B1 61, Charminar Express

It was a normal Thursday evening, and I was waiting at the railway station for my train to Chennai, after a bout of homesickness. My last few journeys had all been with the most unfortunate co-passengers, including screaming infants, vomiting children or phlegm-filled old men who snored obnoxiously through the night. I was wary of the trials that awaited me this time, and looked around at the people surrounding my coach as the train slowly chugged to a halt. 

I waited for the crowd to thin before I entered the coach, As I entered my bay, I was greeted by a loud unpleasant sound. A large woman in a red saree, with a booming voice befitting her stature, was yelling nasally at everyone to move around to her convenience. I sighed dismally and looked around at the rest of my company for the night. There was a bunch of kindly old women, seemingly on some group pilgrimage, one of whom had a striking resemblance to my paati (grandmother). She was trying to calm the huge red lady down who was by then busy bullying a poor chap travelling in RAC, informing him in rapid hindi that men were supposed to stand when there were ladies around looking for a place to sit. She gestured towards her supposedly chivalrous husband who was standing for her despite just having had an operation and went on to tell him what she thought of his manners. I silently surmised that her husband was standing more out of fear than anything else and noticed that the others were exchanging glances suggesting that they were of the same view. The paati-doppelganger soon solved things by making space for everyone and calming the huge red lady down, and there was peace for a while. The conversation started getting pretty granny-ish there-on, with complaints of weak knees and back ache and fretting over having to climb to their berths. They sang my praises for a while after I offered to take one of their upper berths, while I was thanking my stars that I could retire up there with my book and escape any further commotion that might have broken out. But unexpectedly, travelling with this bunch turned out to be quite an intriguing eye-opener.

At first, all the Brahmin Tamil being thrown around did nothing but make me feel even more homesick. I had taken a liking to paati-doppelganger - she had a curt yet polite manner towards the huge red lady, which turned into active and friendly chatter when talking to her friends. She was very smart and full of optimism, you could tell from the way she talked. After a while the chit-chat lost its granny-ish nature, and the ladies launched into a discussion about the movie, Padayappa. They quoted a few dialogues, made a few jokes, and then went on to talk about how they liked travelling and what kind of places they liked to see. Contrary to popular belief, their list included a whole lot of places that were not temples. Every now and then, a few others of their company seated further down the coach would drop by to talk about the trip or about something funny that happened. They sure seemed an active lot for all the complaints about knee pain! One of the grannies took out a glass bottle and started doling out Aavaka Oorga (Mango Pickle) to everyone. I nostalgically recalled our days in the mess and how aavaka oorga was ever so often our saviour. They talked about food for a long while, and then we heard the familiar cry of the Charminar Express Chips Vendor - “Laysu biskeeeet, chipsu biskeeet!”. I was astonished to see one of the grannies jump up in excitement, it seemed she had been waiting a long while for the chips guy. She greedily took three packets from him, when she was stopped by paati-doppleganger - “Podhum! Evlo vaanguvel?” (Enough! How many will you buy?). It was all too reminiscent of my lays-bingeing habit. 

Meanwhile, the huge red lady had resumed her whining. They listened to it for a while and then snidely commented in tamil - “Andha sevappu podava ku romba periya aalu nu nenapu pola!” (That one in the red saree seems to have too big an opinion of herself). My already poorly-controlled mirth went up a notch at the open insult of the lady under her nose in a language she did not understand - a habit that my friends and I have developed recently. Soon, however, they seemed to decide that her behaviour did not merit their discretion and lapsed into english! Thus ensued another minor verbal scuffle and the huge red lady’s blood pressure was visibly rising. 

Just when I decided that they were very cool people, one of them mentioned that her granddaughter loved watching “tom and jerry serials”. I was torn between amusement and indignation at her choice of words, but I decided to pardon it in the interest of generation gap and a whopping first impression. 

Once the ticket-checking was done and everyone had settled down, they decided to have dinner. I followed suit and opened the sub that I had bought for the journey. Paati-doppelganger looked at me and said with a grin, “Apdiye Suman maadriye iruka! Avalum eppapathaaaalum subway, pizza nu saatundrupaa!” (You’re just like Suman! She keeps eating subs and pizzas too!). Turns out, Suman was her daughter, and the look of affection she gave me made my day! Soon, they revealed that they had intended to sing on the journey but the idea had been dampened by the tyrant couple. Some of their friends stopped by to say goodnight, and a few toilet-jokes followed. One particularly tall companion of theirs chit-chatted for a while, and after she left, they commented in hushed tones - “Nalla uyaram.. nallllla body!” (She’s very tall.. and has a great body!). It was all I could do to keep from bursting into laughter as I recollected the numerous similar ways in which my friends and I objectify each other.

The rest of the night passed without event and I woke in the morning to the sound of their animated chatter. I grinned to myself sleepily, wondering if all of it had been a glimpse into what my gang will be like at that age - or atleast those of us who manage to survive the inevitable battles against diabetes, cholestrol and obesity! And I think it was. It looks like we’re gonna be some pretty fun paatis.

A Little Girl's Diary

Dear Diary

I had the most amazing day ever! It feels so good to finally turn eleven. Mum and Dad threw me the most awesome surprise party (not much of a surprise, really), with a beautiful big cake shaped like a Swedish Short-Snout, a series of really fun games (all on broomsticks of course) and for the grand finale, a fireworks show with some of Uncle George’s finest! And my favourite part - the WHOLE family bustling around, arguing and making a total mess of the lawn. Of course, Uncle Percy had to rush home in the middle because there was an owl from the office about “that bloke” who kept sending gift hampers of vomit-flavoured moisturizer to his desk despite his repeated appeals to stop them. I wonder when he’s going to figure out that they’re all from Teddy and James. Even I figured it out all by myself, and I’m just a little girl! Apart from that, it was a great day! Lots of really cool presents – a beautiful brown owl from Mum and Dad, a hand-made birthday card from James and Albie (bewitched to look like a dragon that spurts birthday messages from its mouth – although they said it was supposed to spurt fire until Mum threatened to douse it in water), another brilliant book from Aunt Hermione (the next one the in The Witch Chronicles series), and a lot of other great stuff. And the best part! - I FINALLY GET TO GO TO HOGWARTS THIS YEAR!!

But that's not why I'm writing to you. I've been a little worried about something. Lately, Dad has been telling me all these stories about his childhood that he thinks I should know before I go off to Hogwarts. He told me about all these great things he did in school, and about how there was this really really mean man who killed Grandma Lily and Grandpa James and tried to kill Dad too!!! And Dad says he escaped with just a scar although he was just a little baby! And you're not going to believe this, but he saved Mum from the same guy in his second year at school!! And finally killed him five years after that. Oh and he says he had to tackle a dragon for a tournament once! Why don't they let me participate in such things, they know how much I love dragons! Apparently Dad is some big famous hero in the wizarding world, and that's why they're telling me before I go off to school, where everybody already knows all this. I really don't know what to make of it all. Don't you think it all sounds a bit far fetched? I mean, he claims that he could talk Parseltongue, but when I ask him to show me, he says he has lost it. And this scar that he keeps mentioning.. he lost that too! And when I ask him to explain, all he says is - "that's a story for when you're older". Something isn't adding up, but I don't want to mention it because I don't want him to feel bad! I suppose I should take James and Albie's word for it, since they've actually been to school and heard all this from others. But what if this is like the whole Santa scandal?! Did I tell you that he isn't real and that all my Christmas presents have been from Mum and Dad? I mean, why make up that story, why not just give me presents? I dunno, ever since that and the tooth fairy incident, my faith in their stories has been seriously shaken. But I think I am just going to go to school and find out like my brothers did. 

Oh and I have news. Teddy is going to ask Victoire to marry him as soon as she leaves Hogwarts. It's no surprise really, but I'm excited that he's going to really be a part of our family now. I only wish Grandma Molly could be around for the wedding. She was so active right till the end that we were certain she would outlive the whole lot of us! I am still not certain what happened, though. The healers are looking into it, they think it's some muggle condition that was left unchecked for too long. They called it "blood pressure" or something. I wonder how Grandma caught the germ, she always kept The Burrow so clean and tidy! 

I absolutely cannot wait to go to Hogwarts. You know, for all the fights that James and Albie have had, they seem to have become really close after Albie went to school. And what's worse, I think they have secrets from me now! They better start including me in all of it once I join! And this is strictly between you and me, but I overheard one of their whispered conversations the other day and it seems Rosie's spending too much time with that prat, Scorpius. I could barely believe it, I mean, he's a Slytherin!! And imagine if Uncle Ron found out, oh how his ears would redden!

Anyway, once I get there, I am going to follow the Potters' rules for survival at Hogwarts, that have been collectively formed by my folks over the years - 

1. Get into the quidditch team in your first year.
2. Never tell Hagrid that you love dragons, or he might just get you one.
3. What happens in the forbidden forest STAYS in the forbidden forest.
4. When Headmistress McGonagall glares at you in disapproval (which she very often will), DO NOT look directly into her flared nostrils.
5. And the most important one - Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus.

Until next time
Lily the Second

The Isle

There was an isle, 'twas formed anew 

Bereft of hope or cheer 

The sea had come, had raged and wrecked 

Sparing naught but fear

They'd sought its aid, in times of need 

Alas! Betrayed were they! 

For, down it came, its waters fierce 

All castles washed away

Grieved and sore, those forlorn folk 

Thus took to brick and stone 

A wall they wrought, and kept at bay

The seas, the foes unknown

For days on end, in peace they lived

No battles, naught to mend

But oh! One day, a silent stream

Came trickling round a bend

Benign it seemed, 'twas paid no heed

It grew and swelled unseen

With all its might, it brought to ground

The wall that once had been

The ocean wild, it rushed in free

And fiercely coursed right through

The flood was great, the folk aghast

And dread was born anew

But time went by, and soon they saw

The sea had come to tend

For, life it brought, no harm was done

And foe had turned a friend

Thus trees shot up, and meadows bloomed!

The isle was never so fair!

A scent so sweet, of newborn woods

Lingered in the air!

And ever since, the sea and isle

In harmony did thrive

The waters free, they lapped the shore 

And kept the isle alive

And yet this gift, the people knew

Could well be snatched away

The powerful sea now ruled the land

Free to abandon, or stay

There was an isle, 'twas formed anew

Filled with hope and cheer

Woods and meadows, sand castles high

The ocean looming near..

A rainy day

He scurried along the road, as fast as his tiny legs would carry him, trying to block everything happening around him. He was just beginning to feel slightly light and dry when, in his haste, he tripped on a pebble by the sidewalk and fell face-first, nearly breaking his nose. With that familiar clap of thunder, the dark cloud above his head unleashed another downpour upon his already damp head.

He was tired of that obstinate rain cloud hovering above his head. Every time he managed to shake it off, something seemed to happen to provoke it to burst and pour once again. And he simply couldn’t figure out why it followed him around, never targeting any of the other people around him. It all began in the morning when he woke up to the sound of his mom yelling at him. That was when the grey fluffs had begun to gather above him. As he quickly shoved down his breakfast, there had ensued another mild scuffle with his older sister, and he had felt the first drizzle of the gathered clouds and had hurried on his way to school.

Feeling extremely ungainly and embarrassed, he picked himself up after tripping on the pebble and trudged along in the rain, and somehow made it to his classroom in the 2^nd grade, fortunately without further incident. The first class was his favourite, and the clouds progressively started turning from grey to white. By the time it was recess, even the white clouds had drifted a small distance away. He was running around and playing with a few kids, almost oblivious to the reappearing haze, when suddenly – lightning struck! It was the bully from 3^rd grade. The clouds came gliding back in unison, and with a boom of thunder, a fresh storm was under way. Before he knew it, he was drenched from head to toe, and singed by lightning. He sat in a corner of the playground, unable to escape the rain. Drenched and soaking wet, he watched miserably as the other kids played, with the sun shining merrily above them, bright as a day in summer. He shuddered slightly in the cold.

He stayed well out of harm’s way through the rest of the day and by evening, the torrents had reduced to a mild drizzle. He rushed out thankfully at the end-of-day bell, and started walking home alone. His solitary stroll did him good, and the rains stopped finally, and he started making plans for his evening at home. That was when the next blow struck – he had a test the next day and had completely forgotten about it until just then. He could almost hear the clouds whizzing back to place, and this time, the deluge brought him to the ground and he flopped down onto the pavement. He sat there for a while, wallowing in self-pity and his hurricane. The persistent clouds beat down on him relentlessly, until he felt like he could just give up and sit there forever. After a while, he stood up, shook himself, and resumed dragging his sodden self along the road towards his home again.

Know your audience

When a scientific discovery is made, it hits the news instantly, a bunch of equations are derived and verified, a series of tests are conducted to prove their authenticity, and a number of awards are bestowed upon the person who discovered it. A work of art, however, is not met with the same unanimous appreciation. Everybody has, at some point, said “This book is terrible!”, “What a boring movie!” or “You call this music?!”.

Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, and that’s why the success of a piece of art is decided solely by the opinion of its audience. Then again, what is “success” to an artist? It could be a number of things varying from money and fame to appreciation and feedback. A director who wants his movie to connect with people emotionally may consider it a success even if he makes no money but gets a bit of the audience to shed a tear or two. And a singer may be perfectly happy with all his viewers sniggering about his lack of talent as long as he gets thousands of hits on Youtube.

Take books, for instance. Anybody who has read The Lord of the Rings knows that JRR Tolkien loved creating images of majestic kingdoms and spinning tales of history and lore. He planted in every reader’s head, a picture beautifully adorned with castles and forests and a detailed back story to all of it. He adds an authentic touch with his effective use of archaic language, which strengthens the “once-upon-a-time” factor in the fairy tale trilogy. It is true that a large number of people find it very hard to get through his books, what with heavy reading required and the lack of a gripping story. But avid readers will always love him for the world he created, for his bountiful imagination and his evident passion for writing, as will creative writers. And that in itself is quite a success to his credit.

If the target audience is one that likes fast paced, exciting stories with twists and turns in every page, then George R. R. Martin is a winner. His latest work, A Song of Ice and Fire, is a series of books about the battle between many dynasties for a kingdom. Martin has made the books very unpredictable, exhibiting the courage to kill off many important characters, something that most authors would never venture, out of fear of losing a huge chunk of the story. But Martin knows no fear, and the story gets wilder and wilder with surprises at the turn of every page. Another thing that keeps readers totally hooked to this series is the lack of a well-defined “good guy” and “bad guy”. It is impossible to pick a hero or a villain, because every time you try, a brave knight commits treason, or a baseborn thief saves a life. And since there is no good guy or bad guy, there is no saying who the real winner is, in the game of thrones. And this uncertainty keeps the reader interested through every page of the voluminous series.

Chetan Bhagat’s success as an author has always been challenged by many who claim that he does not have the gift for writing. But there is no denying that he did shoot to fame through his books. His books are entertainers, the easy-to-read types, which are more dialogue and less narration, and his topics are very relevant to everyday life. He caters to that section that prefers light reading and less to think about, which, fortunately for him, happens to constitute a large part of India’s youth these days. His idea of success, one could assume, is fame. And he is certainly one guy who became a success by knowing his audience.

Music also is always met with a volley of contrasting opinions, and there are umpteen bases on which a piece of music can be judged. There are so many ways in which music can reach a person. Many people judge songs based on the lyrics – some look for use of language, some look for the poetic touch, and some look for lyrics that they can relate to personally. Some people are more interested in the instrumental part of the song. The right usage of instruments can be very powerful in setting the mood of a song. A song, purely with proper use of instruments, can touch a person deeply and bring a smile to the face or tears to the eye. And when a song can achieve that effect, it is met with high appreciation. Some music lovers look for the overwhelming power of technology to edit a song to make it just perfect, while there are equally contrasting opinions in people who believe that technology shadows talent, and a song performed with nothing but simple instruments and the vocal abilities of the singer is of more musical value. This is again a situation where the artist needs to pick the audience he wants to cater to. For most Indian music, a huge difference is made to songs purely by the singers. A singer with a great voice can turn a boring song into one pleasant to the ears. A singer, with a trained and practised control over his/her voice attempting hard notes, can create awe in the musically literate. A singer who expresses the lyrics with the intended emotion in his/her voice can touch many people, even when one does not understand the lyrics.

And of course, there will always be those worldwide hits like Kolaveri and Gangnam style. These numbers, though seemingly devoid of anything extraordinary, got into every one of our minds and refused to leave until they got our heads nodding to the white-u skin-u girl-u, and our feet tapping to Psy’s random exclamations!!

I suppose the same holds good for movies, paintings, fashion designers and the like. We are all constantly judging and deciding the success of different people every single day. What with being made to accept all scientific facts as infallible, art is the outlet for freedom of expression, both for the artist, and for the heavily opinionated audience. Because after all, only Phoebe Buffay is at liberty to challenge the concept of gravity – “Lately, I get the feeling that I’m not so much being pulled down as I am being pushed”.

The good ol' toons

I have always been of the irrefutable opinion that to be born in the ‘90s is to have grown up with quality cartoons. Any ‘90s kid who did not become an ardent fan of Cartoon Network during its glory days has missed out – and I’m sure the rest of my fellow die-hards will agree with me – on the chance to have made a huge chunk of common nostalgia with the rest of their peer world. For some unfathomable reason, cartoons today have mostly become all about the good guy – bad guy battles. There’s almost always a hero and a villain and a fight of some sort. I wonder if this is what “kids these days” are really into (sorry guys, I know that makes you feel old, but let’s face it we are in our TWENTIES), or whether they have no choice but to make do with this for a childhood. It seems rather unfair that they are denied the luxury of variety, while we took it for granted.

                One thing that I’m quite indignant about is the way they have narrowed down the notion of a happy ending. A victory in a fight is the only thing that seems to qualify as a happy ending these days. Back in the good ol’ ‘90s, any of the following could make us kids beam in joy – the birth of Pebbles and Bamm-Bamm to the Flintstone and Rubble families, little Elroy Jetson’s confession that Astro, his canine sidekick, was his best friend in the world or even the high spirited albeit predictable dash past the finish line by Scooby’s team in the All Star Laff-A-Lympics! Even when it did involve the good guy – bad guy tale, like Popeye making mincemeat of Bluto to rescue Olive Oyl, it still had a certain charm to it, simply because it was not so commonplace back then. Why, we even had our own vigilante back then, good old Stanley Ipkiss a.k.a The Mask, who was the despair of all authority and yet their saviour in times of need.

                Granted, no one ever watched cartoons for educational reasons. Nevertheless, I like to believe that Cartoon Network did teach us a few things. No fan of Captain Planet can possibly deny that they do not even feel the slightest tinge of indignation when they witness somebody littering the streets, or when they watch pollution spread freely like pollen in our industry dominated cities, or when they hear news about global warming or endangered species of wildlife.  On the other hand, the Addams Family taught us that a family that plays together, stays together. A most jolly bunch of weirdos, and a huge, happy household were they, despite the fact that they had a witch-like grandmother, an uncle who kept exploding, a disjointed human hand for a pet, a huge intimidating troll-like butler, and not to mention, a walking bale of hay for a cousin! And of course, Johnny Bravo taught us what happens when you flirt with girls way beyond your league! ;)

                Despite all these humorous yet unnatural shows, we sure did have our share of programs that we could relate to as well. Every sibling will probably have had a Dexter – DeeDee moment in their lives, fighting like it was the end of the world and yet always having each other’s back. And every single female child in this world is a powerpuff girl! Every little girl is either a confident and authoritative Blossom, fiercely protective of her sisters, or a shy and innocent Bubbles, sunny and positive and helpful towards everybody, or a stubborn and short tempered Buttercup, fond of bullying and always on the lookout for fun and mischief. Every girl out there who has watched The Powerpuff Girls has certainly found themselves in one of these large-eyed and fingerless kindergarten superheroes.

                As far as Scooby Doo goes, it seems to be a universal favourite. And why wouldn’t it be, what with it being most people’s first ever introduction to tales of mystery and detectives. Scooby Doo has definitely got to be one of the most mentally stimulating shows that I have watched as a child! It was a most thrilling experience to watch a group of friends and their gullible yet lovable dog, hot on the trail of some dangerous villain in disguise, and piecing clues together to solve the mystery behind it all. And the more you watched, the more you loved it, as you started to get to know all of them better – Fred, the leader figure, always dependable and turned to for help; Daphne, the pretty girl of the group, with her occasional brainwave that helped save the day; geeky Velma with her freckled face and big glasses, wearing an excited grin on her face every time she said the words, “Jinkies! I found a clue!”; Shaggy, with his shabby attire and his shudder of fear at every little thing, finding courage in nothing but his dog pal; and finally Scooby-Doo, the funny and frightened dog, who adores Shaggy, and could be coaxed into anything as long you gave him a Scooby snack!

                The Looney Tunes (my personal favourite!), merits an entire post for itself, in my opinion. The unbelievable multitude of characters and catchphrases are the work of pure genius. So much humour and wit, in a form that reaches little children so effectively is extremely hard to achieve and these guys have done a top notch job of it! And the great thing about them is that the other related shows like Baby Looney Tunes, Merry Melodies, and The Sylvester and Tweety Mysteries suffered no dip in standards! The Looney Tunes, is what I would call a classic in the cartoon world.

                Some other shows worth watching were Swat Kats - with a couple of feline brothers saving the world together; Richie Rich - the son of a millionaire, and his funny adventures with his friend, Gloria, his dog, Dollar, and his butler, Cadbury; Top Cat - and his bunch of cat-buddies who live in a few dustbins on the road and are the despair of the local police constable; Foster’s home for imaginary friends - with the cylindrical Bloo, imaginary friend of the little boy called Mac; Wacky Races - and its damsel in distress, Penelope Pitstop.

                All these cartoons were such a huge part of my childhood, that I find it shocking that no kid has even heard of them these days. I have never watched “Ben 10” or “DragonballZ” myself, but I think I have seen enough to guess that they are no match for the ‘90s cartoons. I used to enjoy long and intense discussions with my cousin about all these shows, and it felt good to relive them all once more in this post! And I hope it was a pleasant blast from the past for you guys as well :)

The Manor

He walked towards the manor apprehensively, kicking himself repeatedly for getting involved in this mess. He pushed the gate open gingerly and tiptoed in, careful not to tread on thorns that infested the overgrown garden. How can a place bursting with trees and bushes feel so utterly lifeless, he wondered. He shuddered as an insect buzzed in his ear. Waving it away, he quickened his steps towards the main door.

It creaked open as he gave it a push. He walked in with an increasing sense of foreboding, and the eerie lull in the air did nothing to calm his nerves. Looking up at the faint stream of light trickling into the hall through an opening in the wall, he followed it with his eyes until he saw it illuminating a dusty table with a book on it. He went up to the table and started flipping through the pages of the book. His curiosity was aroused when he saw that the pages were completely empty, and some were torn out partially. There was something in this book that was not meant for people to see. He had to tell the others about this. He was about to toss the seemingly empty book onto the table again, when the last page caught his eye. He opened it. There was a drawing of a girl sitting on a horse. For some reason it sent a chill down his spine. He shuddered again and fought the urge to go running back home. It’s in the bedroom. I just need to get to the bedroom, take it, and then I can get the hell outta here. He reminded himself about why he was there, and proceeded towards the staircase.

He reached the top and looked from side to side. Three bedrooms. I have to find out which one. He walked into the nearest bedroom, and opened the window to let some light in. It was a dingy little place with a musty smell about it. The room was quite empty but for a single bed and a night stand next to it. On the floor, there were half a dozen cardboard boxes with something written on them in red. Three letters, in a language he didn’t recognize. Heh. As long as it doesn’t say "TNT", I don’t care what’s in them. He stared at them for a few moments, and was suddenly gripped by fear. He hurried out of the room and went into the next one.

As he walked in, he saw that it was already well lit by a large window facing the sun. This seems more like a study than a bedroom. The room, apart from the tiny bed by the window, was full of nothing but shelves with books stacked upon them. He picked up a huge leather-bound book from a nearby shelf and blew at it. He coughed as the cloud of dust lifted from the copy, and read the name on the cover. The other side. He grimaced. The other side of what? He could feel that familiar urge to read and find out and lose himself in the book. He stared hungrily at the scores of books on the shelves for a moment, and looked at the cozy little bed, wishing he could curl up in it and read everything in sight. He shook himself, and returned the book in his hand to the shelf he had taken it from. Enough. Let’s go.

The next bedroom was clearly the master bedroom. There was a massive double bed with an ornate headrest, and multiple cupboards with intricate carvings on them. The room had an ancient glamour to it, and it stood oddly apart from the rest of the dilapidated house. It also had a warm and welcoming appeal, unlike the frostiness of the other rooms. There was a small balcony that overlooked the garden. He went and peeked over the railing to see a little clearing among the bushes which, he mused, would probably look very nice once tended to. This place might have been really nice to play in, as a kid. His gaze wandered to the other end of the garden – the one he had entered through - and he drew a sharp intake of breath. The dark side. His fears came rushing back and he set about to find what he had come for. He scanned the room, thinking about where it could be kept. He had been told that it would not be hard to find. Then, he spotted the cupboard door, slightly open. He pulled it open and looked inside. And there it was.

Neither here nor there

They say that a person at the age of 15 or 16 is a “young adult”, and that it is the point in life when one starts thinking maturely. I wholeheartedly agreed when I was at the age, commending myself for dealing with all the academic, social and adolescent pressure. Later, after a few years in college, my opinion changed, and I decided that the time I had spent in hostel had contributed more to my maturity than my teenage years. But now after seven months of work experience, I realise with a sinking feeling that I am still struggling to be an adult and wondering if I will ever get there. In the transition from school to college, from college to corporate life, I have changed certainly. But have I really grown?

When I look back at the things I saw, heard and talked about back in school and college, the biggest concerns that my peers and I had back then seem now far too trivial for attention – whether a professor’s grudge would cause a dip in my grade, if a certain close friend had changed too much and messed with the dynamics of the clique, obsessing over ways to ask a girl/guy out and the contemplation of facing the consequences that follow, and many other such things. Important as they seemed at the time, once the notions of long term and future come into the picture, I find myself wondering why we spent so much time on them. On the other hand, after being so involved in people’s lives, I have now become a part of an office where I am forced to maintain strictly professional relationships, and sometimes it feels like it wouldn’t hurt to have a bit of all that silly college drama again, to get back some of the surprises and excitement that added a little colour to my life.  I feel caught in the middle of the two worlds, neither here nor there.

Being talkative and amicable by nature, I had my worst nightmare realised in corporate life – not fitting in anywhere. I have always been part of a social jungle, always managed to find a compatible set of friends to form a group with. One thing that hit me hard after joining work was the age diversity around me. All this while, no matter where I went, I could even connect with people who absolutely did not match my wavelength, simply because they were of my age group and that itself brought with it a lot of common ground. But when you see one colleague staying at home because he is still too hungover from last night’s party and another taking the day off to honour a family commitment, and you relate to neither of them, it gets a little unsettling. It can also get very lonely and frustrating at times, after being a part of an aggregation of badly behaved social embarrassments, to be required to maintain decorum and refine every sentence you say.

One thing that was rudely shattered for me was my laughably childish, fairy tale idea of a career. Back in my student days, I could just close my eyes and imagine myself fifteen years in the future and picture myself making a success of myself, and bask in my innocent confidence, certain that I had what it took to get there. But now, it is all a big blur, I had no idea what a job was like, and I certainly had no clue what a career really meant. And in all probability I still don’t, after these seven months. All I do know is that I was driven by short term aims until now - exams and admissions and placements - with no idea of where it would lead me. And now, with my whole life ahead of me, finally in my own hands, I am not sure what to do with it. Now, when I imagine myself fifteen years in the future, I draw a blank. Sometimes it feels like there are too many choices, and sometimes like there are none at all.

I wonder why I am not unhappy with my life, given the sudden flood of uncertainty, change and confusion. Maybe somewhere deep down, that innocent confidence is still working its magic. Or maybe because I still have a few of my old pillars to lean on.  I feel like a little kid again, needing guidance at every step, requiring protection and security from familiar people and waiting to grow up so that I can understand more.  If only I could be as carefree as one!

Memories

       A friend of mine, recently having lost his grandfather to a battle against age, was fondly reminiscing to me about the good memories that he had left before he passed away. Listening to his anecdotes on the funny sayings and doings of his grandpa brought back memories of my own grandmother who passed away about six and a half years ago.

       My grandma was an unexpected and beautiful mixture. While having all the makings of a typical Brahmin grandmother – pious, religious and full of stories (and of course, invariably making us wake up to the sound of either the Suprabhatham or the Vishnu Sahasranamam on Podhigai TV every time we stayed the night at her place) – she was also an educated woman, a teacher of math and science in her time, with a fluency in English seldom seen in women of her generation. She was a delight to talk to, and managed to effortlessly receive a natural affection from her multitude of children and grandchildren. Each of us was close to her in our own way and, although I never realised it back then, she had a way of seeing the good in everybody and making them feel appreciated. It was one of the things that drew people close to her.
       She had a soft corner for mythology, which was inherited by each of us in turn, and the Mahabharatha is one of the family’s favourites. I loved the long discussions I used to have with her on the characters and the incidents in the book, with strongly opinionated debates on right and wrong, calling into question the ethical considerations of every action of every Pandava or Kaurava. Even today, whenever I discuss the Mahabharatha with anybody and need to get my facts right, the first thing that comes to mind is, “Oh man, Paati would know this!”.
       Having been around during India’s independence, she always showed signs of wanting to teach me more about Indian history. At the time, I hated history what with it being forcefully fed to me at school, and I always changed the subject when she tried to convince me. Lately, an interest in history and a thirst for knowledge seems to have developed in me, and I regret not having asked her all the questions that I have right now. I could have learnt so much from her and it saddens me that I never used the opportunity when I had it. I did, however, listen with rapt attention to a different kind of history lesson – our family’s. She told me stories of the generation before hers, of the hardships they faced, of the people that died before I was born, of the children given for adoption, of the good times, and of the tragedies. Whenever I would listen to these stories, it always felt like some interesting lore, like a new book I was reading. Now, I am older and will probably connect to it on an emotional and personal level, being able to acknowledge that they were all my family, but I doubt anybody else can quite narrate to me the way she did.
       There are a lot of other random memories that strike me now and then. I will never forget the way she used to reprimand me when I left a book open and facing downwards, and taught me the importance of using a bookmark, to prevent the damage caused to the spine of the book by not doing so. It seemed a tiny, outwardly insignificant thing, but to me, it became one of those habits that stuck. And it became one of those memories of her that will never fade. To this day, I cannot bring myself to close a book without using a bookmark, and when I see anyone leave a book open face down, I shudder at the disrespect shown towards the book, and of how disappointed my Paati would be.
       I had another flashback recently while discussing birthday cards with a friend. I recalled the card that my cousins and I had made for my grandparents’ 50th wedding anniversary. Our parents had organized festivities for the same, and we had drawn and coloured a huge card that included caricatures of all ten grandchildren and messages of best wishes from us. While the making of the card itself was a lot of fun, I also felt a great sense of pride and excitement at Paati’s reaction upon beholding it, and the way she held it with her to show it off to all our other relatives during the function! It felt really good to have contributed to making their day even more special.
       One thing I really miss about her was her signature exclamation of indignation. We were a most naughty bunch, my cousins and I. And every time we pulled one of our crazy antics, it was the cue for her to cry “Narayana!!”, with a lilt in her voice, and a tone fraught with exasperation! She had an extremely adorable way of saying it, and most of the time it only made us chuckle and egged us on further! Sometimes, I would take my mischief a step further just to hear her exclaim. When I think about it, I can still hear her just as clearly as back then – it is another of those evergreen memories that she left behind.
       I remember the evening before she died, I had talked to her on the phone and she told me to keep my parents happy and always take care of my brother. It was the last thing she ever said to me, and it was almost as if she knew.  If she knew today that I was writing about her, or that I think about her ever so often, it would make her really happy. I am glad of having had the fortune of getting as close to her as I did during the time she was with me. I am happy to have made so many memories with my Revathi Paati. :)

How I got here

It is one thing to find yourself at a loss for words, but an entirely different thing to face a dearth of outlets when you finally do find the words. It was a situation like that, which pushed me to pen down my thoughts. Of late, apart from a couple of pieces for my college magazine, my creative process was whittled down to cooking up concepts and formulae for semester exams when I didn’t remember the right answer. Then one day, a head bursting with mixed emotions, opinions and ideas took a dump in my newly opened diary, and that was when I rediscovered the joy of writing, a joy that I had long forgotten. Soon, I found myself revisiting what I had written and editing sentences and tweaking the language here and there. Feedback seemed to be the only thing missing, and I considered starting a blog. I remembered how it always annoyed me that the essays I wrote in school were expected to have more meaningful and relevant content and how it was never enough to just be fluent and expressive. Then I figured, a blog would give me all the freedom I wanted. But once I started giving it serious thought, I seemed to be at a loss again. I had a million ideas but couldn’t decide which one to pick. I thought of a book review, given how much I love reading. But once I started, I knew it would probably be as long as the book itself, with everything I had to say! Then I considered writing about a current affair, like the Delhi rape incident, or the Connecticut shooting. But, given my indignation at the events, I reflected that it was probably not the best idea for my first ever blog article to be filled with profanity. A few days ago, a Tambrahm couple started chatting with me animatedly at the airport in Hyderabad, and it got me thinking about how a common language can elevate people to a whole new level of mutual comfort. Having faced a similar situation many times from both ends, I decided that it was a promising topic, and resolved to organize my thoughts during the flight and write it down as soon as I landed. On boarding, however, my mind had different plans. My attention was attracted by an adorable little kid who was convinced that the wings of the plane were going to break. I vaguely contemplated writing about my childhood but I was too distracted by then, to give it serious thought. But it did get me thinking back to when I was little, and how I used to wait for the plane to rise above the clouds, so that I could find out if angels really lived there, like I had seen in Looney Tunes. Although I knew better since then, I still felt that familiar rush of excitement as I looked out the window and watched the world from above, the cottony white fluffs slowly and lazily gliding away to reveal the Indian coast. I gazed in awe at the sea and the alternating patches of green and brown on land. It took me back to another flight I had taken in the night, where I had looked out the window and tried to guess which patches were cities and which were villages, based on the level of electrification. Just as I thought I had managed to achieve an unwavering train of thought, I realized that the flight I was reminiscing about was the one I had taken to my convocation. And it happened all over again. All thoughts whizzed out of my brain, this time to be replaced by yearning memories of college, friends, juniors, seniors, the classrooms, the auditorium, the roads, the hostel, and a good many other things, the listing of which itself would be longer than the book review I mentioned.
All those memories came rushing back, but I still couldn’t find what I was looking for. I thought about a couple of my friends’ blogs, that I loved reading. One of them had already covered a lot of topics that I was interested in, and we are so uncannily similar in our views that if I voiced my opinion about any of the same things, he would have to sue me for plagiarism! Another friend, however, seemed to write straight from the heart, anything and everything that she thought or felt. And in the end, that is just what I proceeded to do. And for once, it feels really good not having to worry about the content! So that’s pretty much how I got here. Welcome to the place I’m going to put down all my random thoughts that I want to revisit later. Welcome to my pensieve. :)