, and I have no memory of ever having visited the beach.

The second time I visited Mumbai was on the way back from Goa with my college friends. I cried again (of course I cried the first time... I was four! Seven at the most), I silently curled up on the couch of a second class waiting room and cried. I was physically tired and emotionally exhausted from my week in Goa. The night spent travelling in the general compartment from Goa to Bombay (we didn't try booking bus tickets until an hour after the last possible minute, by which time there were no tickets available, instead we had to race to a station one hour away in 45 minutes time to catch a train for which we could get only tickets in the general compartment) had been the straw that broke the camel’s back. We were a bunch of spoilt rich kids refusing to shift, refusing to squeeze in, refusing to adjust in a compartment where everyone else was cooperating trying to make an uncomfortable journey slightly more bearable for everyone. If you can’t travel general, can afford not to travel by general, don’t try and travel general. It hurts the others more than it hurts you. Also, and this is harder to admit, my hair was in a horrid state, it was all frizzy and unmanageable, and looked like an afro gone wrong. I am incredibly vain and self-conscious about my hair, It was the hair that broke my back.

And so here I am in Bombay again. It still smells fishy, it’s filled with even more high rises, but I can press the 7^th floor button on any lift and that helps. I love that the autos and taxis go by the meter, and I have a crick in my neck from looking up and down at all the buildings (the fountain area reminds me of London). There’s lots more that I want to see and much that I want to begin doing. Until then I like you Bombay, I’m reserving love for when I get to know you better.

Update: My mother tells me I was five when I was packed off to Bombay. I eventually cried my way out of the crèche and accompanied my aunt to work instead, there I would sit quietly, doing heaven only knows what.

Attack of the killer blahs from inner space

Anybody can be crazy, it takes an artist to put it down on canvas. Anybody can do drugs, it takes a musician to write a song about it. Anybody can be depressed, you are a poet if you can express it.

P.S. I'm depressed, and no poet to boot, the best I can do is direct you to Divyas' brilliantly written post that I oh so empathize with, go read it, NOW!.

'tis the season to be sorry... or not.

It’s that time of year again, when my eyes go all puffy (due to an excess of sleep). Where my back gets a cramp as I sit obsessively at my laptop for hours together (watching movies). When I stop moving out of my room, talking to anyone, interacting with anyone (because everyone refuses to).
Oh yes it’s exam time and while everyone else is busy studying I can feel my brain shut down, cell by cell. I can hear the whirr of my usually hyperactive head turning into a wheezing hacking noise as it slowly grinds to a dead halt. Brain for sale. Slightly used. Very damaged.
On the other hand, I’m finally free! Free from moots, vivas, projects, tests, teachers who irritate, classes which kill, classmates who I’d like to kill (To classmates reading this, I like and respect you outside the classroom. A lot. Just not in class.)
I hate vivas, I hate having to go and face teachers and justify what is an obviously crappy project to them. I hate having to look at their disappointed faces, as they try to ask intelligent questions on an idiotic piece of work. I squirm and feel guilty when they’re nice and let you off easy. I squirm and feel guilty when they give me the “underachiever - pull yourself together” tough love talk.
I like deadlines, they bring order to my otherwise chaotic world. I might not always make a deadline, but I will never ever make it when there’s no deadline, or even worse when a deadline keeps getting pushed around and is in effect no deadline at all.
I like exams, they get over in one clean and silent swoop, unlike presentations, tests and other forms of continuous assessment torture which go on and on with no end in sight and keep getting moved around, involve one on one interactions, mess, noise, confusion and cheating.
Exam time is bliss, sleep, movies, alone time, fixed deadlines, what more could I ask for? Silence.....

The Sound of Music

My grandfather used to be paranoid, he worried like all grandparents are wont to do that I’d go deaf listening to pop music, and every time I saw him he would warn me about the dangers of listening to loud pop music (complete with anecdotal evidence taken from The Times.) “In America and London, 12 year olds go deaf listening to loud music through their ear phones” it was the ultimate condemnation of western popular culture. He needn’t have worried. Back then.
Way back then I didn’t listen to pop music, nothing, zilch, zero, mute, no hindi filmy music, no backstreet boys, no nothing. It was vulgar, shameful, used words like “sexy” and was not allowed in our house. And I would comfort my grandfather by proudly telling him that I don’t listen to pop music and that I would never listen to any pop music. Ever. Yet I remember cringing and feeling embarrassed in front of the cool kids in my sisters birthday party when we had to play passing the parcel to “the sound of music” instead of “Whigfeilds- Saturday Night”.

Then one day they showed this little, story-less, black and white movie on TV. It was an important movie and the entire family gathered to watch it, and I was hooked from that first indefinable twang of a chord of “A Hard Days Night”. I might have been sitting in my parents bedroom circa the new millennium but in spirit I was transported back half a decade, cheering, crying, running after and swooning over the Beatles. I have never looked back since then. Except to find those old, classic songs and bands (and movies) of course.

I worry now, that I will go deaf. (Turning down the volume on my ipod). Anyway, music makes my world go round, straight, up to the skies, it takes me everywhere, and I take music everywhere I go. I started listening to the early Beatles , ABBA, show tunes, Petula Clark, Simon and Garfunkel, the carpenters, Nancy Sinatra and other old pop songs on my mothers recommendation who warned me that while sexy songs were not banned, bad music was definitely barred from entering our house
I moved onto the later Beatles and bands like The Who, led zeppelin, Queen, Pink Floyd. And before I knew it I was listening to all kinds of music. I revisited the lost pop music of my youth and realized that most of it was now “uncool” trash. This means that I can with a very straight face and clean conscience tell people that I never got caught in the Aqua, Backstreet, Britney craze, my music tastes are far superior (what? I like Boney M in an ironic way and umm... Britney and Mika.....)

Today I jog, stride up and down corridors, jump around and live life to flashdance, songs from musicals, eye of the tiger, Rahman, Shankar Ehsaan Loy, Guru Dutt, Backstreet Boys, Bhajans, Brahms, Beethoven, the beatles and weird Al Yankovic. I listen to what I like. Whether its un-cool or cool, popular, indie, obscure, classic, old or new, even good or bad.

At a recent party, my ipod was being used as a jukebox. Everyone was dancing furiously to the latest fast paced noise in vogue, when suddenly the song changed and a melodious nun started singing in a crystal clear voice “she. Climbs. A. Tree. And. Scrapes. Her. Knee.” I stifled my laughter and ran over to a very baffled looking guy who was standing next to my ipod, jaw hanging and muttering “I thought it was Maria”. This time I was not embarrassed by The Sound of Music in front of the cool kids. You see, if I like a song, I will listen to it, and even my grandfather can’t do anything about it.

Hush.... it's a secret!

When the twins were born, my mother was shown only one baby. The two of them were pointed out to her in the ICU only the next day as they lay under sickly yellow lights trying to fight jaundice. Happily enough, they survived and blossomed into two healthy happy bouncing babies. And that’s where any similarities ended. To put it in my mothers words who was repeating my aunts words. “One was a pleasure to see and the other was a joy to watch.” While Sumana sat around stolidly, batting her pretty long eyelashes dressed in perfect little frocks, smiling, gurgling, cooing, Nandini would be running around, constantly getting into trouble, disappearing and reappearing with torn frocks, mysterious scratches and cobwebs in her hair.
To put it in my own words; Its pouring with rain outside, Sumana will manage to make it home from school with nary a drop of water on her and not a crease out of place on her uniform, while Nandini will make it back home two hours later, after having spent the last hour in the blazing after-rain sunshine soaking wet and drenched to the skin.
They grew up into two different people something which my parents very actively encouraged by refusing to twin them, they never wore matching twin outfits, they went to the same school but were in different sections, they had different interests which were encouraged independently. Of course nature helped, and even on the surface the two of them are as different as they get. Nandini grew up into a 5 foot and something, big, curvy, dusky beauty, while Sumana is a 5 foot nothing petite, doll like girl. Forget about looking like twins, they don’t even look like distant second cousins, twice removed.
I have a theory, which is slowly becoming an unshakeable belief, that one of the “twins” is a changeling. Some hapless woman having given birth to a girl ..... again....... bribed the nurses to exchange her girl for a boy (only one baby was shown remember!). and so our family were born, Mummy (I was copying my cousin) and Naina and Me and the babies as I remember telling my parents while swinging from their legs. My Parents on the other hand remember my telling them to send one of the babies back to the hospital (I was trying to copy my cousin who had only one sister, disaster was averted when they asked me which baby to send back and I couldn’t decide.)
I tried telling my aunt this theory, and she flared up “every mother recognizes her child”. I disagree, my mother recognized the changeling as her daughter and that’s exactly what she has grown up to be. Every Day I thank god for the switch, because I can’t think of a life where I didn’t know either one of my beautiful sisters and didn’t have them to fight with and lean on. The switch theory means that no matter how far apart the three of us were born, we were meant to be sisters and would have found each other. It means that we owe so much to our parents for bringing us up to be happy and friends and it’s not a question of genes. That love runs thicker than blood. If the changelings biological mother reads this somewhere, keep your son, he’s yours, we’re keeping our sister.

Daddy Issues

Firstly I could never call my father daddy. He has always been addressed by the traditional Telegu “Naina” and referred to as “My father” by my sisters and me. Even when I was a 18 month old, blindly aping my hero-worshipped older cousin and saying everything he said, I began calling my mother “Mummy” but my father remained “Naina”.
Nomenclature while indicative is the least of the issues. The main issue is not even that my Father doesn’t understand me(I’d trust him to pick my friends, my career, the books I ought to read, the life I can and ought to lead). But rather that I don’t understand him. I don’t understand how he understands me so well, what he does or did, and why, what he’s thinking, how he judges people, how he judges me (understanding and judging being different), how he got to be the super-liberal that he is coming as he does from his uber-conservative family. Everything I know about my father, his values, his life, his opinions is through my mother. My father, in short remains this mysterious, intimidating, quiet, hard working, brilliant, congress supporting, can’t remember having hugged (and I’m sad/sorry to say this last part) ATM.
It’s not like we haven’t tried. Imagine you’re a 19 year old, culturally confused, guilt stricken, ADHDd girl, trying to gain some gyaan from her father on how to deal with college (he went through the same thing after all, balancing family values with new-found freedom, the pressures of a professional course et al). You pluck up your courage and ask him what he did in college, how he spent his time, you stammer and you stutter and after minutes spent trying to frame the conversation in your head, imagining a nice heart to heart, you get this reply “TT- I played a lot of TT in my spare time”.

My mother still tries to get us to talk, and he very sweetly does call me every now and then enquiring about my state of affairs and finances, the weather and my health, but I still hem and haw and I’m no closer to sharing myself with him the way I am able to with my mother or even you who’re reading this blog and nowhere near getting him to talk about himself.
If I’m bad my sister is worse, she isn’t able to extract conversations from my mom and has to use me as the guide to understanding our mother. Knowing how it feels to not know a parent, I decided this situation required some expert interfering and subtly ordered my mom to start talking to her. The next day I get a call from my sister, who tells me that mommy rang her up and whined to her for an hour and she wants to, but doesn't know how to tactfully tell my mother to stop whining because,...... thats how life is. Just imagining the sight of my mother being told that “thats how life is” by my very lost and extremely lazy and unaccepting sister makes me want to burst out in laughter and made me realize that some people are just not meant to talk no matter how closely they’re related.
I tried to cheer up my sister by telling her that I’m not able to talk to our father which didn’t cheer her up one bit since neither is she. So I asked my sister for permission to tell my mother the whole story in a humorous manner, and it was grudgingly granted. My sister then messaged my mom on gtalk telling her that soon she and I would be laughing at my sisters expense, this she thought could be another opportunity to chat up our mother. Unfortunately my dad... ooops my Father saw the message and called back wanting to know what the joke was. My sister has given up. Naina if you read my blog, now you know. I love, admire and respect you and if we can’t talk, well, I'm not worrying, thats How life is!

Sing. Smile. Dance. Blog.

There was a young teacher who got married and left for the US of A. Then there was the young teachers old teacher who left to go live with her son in Anand. There was the teacher with the irritating grandson who went to visit her other grandsons and never came back – they were presumably easier to live with. There was the teacher who sounded like a toad with a cold on the phone and beautifully powerful when she sang, she shifted to Hyderabad, presumably to be with someone near, dear and not irritating. Not to be outdone, we left the next teacher, we didn’t go anywhere, we just stopped going there one day (I’m still hazy as to whether we told her we were dropping out).
AS a result of such intensive and extensive classic carnatic music training, today when I sing (Rasputin by Boney M being my favoured song) I bring tears to the eyes of my friends.
In his autobiography “Moab is My Washpot” Stephen Fry, the Gay-ly Profane P.G. Wodehouse, rants, in capital letters spelling out F-bombs about his inability to connect with his peers because of certain musical shortcomings. I empathise. When you can’t dance without tripping, sing along to the latest singalong song without people leaving the room, you’ve lost out on a very important and primal form of socialization, of connecting at a level beyond words, you my dear friend are out of sync with the rhythm of life. To make matters worse as Fry points out, its’ not like we’re tone deaf, If Fry and I were tone deaf we wouldn’t know what we were missing. But for someone who traces her cultural awakening to watching “A Hard Days’ Night” and falling head over heels (literally, when I tried to dance to them) in love with the Beatles, its just plain old cruel. With apologies to Brendan Behan, It’s like being the eunuch in a harem, you know how its done, you hear it being done every day, you just can’t do it yourself, it’s like being a critic (gasp)! Shudder.
This weekend I danced, I shut my eyes, stopped caring about my hair getting messy, what other people might think, other peoples feet and danced. WooHoo! Jodhpur Riff, I went to listen to Dharohar, a project/collaboration between Rajasthani Folk Artists and Jason Sigh a Beatboxer, it was absolutely fantastic, you just had to get up and dance to them, I started out with foot tapping, swaying, and bobbing my head trying to look dignified, until I finally gave in and started jumping around like crazy. Then there was Swarathma, an urban-folk-rock band from Bangalore who have issues with this classification according to their facebook page, but since I don’t know anything about their music except that it kept me dancing and I have been listening to it all Sunday and all through the writing of this post I will submit to the superior wisdom of the writer of the RIFF Pamphlet, use the classification and declare myself a fan of urban-folk-rock-bands. I went to listen to Antonio Rey one of the world’s top three Spanish guitarists, and watched Farruco a third generation flamenco dancer seduce the crowd. I didn’t dance, but I definitely drooled. And for the finale there was Sivamani, the most recognizable name in the line up, I danced again, but mainly I watched and admired the potted out hippies grooving to his beats, until that is, Dharohar came up to Jam with him, and kicked his ass. Ramu does dance. To Dharohar, with enthusiasm. With a smile.

Can you hear me Cheer?

My hands are sore and my throat is cracking, from too much clapping and wooting. I’ve had two consecutive weekends of fests, the colleges first ever sports fest “Yuvardha” was held last weekend and the Jodhpur RIFF is being held this weekend. I cheered at them, I cheered a lot.

My cheering has always embarrassed my sisters, when you’re sitting next to the girl with weird hair who’s the only one clapping and screaming encore in the otherwise silent auditorium, you’d be embarrassed too. My cheering takes classmates and friends by surprise, I am not exactly known for my spirit, being aware of what’s going on in college, or even what whathisnames name is. Add to this the fact that I don't know a single thing about football (it’s some sort of team sport which inspired quidditch!), and it’s umm weird that I'd come scream my lungs of at a football match in the blazing jodhpur heat instead of brooding about morality and goodness in the comfort of my darkened and suitably gloomy room. In fact a slightly ignored and disgruntled boyfriend accused my enthusiasm for Yuvardha as bordering on WAGish. But the truth of the matter is that I clap equally hard at sitar recitals, people taking an unpopular, un-cool stand in class and “National Seminars on Multiculturalism in India: Constitutional Provisions and Future Remedies”.
I like to clap, I like to cheer, if you have something you love doing, and the will to follow through on it, take opportunities and the courage to do it in front of an audience, I think you deserve to be cheered, and told to go for it (irrespective of how much you suck at it). The only thing I seem to be able to follow through on and do in front of a large audience is cheer!
The cheering seems to go hand in hand with my never wanting to tell someone not to do something. No matter how daft or dangerous the idea you put before me, I would tell you to go for it because if you don’t take chances, don’t do what you want to, you might as well not live, and you’ll never learn. Of course I’ll also try my best and hardest to be there if you crash and need a shoulder to cry on, or someone to come bail you out of jail at 4 in the morning.
This also seems to be a difference between elder sisters and elder brothers. Elder brothers want to protect their little sisters, elder sisters want their little sisters to go live and learn even if it means getting hurt. At least I want my little sisters too, I am never going to tell them that I have been through something, so that they don’t need to.... I’ll never ask them to learn from my mistakes, they need to make mistakes for themselves. I want them to do whatever it is that they want to do.
So, you know what? Go! Do something. Shut that laptop down, pick up a guitar, kick a ball around, whatever it is, I’m Cheering for you. Woot!

Would you rather be good or nice?

Being good versus being nice is a matter of definition, if you define good as being good hearted and nice as being superficial, then I’d rather be good than nice. But if good means being a sanctimonious know-it-all and nice means having genuine feelings for others, than it’s better to be nice.
I was good for a very long time, I also didn’t have many friends, because I decided that part of being good meant having only friends who were good and, and I could find no one who met my high standards of goodness. I was good in the worst way possible, I was a pious priss (still am). I am trying to learn to be nice, to have friends, to see their point of view. It’s hard.
There is an argument floating around doublex, attacking teachers who encourage and promote “niceness” amongst students as opposed to (and thus preventing them from) thinking about deeper moral issues and serious self introspection. In my very, very humble opinion, I’d rather be nice, and have friends, the only thing, deep introspection and thinking have ever given me is a headache. It’s not like I’d get along with a bunch of people thinking about "deep moral issues", if everyone thinks about “moral issues”, everyone will also fight over the moral issues and their take on it. Simpler to be nice, get along and eat chocolate ice-cream while watching chick-flicks.
Today, has not been a good day, I have burst out laughing in the middle of one class trying to be nice, screamed in the next trying to be good, and frankly my dear, I couldn’t give a damn. I haven’t been good and I haven’t been nice. Maybe it’s time to get back on my meds again. Maybe it’s time to apologise. Maybe its time to cut down on the crazy.

(The title isn't a rhetorical question by the way.)

The Trickster, the Bastard and the Holy Crow

In the beginning, all the stories belonged to Tiger, and they were nasty, brutish and short. Then along came Anansi, and he won the stories from Tiger, he tricked tiger and took them, all of them. The stories now belong to Anansi and the world is a better place. Thanks to Anansi, brute strength and eating up your opponent is no longer the point, instead it’s about wile, about brains about taking, or rather about finding the easy way out. It marks the point in time where strength of the mind defeated strength of the body. It’s the start of creation, invention and innovation it’s the point where Human beings evolved.
Anansi is a trickster god, a culture hero from Africa. He is there all over the world, in all the stories we read, Brer rabbit, Tenali Raman, Baby Krishna, Coyote from American-Indian Mythology, even the book you just finished and put down is an Anansi Story. I don’t believe in god, but I do believe in Anansi. I believe in he who thinks, who has a sense of humour, who’s annoying and charming in parts and thanks to whom even the weakest, tiniest, most insignificant creature can be the (s)hero(e) of a story.

I believe in the Bastard, the bastard is the god (or demon depending on which theory you follow – quintarian, quadrene) of balance and all those who are shunned and neglected, not understood by society- homosexuals, women, orphans, along with the incestuous, criminals and paedophiles. I believe that everyone deserves a fair trial, a right to be heard and a punishment which is proportionate to the crime. That emotions and lynchings are no substitute for reason and the law. That morality changes, what was a sin yesterday might become perfectly acceptable, or a fundamental right today, what was acceptable and justified yesterday, can be immoral and outrageous today. The bastard reminds us to avoid being judgmental, to remember that standards change, that no matter how heinous the others crime is we don’t have the prerogative to give up on our humanity.
I also crush on Nawat, the crow who became a human. He’s the intelligent, slightly perplexed by human beings, utterly charming and adorable love interest of one of Tamora Pierces kickass Sheroes (that’s “female protagonists” as opposed to “heroine love interests” for those of you who don’t know). I also like crows, the birds, they’re intelligent, they’re beautiful, their voice is as harsh as mine (those of you who have never heard me sing Rasputin, can thank the trickster and bastard for your good fortune), they’re associated with the trickster and the bastard who represent my beliefs and values, they’re not pigeons.
To learn more about Soumya “Ramu” Ramasubramaniams religious, spiritual beliefs and principles please refer to Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman, Tricksters Choice and Tricksters Queen by Tamora Pierce and Curse of Chalion by Louis Mcmaster Bujold.

Mad Pride

Dear Everyone,

I have ADHD, which means I don’t have the patience to tell you what it means, so please go and google it, if you care. I can’t stand loud noises, unpleasant chattering, mess and confusion, my brain can’t process it, everything comes too fast and it hurts. This is why I hate class, and refuse to go to class. This is also why I run. I can’t write, when I started my blog, I was on Ritalin, that helped me focus and I managed to type out a few sentences here and there, by the time I had finished typing out the first line of one post, I would have had an idea about another post, and would start trying to write that. I have a folder on my desktop labelled Ideas, it has 20 documents consisting of one line each, they’re brilliant ideas, I wish I could tell you about them, maybe some other day when I am not so high. I can get High on air, pure air, I don’t need caffeine, though I love caffeine (must have pepsi!) I don’t need chocolate, Just breathing in and out can make me high. So can movies, so can music, so can a charged atmosphere. This means that to stop myself from getting high I need to avoid these situations, which means I spend a lot of time dead to the world trying to stay calm. That sucks! I am no longer on Ritalin, it worked great for a while, then it made me a zombie, that by the way is why I flunked Admin Law, also I hate class, I hate class and that’s why I flunked history (didn’t know about ADHD back then). I love history by the way, I love the way it was taught to us, and I think everyone owes it to themselves to study history. Go read “India after Gandhi” or make a family tree of the pre tudors. We (Meghana and I) made a family tree of the pre tudors, we spent 12 hours straight researching genealogy, making inane connections, deciphering the murky politics of the war of the roses, but we did it. Ask us to sit for 12 seconds, and work on labour Law, that we can’t do. Not that it matters.........

Love,
Ramu/Ramsub/Soumya.

P.S. I can’t talk on the phone either, so please, if I suck at it, forgive me. If I’m rude, it’s because I don’t know. If I don’t care, it’s because if I started caring I wouldn’t stop until I died of exhaustion. If I stare at you weirdly, don’t worry. If I charge at you, get out of the way. A big thank you to my friends and my Family, they have been so awesome about this.

P.P.S. Amma, don’t worry, I am fine! It’s just that I am tired after cheering at the sports fest, and I will be good and attend classes.

The Girl Likes to Run

One of the nicest compliments I have ever received is from Hakuna, she says she can’t sleep at night unless she’s lulled to sleep by the gentle patter of my footsteps as I pace up and down the corridor of our hostel. I don’t know whether the rest of the girls on the corridor feel the same but I do know that I love running up and down our hostel corridor, thudding, dodging clothes stands, charging at people, ipod blasting in my ears so that I’m oblivious to the rest of the world. Eccentric? I guess, but hey! That’s me!

I love the feeling of wind in my hair, the sky above me, the ground beneath my feet when I go jogging. I’ll put up with the dust up my nose, the couples I have to jump over (true story!), the potholes I have to dodge as I take my rounds around the football field, in order to feel the way a good jog can make you feel. Heart pumping, feeling alive, wide awake and wonderfully exhausted all at the same time. Not so very eccentric I guess.

I like to run away to different places, be on the move, see new places, see old places in a new way, wander aimlessly around the city I live in, fall asleep on a train, fly around the countryside in a bus, go for a silent drive on a long road that goes nowhere.

I run away from and with a great deal of things, other people, my feelings, work, headaches, depression, stupidity, a sense of fun, adventure, independence. I just want to run, keep running and never stop. It clears my head, stops my brain from over thinking, my mind from going crazy. It lets me deal, it lets me be.

If she wants to run, let her.

Danny Ocean meet Jamal K. Malik

Last winter, we went to see the famed (and might I add, utterly fabulous) Faberge Eggs. Those ill-fated relics of the Romanov Dynasty, stars of the blockbuster (and might I add, utterly boring) Oceans Twelve movie were being displayed at the National Museum in Delhi. What a contrast between the movie and the display. At the museum the jewels had been dumped, quite literally dumped into a room with peeling paint. Some hideous, cheap and makeshift gold moulding had been done around their (flimsy) glass cases (intended no doubt to convey to us the glamour and grandeur of European castles, but ended up reminding me of some cheap Punjabi wedding Tent). The write-up about the jewels was taped on to the wall and in fact fell down as we were walking through, the lone guard placed there to protect this king’s ransom in jewels was busy trying to prop it up, failing which he started a conversation with a cute little five year old who was whooping it up by doing gymnastics on the railings. If I remember correctly, in the movie the Faberge Egg was housed in an actual European Castle, (with much better write ups, though they are never shown in the movie, I am assuming that these at least were not copied of Wikipedia.....) and protected, guarded and transported with such care that stealing it was deemed to be the ultimate test of thievery.
Standing there, turning my patented shade of green, I had an Idea. An Idea which could make the world a better place. They ought to remake the Oceans Twelve movie. Not only will a boring movie be bettered but as a consequence (perhaps) museums and transportation in Delhi might also improve. In the new movie the Oceans gang and the Nightfox instead of wasting all those resources, time and intellect on trying to steal the egg in the western world, will simply wait for it to come to India. The actual stealing will be a piece of cake (all they need is cute 5 year old Kid, a hammer and a sturdy bag, gloves if they want to be really careful) and could play over the end credits as a sort of bonus scene, instead the movie will focus on the Oceans Gang and the Nightfox racing each other to see who gets to the Museum first. Delayed, Diverted or Cancelled flights would be the first obstacle for them to overcome. If they do touchdown, their luggage could get misplaced or else they would get held up in immigration by our esteemed and bumbling airport staff. Then they must race through the busy streets of Delhi navigating traffic, touts and beggars by using a variety of transportation modes. The oceans gang would definitely have the upper hand, they could use a variety of modes, and see which one works faster (thus ensuring their pre-mandated win). George Clooney in a DTC bus! Brad Pitt, Matt Damon and Bernie Mac in an auto! The nameless others in cars, metros, taxis, cycle-ricksahws or walking. Who will get held up in traffic? who will be forced to intervene in a case of eve-teasing? who will end up in an accident? and who will have to bribe a corrupt cop? Watch them as they scramble through the city, going past slums, high rises, posh malls and through the gullies of Old Delhi. Not only would it be fun and entertaining but it would also make for a deep and insightful film on the problems plaguing the transportation system (and cultural history conservation problems) of the Capital City of the world’s largest democracy.
Critics would applaud it for this innovative take on a third world country (public transportation rarely being the focus of big blockbusters, Titanic and Speed Excluded). The audience would appreciate the deft combination of humour, exciting chase sequences and exotic locations. Serious cine buffs would ooh and aah about the cinematography, editing and compare it to Slumdog Millionaire. George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Matt Damon et al would get to add India to their list of countries for which they’ve raised awareness and done general good (Darfur is getting kinda old). And hopefully it would shame the Indian authorities into improving our museums and our public transportation system.

I don't feel Special anymore

The best way to cure a hangover is to pour yourself another drink. And to cure yourself of pouring drinks through the day, you need good friends.
I always wanted to come to Jodhpur to study Law, I was enticed by the fact that we would have individual rooms with balconies and 24X7 Internet. Needless to say I didn’t get in, I cried myself to sleep that night. Instead I went to Pune, and it turned out to be a great city, a fun college, smart kids, a different “me” away from home and I began to have a blast. Two of the best weeks of my life (until then) later I got into Jodhpur on the second list, I cried myself to sleep that night.
I landed up in Jodhpur, determined to make the best of it, if I was fun, smart and managed to make friends in Pune, I could do the same in Jodhpur. Except that I couldn’t. My new classmates were not as smart as the old ones, and I wasn’t as smart as my new classmates, I couldn’t follow what was happening in class, I couldn’t follow their conversations on the Basketball Court where they would gather every night en-masse, I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t connect, I couldn’t do anything. I became my old drab, scary, studious and off-putting self.
Nothing was going right, I was in the wrong class (the other section was so much more “me”), on the wrong floor (the ground floor had the more interesting girls and conversations), on the wrong side of my corridor (Hakuna was all the way across at one end and I was at the other end) and on the wrong side of everyone. I was crying and complaining every night to my parents. I was trying to stay in touch with “the guy- the ex-future boyfriend” and “the girl- my Gureeji” from Pune and not handling that too well either. I was refusing to give my new college a chance.
But slowly, somewhere, things started to change, connections were made and deep friendships formed. There was the shy girl directly across my room, who I first saw through a haze of dust and parents, who introduced us to each other on the day we were moving into our rooms, there is the girl in the room next to me, I first saw her at the medical examination, giving a long list of allergies to the doctor, my competitive spirits were roused, I prodded my mother in the ribs and asked her if I could tell the doctor I was allergic to show-offs, She told me to shut up. Today I know I’m on the right floor, in the perfect corner closeted between my two bestest friends in the whole wide world. I am also allergic to dust as I found out very painfully in the third semester.
I remember the night I sat with Indiegurl out in the corridor, all night long talking and becoming friends. I remember the auto ride back to college where I was grilled by that shy quiet girl and we found out we could have been twins and should be friends.
Hakuna and I withdrew and shut ourselves into our rooms, shut ourselves out of the world, went emo, grew apart until each thought the other was a freak. Then last semester we came out of our rooms and realized we had spent the same life, thinking the same thing, just on the opposite sides of the corridor. Along the way we found a couple of other girls who were doing the same in their rooms. We now sit together and wonder why we never looked around us earlier, exchange angsty emo songs and dance to bad music while brooding over how we will never be understood by anyone else......... apart from ummm.... each other.
A friend and I went for a drive tonight, as were pulling into college, an old Hindi Song started playing on the radio. It brought back a flood of memories, the back seat of my car, my parents up front, my sisters beside me, Kishore Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar songs lulling me to sleep. The security of home and family. We pulled up to the front of my hostel, and I realized I had come home, to the security of my friends.

Theres a monster in my Fridge!

Its 12 at night and though I am well fed, nay stuffed on some excellent Mediterranean/Italian food from Fresc co's excellent all you can eat buffet, I am feeling hungry! Very very hungry!

Since I am at home (those of you who thought there was an all you can eat mediterranean/italian buffet in Jodhpur, I am sorry for having led you on), kindly, well-meaning but sadly ignorant friends have suggested that I simply raid my fridge, what could be better than home food after all?

Pretty Much everything, including my college mess food, would be an honest answer. My mother has given up cooking. Instead the cooking is left to our maid of 10 years, who seems to have spent the last 10 years un-learning any cooking she might have known when she first came to us. The fresc co dinner was in fact to make up for the singularly unsatissfactory lunch I had consisting of some burned Bhindi, sludge like Sambar and Soggy rice. Even my longing for a simple curd rice could not be satissfied, for when the curd in the fridge was inspected it turned out to be sour chunks of Ice a couple of days old.

The curd however was the least of the horrors that the fridge contained, consider as an example the 10 day old Rassam. Unlike Wine and Cheese, Rassam does not getter better with age (Unless you're some sort of mutant disease carrying bacteria looking for the ideal breeding ground). When Rassam has spent 5 days in a fridge, the Ghee in the Rassam congeals and floats to the top of the bowl, forming a greasy green gloop, below that lies a layer of mud coloured water which is resting on a bed of sludge made up of Dal and lightly rotting tomatoes. Rassam which has wasted in the fridge for 10 days should not be described publicly.

If that isn't enough to put you of food forever, theres the Tori, Lauki, Tinda Ki Sabji made without any Fat, any Masala or anything that makes food taste good. Then, there are the tins of grated coconut and dried Curry leaves and bags of shrivelled up lemons and green chillies. Yum!

My mother is (was?) a good cook, I remember a time when my Tiffin Boxes were famed and would be devoured by hordes of hungry classmates even before the bell for the first period of school rang. It's just that ever since I left for college, she's developed this antipathy towards Kitchens and all things domestic (when I come home, I am met not with pampering, but rather a paper containing a list of chores). Why? I don't know, whenever I ask her she mutters something darkly about freedom, not wanting kids and poison. Some kids can't wait to go home and have a nice meal. Me? I can't wait to get back to college and eat a meal without the fear of being poisoned by my mother or food poisoned by my maids cooking.

Thou shalt not blog publicly ...... (who knows what people might think)

I study in a small desert town, and the first proper rain of the season is always intoxicating. When the grass turns a lush green, and the ground is coloured in a multitude of deep reds and browns. The sky is washed a brilliant blue, and the scent of water on the ground hangs everywhere. I wish I could bottle this scent, wear these colours and feel this way forever, Wet Earth.

My two best friends and I woke up to this earthy yet ethereal feeling last evening, and decided to enjoy every minute of it. We went to a close by dhaba frequented by our College students, sat outside, enjoying the rain, the weather, the glorious feeling, good food, ourselves and the company.

Did we do anything wrong? Apart from smoking in a public place (I’m sorry, I apologise for that, allow me to put out that cigarette) I can’t think of anything, yet popular public opinion seems to be that we did a very stupid thing. We ought to think before we do things like this!

There was the guy at the dhaba who followed us into the city, fell at my friends feet, begged her not to take him wrongly, that he considers her his sister and asked her not to smoke openly. I honestly thought for a second that he meant it for her health, when I remembered that he’d been smoking too. He asked her not to travel publicly and not to eat at hotels or else her reputation will be spoiled and presumably no one will want to marry her. We ought to have thanked him for his concern, promised to be good little girls and quietly moved on. But there’s a reason the two of us are best Friends, and both of us immediately launched into an incoherent argument with him, “you were smoking! What if we were boys? No we won’t!” He got more agitated, we got more incensed. Finally our third friend had the sense to tell him, that we had heard what he had said and would consider it, he let go of my friend’s feet and we drove of fuming.

There were the guys at college who told us we had it coming and that girls should never got to Dhabas on their own. You have no Idea what people might think. There were girls who agreed. There were friends who were surprised that we went to the Dhaba on our own without manly men to protect us. There was my mother, who very thoughtfully pointed out that the new flexible and accepting me, might actually agree with him ten years down the line after reconsidering and re-evaluating what he said.

Let’s give the guy at the dhaba a break, he doesn’t know better. I’ll pass on my mother, I think she was trying to be funny or making a point. But I refuse to listen to the Big-Town-Kids-Stuck-in-a-Small -Town, with their bored, utterly condescending attitude, they’re worse than the guy at the Dhaba. They pretend to know better, they ought to know better, yet they don’t. They are the ones who need to be the change they keep saying they want to see. They’re hypocrites who think it’s OK for girls to party with them, get drunk with them, sleep with them but not OK for girls to go to a dhaba on their own.

I’ve been told I need to stop reading books, and learn to be a good human being instead, that girls should leave swearing to boys, I’ve been told by guys that they don’t believe in feminists so I better keep my mouth shut. That if I keep spewing feminism, I’m going to die sad and alone. I intend to die screaming my head off, so what if I’m alone and no one else can hear me, I’m doing it for me.

Dear God, this is Ramu

Most of the times I am a secular agnostic. Let me be, let me think on my own and I veer towards deism, preach to me, take me to a temple and I’ll become an atheist. In the 6th grade I developed a strong antipathy towards religion, it’s a long reason which involves civics, history, certain irritating family values, proselytizing, feminism and Aastha Channel. At around the same time I lost my faith in reincarnation and god, it’s a long story involving, goldfish, Mr. Walt Disney and the Discovery Channel, it’s also more boring that it sounds. I became an insomniac, awake at all odd hours of the night pondering the meaning of life, the universe and everything else. I was scared of death, scared of not being able to think anymore, of not being able to be. I felt like a hypocrite because I couldn’t tell my family, and would still visit temples, still pray when expected to and even worse, ask for favours from a god I didn’t believe in (please..... please...... please, do something about the pimple on my nose)

In 3rd Grade my Parents signed me up for a Hindu Sunday School called Bal Mandir. This is the first time I am publicly admitting that I went to Sunday School, and while I’m admitting things I’ll admit that I enjoyed myself there. Bal Mandir was surprisingly Fun, they had a lot of stuff happening on the side which I got to take part in, unlike school where I was lost amongst the great un-charismatic, very-ordinary masses. There were elocution competitions which I got to win, being a natural at blab even at that young tender age. There were cultural programs with really bad dancing, I was always Krishna, and had to stand in the centre like a statue, in a blue T-shirt, Yellow satin Dhoti holding a bansuri while the other girls got to dance around me in pretty lehangas. There were annual day functions with bad acting, I remember the first time I took part, and I had only one line, “arre! yah nevala toh manushya ki boli mein bol raha hai!” I ended up forgetting my cue and had to be prompted, I consoled myself with the thought that this line was supposed to be said with astonishment (“ashcharya mein” was the exact description), and that the delay merely indicated how very astonished I was- at least that’s how my loving mother consoled me.

I guess what I ended up taking away from Bal Mandir came from the time I refused to be Krishna, and was given a 2 page moral to recite at the end of a play. No I don’t remember the moral, in fact I didn’t even memorize it like I was supposed to, I lost the only sheet it was written on, and forgot about it until D-Day dawned. My mother instead of behaving like the loving parent she normally is, refused to call me in Sick and sent me, a shaking, quavering 9 year old to face and ‘fess up my misdeed to Tara Di. “Chee! Chee! sab gobar kar diya!” That line still rings in my ears as I’m about to do something wrong, let someone down or embarrass myself. As a punishment I was given the lead role in the annual day function. Needless to say this time around, I knew all my cues, all my dialogues and didn’t protest too much at having to play an old Man, a Crazy old man at that, complete with fake beard and very real stick with which I could hit people. My adoring Aunt was appalled when the best actor prize was given to someone else, my loving mother told me that someone else who won it did a better job and deserved it.

My experiments with religion and god still continue, I am no longer scared (there’s no point..... it’s not going to matter), I no longer stay awake all night wondering what will happen to my (fabulous! And Narcissistic......) mind when I die, and I (very surprisingly), no longer hate Religion the way I once did. In fact, from thinking that I could believe in God but not Religion, I now feel that I could appropriate some religious values in my life, but I’m still not sure about God. Remembering Bal Mandir, even though I don’t remember any of the shlokas I was sent there to learn, I do remember snippets of their meanings, and they’re beginning to make more and more sense to me as I grow up, not-so irritating Family Values, studying history again, re-reading and re-evaluating the Ramayana and Mahabharata, all this has led to a very gradual change in my beliefs, I didn’t realize it was happening until it happened and I can’t tell you in which grade I realized that It had happened. Perhaps for these reasons this belief will be a more permanent and flexible one, I’m allowing myself to change naturally, instead of clinging to what I think is right. As of writing this post I am an Agnostic, Secular, Hindu. If I change my mind, I’ll let you know.

(yet) Another brilliant Idea for bringing peace to the weary soul

Its one in the morning and there a party going on just outside my hostel (its freshers!). I am bored. I don’t dance, don’t drink, don’t dope and don’t date, the only d I am given over to is sadly enough depression. Did I mention I’m bored and depressed?

There was another girl over there, she didn’t date, drink or dope either, but she was having the time of her life dancing. She didn’t have technique, but she had grace, she didn’t know the steps but you could tell she was having a ball. She was the belle of the Ball. Every Guy (sober enough to notice her) would talk to her, twirl her around and wait eagerly for a smile from her. She was 4. How she got onto the dance floor, I don’t know, but I’m glad she did. I love little Kids. I love little kids left alone to do their own thing, When they’re just learning to walk confidently, When they’re discovering music and dance, when they’re inquisitive, when they stumble, when they smile, when they laugh, when they gurgle, when they make the most adorable faces all scrunched up in curiosity intent at enjoying and absorbing everything about this wonderful world they’re in. Not so fond of them when they’ve learnt to talk properly, if they begin to cry, begin to stink, or have to be baby sat for a long time. But watching an 18 month old tot trip over itself while waddling towards....... well nowhere in particular, remains unparalleled as a source of joy and happiness.

OK.... so maybe I didn’t have all that bad a time at freshers, maybe this actually comes second to the party where I sat in the Lobby reading Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell and eating chocolate Ice-cream. (X: did I see you in the lobby reading a book last night? R: Yes that was me I like boo..... X: oh thank god I thought I’d had too much to drink and was hallucinating)

Which is why I propose (for those of us afflicted with depression and other such DSM VII categorized illnesses)..... drum roll please....... (badam bam boosh!) the Toddler Zoo!

It would be a large room with glass walls and padded flooring in which a whole lot of toddlers will be let loose. The room will contain a bare minimum of toys which will be of a terribly basic nature, so that the spectators don’t feel jealous of all the fun and gee-whizz-bang toys the little kiddies are allowed to have and which are now forever denied to them on account of their age (and also because little kids just seem to do so much more, when they have less). You can stand and watch them amble around, trip and laugh, dance and hop from a safe stink free distance (until you get bored, in which case you are free to leave). Should a toddler begin to cry he/she will be removed from the enclosure and delivered to its mama (or papa) and another happy tot will be brought in as a replacement.

Pure Bliss! It could replace Yoga and meditation or Koi fish and Japanese Rock Gardens (with sand raking) as the latest and the most effective method for calming the mind and bringing peace to the soul, cults could spring up around its therapeutic value and the phony field of psychiatry could finally be annihilated from the face of this earth........... Anyone interested out there?

Anyway much as you can learn from little kids and derive enjoyment at the same time I doubt that it’ll replace books (they’re still my favourite).

To think or not to Think

It was easy to rant about and critique Kambhakt Ishq, even the half a brain cell watching this movie leaves you with was more than enough to figure out and point out what all was wrong with the movie. It’s a little harder to tell you why I liked, nay Loved Dev D. Of the top of my head and without much analysis, I’d say it was the music, the look of the movie and the character arc of Dev which was portrayed brilliantly by Abhay Deol (sigh........)

It’s a lot harder (almost impossible) to tell you what I thought of Kaminey, primarily because two days after watching the movie, I can’t remember much about it, what I liked, what I didn’t like, what I was thinking of during the movie, what I felt about the characters, nothing much, no strong opinion. All I know is that I enjoyed watching the movie, I was buzzed out after I saw it and that I’d like to watch the movie again.

There are some movies which defy analysis by me. It’s not that they’re mindless movies, it’s just that I seem to watch them mindlessly. These movies (almost always) contain the following elements. Humour, it could be black, it could be very clean, but mostly it’s inconsequential humour, there’s no deeper hidden meaning beyond making the viewer laugh (even the Mumbai Bumbai joke in Kaminey is an old one, last noticed by me in Jab We Met! And which has lost all meaning due to repeated use). They always have well fleshed out female characters, it doesn’t mean that they portray my ideal woman, but rather that they portray women as they are, without shying away from their faults and emphasizing their strengths, (Priyanka Chopras role was an absolute delight to watch and her acting was excellent, must have more women with machine guns in movies). They have no right and wrong, either all the characters are kamineys with some redeeming feature, or else all the characters are decent but slightly flawed people, the only reason you’re rooting for someone is because they have star billing (this movie does have some obvious variations in good and bad, but since the movie so staunchly refuses to pass judgment on any of its characters or glorify any other, you’re also left unable to decide whether you agree with the movie.) These movies are generally high concept movies that through the skill of the director/ writer managed to avoid becoming gimmicky (excellent direction, great writing). These movies have a sense of fun, they have panache, they have style (cue the wonderfully choreographed to look unchoreographed Dhan te Nan, the relationship between Mikhail and Charlie). And they always have happy endings, sometimes ambiguous ones, sometimes with a twist, but a happy ending nonetheless.

I can’t find anything to disagree with, or agree with in these movies, they’re about style, they’re about the experience and I leave my brain behind and enjoy them. They’re movies like RocknRolla, Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, Kind Hearts and Coronets (an oldie and an absolute goldie), Arsenic and Old lace (these being the black humour ones), Singin’ in the Rain, Music and Lyrics (Clean Humour and yes I enjoyed Music and Lyrics). Think of them as abstract paintings or instrumental music, often there’s a meaning, but sometimes it’s just about the viewing/hearing pleasure. It’s art.

What do I think about movies like these and Kaminey? I think I need to watch....... enjoy them again.