tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41254177532657088592024-03-14T08:39:42.002+05:30Ramu Learns to WriteSo many Ideas, So much Time, Such Little Patienceramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-25920611970509350992021-11-22T12:40:00.000+05:302021-11-22T12:40:21.627+05:30<p>Sing. Smile. Dance. Blog.</p><p>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).</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p>ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-30083228527637792772021-11-22T12:37:00.000+05:302021-11-22T12:37:58.290+05:30<p>Sing. Smile. Dance. Blog.</p><p>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).</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p>ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-22215235194720242032021-11-22T12:14:00.000+05:302021-11-22T12:14:22.718+05:30<p>Sing. Smile. Dance. Blog.</p><p>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).</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p>ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-62436698560954178872021-11-22T12:12:00.004+05:302021-11-22T12:12:53.255+05:30<p>Sing. Smile. Dance. Blog.</p><p>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).</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p>ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-72028768219140935902021-11-22T12:12:00.000+05:302021-11-22T12:12:12.739+05:30<p>Sing. Smile. Dance. Blog.</p><p>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).</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p>ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-22624542663382122982013-09-15T11:18:00.001+05:302013-09-15T11:18:05.064+05:303rd Times the Charm?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It was on a cold and rainy night that the former lovers met. He begged her to come back to him. Leave your husband he argued with her over dinner - this time we'll make it work he promised her. She remained curiously blank. She was willing to concede that she loved him and loathed her husband, but could not, would not return, she said.<br /><br />He remembered the first time he met her - she'd been a vivacious, bold creature. She'd stood up to him, the school jock and told him to fuck off when he tried to bully a nameless nerd. She'd laughed and told him to grow up when he started failing classes. She'd run away with him when his world collapsed after the death of his mother. They'd been happy together - until her husband came along. <br /><br />She remembered the deal she'd made with her husband - not knowing the hell he'd create for her. She remembered the vows she'd taken to stay with him in sickness and in health and smiled a little. Just a few months ago she'd nearly broken the deal, broken the vows. <br /><br />With her world breaking down her lover had convinced her to run away with him for a second time. We'll be happy he'd promised her. But the attempt had failed miserably. The young couple afraid of the powerful old man hadn't gotten far when they realized they were being followed. Panic stricken they had pressed down hard on the accelerator and a gory accident had followed. She was scarred for life, he would always walk with a limp. <br /><br />She shook her head, there would be no third attempt to run away. She told him she loved him and kissed him one last time before saying goodbye. She walked out onto the balcony for her habitual post-dinner smoke. Her husband sat in a wheelchair, soaked, shivering in the cold. She lit her cigarette and blew the smoke towards him. He whimpered in the dark. <div>
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(Plot Credit to Parakram Kakkar - story written as an exercise)</div>
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ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-33361207489846593702013-09-09T00:22:00.002+05:302013-09-09T00:25:15.684+05:30The Doppelganger<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: monospace; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;">She was storming around violently in the other room. Throwing books of shelves, tossing around chairs and the occasional side table. I shivered under the blankets, they were my only shield against her. I'd be safe as long as I remained under them I consoled myself. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;">Then, a scarier silence. Had she managed to enter my room? If I peaked out from under my blankets would she be standing, grinning maniacally over my head? I mustered some courage slowly uncovered my face and looked out. Nothing, nothing but the ceiling. I knew she couldn't be hiding under the bed or behind some furniture, I had long since learnt to sleep in a bare room, with no nooks to hide in. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;">I turned on the lights in my room, gingerly tiptoed around the house, setting it ablaze with lights. Painfully aware that she would have set the house ablaze. I crawled into bed and waited for my friend to arrive. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;">15 minutes later, a patient but unsympathetic friend arrived. She had had enough of my stupid doppelganger fear she said. I agreed, that's why I'd I called her, to distract myself from my over-active imagination. We went around the house shutting off lights and settled down in front of the TV for the weeks fifth slumber party. Comedy, romance, action on the agenda. No horror involved. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;">'Don't dwell on it, distract yourself' I was following my therapists advice. My amused psychiatrist had told me not to take my thoughts too seriously. I knew, they knew, we all knew that I knew it was an irrational fear. That I wasn't really scared of my doppelganger. That I didn't really expect to come across myself, lurking in some corner of my living room, hiding behind the curtains, testing the knives in my kitchen. Yet I wished that someone would take my fear seriously. Surely it meant something. Alas, all my therapists were boring and behavioral, Freud and Jung seemed to have gone out of fashion. My homeopath had taken me seriously, without prompting he had asked me whether I was scared of something, I told him about my doppelganger fear and I could see him earnestly scribbling away 'is scared of ghosts'. sigh....</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;">It was Saturday and after five nights at home, my friend and I were restless. We decided to get dressed, get out, get high and go dancing. Well, apart from the high part - I wasn't allowed to mix meds and mojitos just yet. I was willing to take 3 out of 4, which was not enough. At the club, I sat around bored, it never failed, without alcohol, I just wasn't a party person. The music was too loud, grating, I couldn't dance, my dress was uncomfortable and the smoke made me cough. Don't dwell, distract yourself I repeated my mantra to myself and began looking around, people watching, trying to spot the idiots, trying to score cheap laughs of them. When I spotted her. There she was, yelling at a hapless waiter, picking up the glass and throwing its contents on his face. Bursting out in cackles of laughter, amused at what she'd done. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;">My heart was pounding furiously, I wanted to hide before she spotted me. I tried to duck under the table, but it's base was solid. The couch was pushed against the wall and there was no space behind it. It was 12:30 in the night and my friend was lost in the sea of dancers. As I furiously hunted for my friend, all I saw was her. She pulling the hair of her female companion. she treading on a guy's foot with 6 inch stilettos. She burning bits of paper with a lighter. She playing with the knife on the table. Friend or not I decided to leave and ran out of the room, messaging to let my friend know. Face bent over my phone I ran right into her just outside the club. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;">She looked at me, sizing me up. Even though we could have been twins, I could feel the differences. I was shivering, she was composed. Mousy little me next to her. We were wearing the same clothes and yet it was I who was dressed up while she must have casually sauntered out of her house. And then she spoke - 'I should have had you kicked out for my bad behaviour, it's like I'm looking into a mirror'</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: monospace; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;"><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: 12.727272033691406px;">And then there was a crack. She must have overpowered me and pushed me into a ditch. As I regained consciousness I tried yelling for someone to come save me, but no one could hear me over the din. There were hundreds of voices yelling and screaming, and bright flames licking the night sky. After a while fire engines began to wail and then silence. In the morning I was finally freed by the police in a manner of speaking. The police refuse to believe me, they refuse to believe that she set the club ablaze. No one remembers her. No one remembers that quiet little thing.</span></span></div>
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ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-43799952738069400242011-10-09T01:44:00.007+05:302011-10-09T10:24:15.013+05:30Letting the write one in<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:small;"><div>It was the night of the Lunar eclipse, witching hour and the three of us stood outside cackling curses at the clouds. There they were, making sure we wouldn't see, that we couldn't see, the moon. It was very rude of them, we sulked, to come and spoil our fun. </div><div><br /></div><div>Disappointed and embarrassed, the pointy hats had come out for no reason and our neighbors were now staring at us for want of nothing better to look at, the three of us trooped indoors. </div><div><div><br /></div><div>My sisters left me to brood the unfairness of a lunar eclipse devoid of occult experience. I had been sure that something would happen, I had pinned my hopes and happiness on something happening. </div><div><br /></div><div>It wasn't new. I have been pinning my hopes and happiness on something happening for a long time now. Indicators of something happening have included, online horoscopes, the number of mynahs I spotted and wishes made on shooting stars (which must have been airplanes). I was willing to dress up, make believe, party, make an ass of myself, be self-deprecating, day dream, build fantasies but I was not willing to work, try something, fail......</div><div><br /></div><div>When a scream interrupted my inner monologue. My sisters came flying out of our bedroom. Followed by a bat. Followed by my mothers ultimatum to stop screaming and get the bat out! Balcony doors were opened and because of the power of the witching hour, with the help of my polite but firm directions the little spazzed vampire found an exit and left. </div><div><br /></div><div>The pointy hats came out again and the three witches sat and dissected the Bat episode. It was renamed the vampire episode, the significance of the lunar eclipse was discussed, perhaps we had discovered a vampire-werewolf hybrid. We disagreed over which one of us it had come to meet or eat. We agreed that it was the power of my sisters screaming and the help of my imagination that made it look like the bat left after my directions. We cackled gleefully and my mother called us batty. Which made us cackle some more. I went to sleep with a smile on my face, something had happened.</div><div><br /></div><div>Something which made me want to write again. It wasn't easy, I wrote and rewrote this post a hundred times over. I added a phrase, or a line, or a paragraph every week. I excised awful alliterations ('clouds cutting into a celestial conga line'), entire themes which were ahem clouding the post. I started laughing at horoscopes again and I stopped wishing on plucked out eyelashes. I started an internship, I applied for a job and I got a job. My confidence in myself increased. </div><div><br /></div><div>But those single mynahs continued to plague me. So tonight, on a night which is simply a hard days night I've finished the post. I've written the last few paras, I've reworked the alliteration into the post (even if I had to use a parenthesis) and added one more. Tomorrow when I see two mynahs, I'm not going to wait for something nice to happen, I'm going to come back and change the have in the fourth paragraph to a had.</div></div></span></div>ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-82231182856975815392010-11-26T14:19:00.005+05:302010-11-26T14:53:34.110+05:30The chicken or the EggWhich came first? The chicken or the egg? According to The Second Book of General Ignorance, it was the egg. Well, duh! <br /><br />But which one is the egg and which one is the chicken? Are these feelings of insecurity caused by depression, or am I depressed because I've always been a little insecure. <br /><br />It's been a long year. It's been exactly one year. And it's been a horrid year of unbroken depression. At the end of it, I find myself, crippled, unable to take on even the simplest of tasks without straining myself, second guessing my beliefs and finally acknowledging the fact that I seem to have lost all direction. Useless, is the word I'm beginning to associate the most with myself. <br /><br />I need to know which came first. If insecurity is the egg that hatched the depression, well I need to make myself useful, build a little self-confidence, the onus is on me. If it's depression,I can wallow some more and pray that the medication works. <br /><br />I hope it's depression. I have more faith in meds than me.ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-34969589528869834102010-09-18T20:35:00.003+05:302010-09-18T20:38:22.022+05:30ParanoiaAs I lay awake last night, I could hear myself in the other room, walking around, turning on lights, opening drawers, pulling apart curtains, looking for something, searching for someone. I waited for the door to burst open, for me to enter, maniacally happy to have finally found the person I was looking for, me, shivering in the night, cowering under the sheets.<br /><br />Some people are deathly scared of death, others of ghosts, dogs, dustbins or snakes. I don’t need a boggart to show me what I’m scared of, a mirror will do. <br /><br />I thought of locking the room, but a calm voice in my head assured me that it wouldn’t help, I was already in the room, there was no keeping me out. I was already there to talk, to taunt and to hurt. <br /><br />When I’m showering I make sure I never close my eyes, I check underneath the bed and behind the curtains whenever I enter an empty room and I’ve removed the bed from my hostel room. <br /><br />I know what I'm scared of, but I don't know why, maybe it's all in the head, my head.ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-82686363984514924722010-06-17T23:43:00.003+05:302010-06-17T23:51:08.469+05:30<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CADMINI%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" 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mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Spent the last semester a little stir crazy. Spent half of my time wishing to fall down a rabbit hole, spent the other half trying to make that happen by doing a lot of crazy things.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">New semester break, new city, new internship, new medication but same old heart break. There were a couple of posts written about learning to walk, walking out of the woods, but the truth is that I seem to be walking in circles.
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></p> ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-89672125848141187242010-02-08T10:06:00.004+05:302010-02-08T10:11:13.150+05:30The gentleman with thistle down hair<div style="text-align: justify;">For someone who dishes it out as much as I do, I am painfully slow when it comes to detecting other peoples sarcasm, lies and general deceptions. Essentially I’m a cheerfully oblivious kinda person who accepts whatever other people tell me as the gospel truth. Like the time I was five at the republic day parade and my mom told me that the dinosaur on the float was real. I believed her, I had no reason not to, except for science and I knew nothing about it back then. Then there was the time I was in 4th Grade and our science teacher took an extra class during the computers period, and announced in unmistakably icy tones that those who were more interested in playing on the computers could get up and leave. I got up and left, I still wasn’t too fond of science and I thought she meant it.<br />Then there are other stories I was told as a kid, such as the one about my cousins grandma owning a little menagerie, which contained peacocks, rabbits and tiger cubs amongst other animals. It took me 15 years to doubt that story and the 7 year old in me still wants to believe that it’s true, that anamma actually owned 3 tiger cubs. Reading people has never been my forte.<br />I’d like to think that my 4 years in college where I have had the opportunity to observe human nature and behaviour up close has made me more adept at detecting deception. But it’s not so. When I read Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, I believed that the footnotes were carefully researched out references to “magic” books that actually existed, until I hit the footnote which began to talk about England’s Faerie King. My science may be weak, but my history is a tad better, and the believing footnotes stopped right there.<br />It’s a good book, a tad confusing, but fun to read. What really drew me into the story was its antagonist, the gentleman with thistle down hair. The gentleman with thistle down hair, holds people captive in his faerie kingdom of lost-hope where he forces them to dance the nights away, while in the human world these captives withdraw into shells, drowned in misery, unable to talk about their troubles, unable to sleep, eat, or live an ordinary life.<br />How often have I longed to track down the gentleman with thistle down hair whose been holding me captive, and stab him to bits and pieces, which as wishes go is slightly more acceptable than wanting to stab my teachers, assorted auto drivers and occasionally myself.<br />Anyway there you go, caustic, unable to read and therefore relate to people, mildly to moderately depressed and with a propensity for angry violence, it’s been a long time growing up and I’m still not done. The last bout of depression was particularly bad, I’m not yet out of the woods, but I’m finally up on my feet, walking and trying to get out.<br /></div>ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-73731403696559769862010-02-07T02:52:00.006+05:302010-02-07T03:06:55.370+05:30Feeling Better<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Cnitya%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Cnitya%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Cnitya%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> 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mso-footer-margin:35.4pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0cm; mso-para-margin-right:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0cm; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:12pt;" >I haven’t written anything in a long time. I haven’t been able to, I’ve been too busy. Busy wallowing in equal parts of self pity and self loathing. Depressed, dejected, feeling dumb and dull, I’ve lost the ability to articulate my opinions. Have a conversation. Write. Think.
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:12pt;" >
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:12pt;" >I’ve spent the last couple of months eating, sleeping and sleep walking. I’ve “done” quite a bit, but none of it has registered over the persistent throbbing dull, sad feeling. 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<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" >I’m being dragged through college by family and friends for a degree and the promise of something better after (just) one and half years more. I’m due to give my third repeat exam and at the rate my CGPA is dropping I wonder if I will be able to convince my college to let me out with a degree, much less convince some other college to let me in without a capitation fee.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" >I’ve been waiting for something to happen. Every day, every hour, every minute of my existence I pray for something to happen. Something which will come, sweep me out of this funk I’m in. But nothing happens unless you make it happen and the only things that I feel I can make happen are, to put it bluntly, not pleasant. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: justify; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:12pt;" >So instead I am going to write about what all has already happened to me, what I’m grateful for, and what some of my coping mechanisms are. It’s a little gratitude post, it’s going to tell me that all is not lost, that I still have a life worth fighting for and the means to fight that battle.
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: justify; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:12pt;" >One of the most important things that has happened to me is blogging. It’s been a year since I started blogging, and words cannot express how much it means to me. Nonetheless I will make a short feeble attempt at explaining the role it’s begun to play in my life. Blogging gives me a sense of accomplishment, something that I badly need in the face of my failing academic career. I’ve been accused of TMI on my blog, but I don’t really care, being brutally honest on my blog has helped me deal with personal issues and insecurities with a sense of humour, it has helped me come to terms with a myself that I wanted to hide. It’s helped me understand that these insecurities are shared by others and that if I say it out aloud, I will have received and given empathy. Blogging is an outlet for a great deal of frustration, whenever I find myself in what would earlier have been a stressful or anger inducing situation, I now tell myself to take a step back, observe the situation with a sense detachment and humour so that I can blog about it later. And when I fail to achieve that state of detached humour, writing invariably calms me down and helps me sort out the very strong opinions and emotions I feel.
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: justify; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:12pt;" > I owe blogging to my friends and sisters, hereinafter referred to as friends. I owe a lot to my friends. They read my blog, they listen to me and they love me. I doubt that anybody will find so perfect a combination of love, craziness, intelligence, individuality and spirit than what’s housed in my hostel. Often when I listen to other people talk about their friends, I find myself pitying them for not having mine. From my school days (when I would walk around alone in the lunch break, eating food continuously, trying to look busy, so that no one would notice I had no one to hang out with) to today (where I have in my room a wall painted bright red by my friends, so that as they explained to me, when I’m depressed and have locked myself into my room, I can look at the wall, and remember that I have friends, that I am a person people want to be friends with) I have come a long way. And it’s because of them. I’ve found my happily ever after.
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: justify; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:12pt;" > Then there are the parents, they listen, they counsel, they support, they put up. I have faith in them. They are individualists and I know that whenever they have to make a decision regarding me, they think of what I would want, instead of what they want for me. They understand that I’m not them, that their values aren’t necessarily mine and that I will do things differently from them when the time comes.
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: justify; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:12pt;" >So, I’ve written. The tears which prompted me to write this post have dried up. I’m feeling a lot better. From tomorrow, I will begin taking baby steps towards even more betterhood.
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: justify; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:12pt;" >Instead of sleeping for hours and hours in my room, I will sleep in various rooms across the corridor, while the owners of the room do whatever it is that they’re doing. When you’re depressed and not in a position to talk to others, laugh with them, this is an easy way to gently ease back into a social life. I will resume jogging, I have no self-control when it comes to stimulants of any variety, food, music, alcohol. Jogging is a “safe” stimulant, but I end up abusing jogs as well. Once I’m in the routine, my body begins to yearn for the jogging high, I spend the entire day waiting for when I can go jogging, unable to do anything but look at the clock, when something threaten the jog, like rain or a dinner plan with friends, I get panicky and worked up. When I’m jogging, I find myself unable to stop until I’m exhausted. I will not let that happen. I will listen to anyone else who needs to talk. Because to know that you’re not alone, is the most important thing. I will ask for help when I need it.
<br />
<br />(for those of you who are wondering, I started writing this post on the 9th of January. That day all that I could write before I gave up was the first line, also I have given and passed my repeat since then) <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:12pt;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-39214373143073720612009-12-14T22:21:00.002+05:302009-12-14T22:24:19.725+05:30Lurid Orange Underpants<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Cnitya%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Cnitya%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" 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class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">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. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">“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.
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">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. </p>
<br />ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-28584382536606527242009-11-27T21:54:00.002+05:302009-11-27T22:01:28.204+05:30Dear Mumbai,<div style="text-align: justify;"><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Cnitya%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Cnitya%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Cnitya%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> 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font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-fareast-language:EN-US;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi; mso-fareast-language:EN-US;} .MsoPapDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; margin-bottom:10.0pt; line-height:115%;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 72.0pt 72.0pt 72.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0cm; mso-para-margin-right:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0cm; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">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<sup>th</sup> 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. <span style=""> </span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">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. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">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<sup>th</sup> 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. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">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. <span style=""> </span></p> ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-15750395805446966222009-11-18T23:18:00.005+05:302009-11-19T17:43:04.789+05:30Attack of the killer blahs from inner space<div style="text-align: justify;">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.<br /><br />P.S. I'm depressed, and no poet to boot, the best I can do is direct you to Divyas' <a href="http://poignantrose.blogspot.com/2009/06/i-am-jacks-fractured-sense-of-being.html">brilliantly written post</a> that I oh so empathize with, go read it, NOW!.<br /><br /><br /><br /></div>ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-83113549959031083132009-11-03T18:56:00.004+05:302009-11-03T19:10:42.189+05:30'tis the season to be sorry... or not.<div align="justify">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).<br />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.<br />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.)<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />Exam time is bliss, sleep, movies, alone time, fixed deadlines, what more could I ask for? Silence.....</div>ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-58412923178730460442009-10-27T10:26:00.002+05:302009-10-27T10:29:15.774+05:30The Sound of Music<div align="justify">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.<br />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”.<br /></div><div align="justify">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.<br /></div><div align="justify">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<br />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.....)<br /></div><div align="justify">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. </div><div align="justify"><br />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. </div>ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-86473312982218620112009-10-25T17:24:00.001+05:302009-10-27T10:35:34.192+05:30Hush.... it's a secret!<div align="justify">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.<br />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.<br />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.<br />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.)<br />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. </div>ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-25296717668431522062009-10-21T01:23:00.006+05:302009-11-01T13:32:02.973+05:30Daddy Issues<div align="justify">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”.<br />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.<br />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”. </div><div align="justify">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.<br />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.<br />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!</div>ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-4235238543355223152009-10-05T12:18:00.006+05:302009-10-05T14:07:52.276+05:30Sing. Smile. Dance. Blog.<div align="justify">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).<br />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.<br />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.<br />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. </div><div align="justify"></div>ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-46509285306991590982009-10-03T12:03:00.004+05:302009-10-05T13:16:11.810+05:30Can you hear me Cheer?<div align="justify">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. </div><div align="justify">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”.<br />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!<br />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.<br />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.<br />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! </div>ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-81872427568728731522009-09-30T12:14:00.003+05:302009-10-01T02:38:58.442+05:30Would you rather be good or nice?<div align="justify">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.<br />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.<br /><a href="http://www.doublex.com/section/kids-parenting/schools-should-stop-telling-kids-be-nice">There is an argument floating around doublex</a>, 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.<br />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. </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">(The title isn't a rhetorical question by the way.)</div><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-17853291007839396092009-09-29T11:10:00.005+05:302009-10-05T13:09:14.909+05:30The Trickster, the Bastard and the Holy Crow<div align="justify">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.<br />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. </div><div align="justify">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.<br />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.<br />To learn more about Soumya “Ramu” Ramasubramaniams religious, spiritual beliefs and principles please refer to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anansi_Boys">Anansi Boys</a> by Neil Gaiman, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daughter_of_the_Lioness">Tricksters Choice and Tricksters Queen</a> by Tamora Pierce and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Fivefold_Pathway_of_the_Soul">Curse of Chalion</a> by Louis Mcmaster Bujold. </div>ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4125417753265708859.post-51469971584282566462009-09-28T14:45:00.001+05:302009-10-05T13:07:50.354+05:30Mad Pride<div align="justify">Dear Everyone,<br /></div><div align="justify">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.........<br /></div><div align="justify">Love,<br />Ramu/Ramsub/Soumya.<br /></div><div align="justify">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.<br /></div><div align="justify">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.<br /> </div>ramsubhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16386994215918439056noreply@blogger.com4