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.