thursday physics

The body is designed to take on only a certain amount. When the effort applied is herculean and the load unbearable, the fulcrum ceases to exist, causing the levers to get completely mixed up in one circus of disproportion. 

The birthday post - 26

I have decided to embrace 26.

It is, after all, one of my favourite songs by Chic.

I got introduced to disco funk this year and it changed my life.

Disco music lyrics are profound if you really listen to them.

I dislike people who dramatize issues.

Just say it like it is, dammit!

There are Boys. And there are Men. And then there is Boysz II Men. 

What impresses in a guy is boldness and clarity of thought.

I've realised that those two are closely interlinked.

Some men can really pull off beards.

There are too many people prying into other people's lives on social media. 

I'm one of them. 

I prefer American spelling to British when it comes to z's but I can't stand color. 

Not using punctuation makes me feel like an editorial rebel oh the joy

I want to grow lots of plants.

I talk to the plants I currently have.

I want to have a pet cow.

I want to memorize the Chicago Manual of Style.

I just cannot get myself to kill a mosquito; I will hide under the sheets but I just cannot kill it with my bare hands.

This year I met someone who influenced, revamped and almost completely changed my way of thinking. That counts for something...

I've got a checklist of trains I need to take.

I like going to places alone.
I like walking alone on busy streets. 

I admire people who can make quick and firm decisions.

I admire people who can stick to a decision, even if I think the decision is wrong.

I am constantly surprised at how bitchy women can be, especially groups of women.

When I'm extremely suspicious about something, there usually is reason to be. 

I trust my instinct.

Many things in life are about the right timing.

If you really want to do something, and you have the means to do it, do it now.

A few worthwhile pieces of advice I heard this year:
You don't have to tell everybody everything -- during a game of Never Have I Ever, when I got a little too excited. Don't bring your emotional baggage from one relationship into another -- when I did.

Just listen to music and be happy -- friend's advice on dealing with a bad day.

Don't curse the hand that feeds you -- overheard a rain-drenched parking lot boy saying this to another rain-drenched parking lot boy when he swore at his job.

Don't give up without a fight -- much-needed support from a dear friend over email. 

I carry everything when I travel.

I live on lists.

People say things all the time - you chose whether you let it affect you. 

I've learnt to be picky about the things I worry about. 
I think I'm becoming meaner with age.

If only I became leaner as well.

Me? Defensive?

Don't get married until you want to get married to the person you want to get married to.

Dream big. 

Look after yourself.

Laugh a lot. When the wind changes, at least your face will be stuck looking happy.

The Western Ghats remain my favourite destination.

Put things in writing.

I'm simply awful at remembering faces. I invited the office electrician to my cubicle to 'have a chat' thinking he was my typesetter. He still looks at me expectantly every time I run into him on the stairs.

I can't sit still.

Media has power.

I like big groups of people.

I love home parties.

I hate being called a cute comics girl.
I'm not 'cute' and I'm not 'bubbly'. I'm a brooding artist. So there. 

My favourite movie of all time is still Kuch Kuch Hota Hai.

Checked shirts make me happy.

I once went to a mall with a friend who picked clothes that fit me perfectly - and I bought all of them a size bigger, much to her despair.

I love going to the gym. It's a mental workout. 

I want to draw and write for the rest of my life.

Sleep is a solution.

Our driver is investing all his resources into educating his son who wants to be an engineer. It is both heart-warming and heart-rending to see.

We can be oblivious to sacrifices that our parents make (as Indian kids especially). 

I'm always surprised to find that there is still an ABBA song I don't know in spite of having devotedly listened to them for most of my childhood.

I want to do up a house from scratch one day. 

Life is short - give and live whole-heartedly. 

Eat those apples, take your vitamins and be healthy. 

I have learnt to forgive and let go, one of the hardest lessons I learnt this year. 

Okay, I'm still learning. 

I found my way around on two wheels this year. 

Four wheels happening soon. 

I would like to learn an Indian classical instrument.

I'm adamant. 

I dislike watching movies most of the time unless it's a movie I pick.

That meaning of that dislikable word, prioritize, makes a lot of sense. 

I have trouble doing pedicures - I feel like apologising every time someone touches my feet. 

Showers, hot or cold, bring rationale to me.

No matter how much you edit, there will always be that teeny thing you missed out.

I love to sing.

I'm switching to drinking only wine.

Girl friends are irreplaceable.

Oranges are my favourite fruit.
Being single can be exhilarating.

Being in love can be steadying.

I am incredibly grateful for the people around me.

I am touched by all the love. It's overwhelming.
I sound like MJ now.

I dislike living alone.

I've been told I'm a difficult person to live with.

I'm a walky talky bunch of contradictions and I think that gets on everybody's nerves. 

26 is going to be amazing.

MySpace

It is when I listen to George Benson while cutting tomatoes, frying onions and learning how to fold tortillas from a YouTube video in an empty house that I feel like I am in a space where nobody can touch me.

After three days of PMSing and feeling hopeful, sad, relieved and heartbroken all at the same time I spent a blissful Sunday evening cooking. 

I usually have three ways of dealing with stress - taking a shower, walking and cleaning. Showering works particularly when I'm angry - I feel the water running down from my hair to my toes takes away stored thoughts and emotions and preps me to start afresh. Toss in a strong, violent shower gel and that'll keep me going for weeks. 

Walking, of course, is a form of meditation in itself. There are few things I like more than the mindless movement of my legs, one after another, in a continuous, lulling motion. In Vellore, my walks were my manna - my secret escapades into paddy fields and places undiscovered. I walked in rubber chappals and old clothes that had were torn and dotted with holes from thorn bushes I'd inadvertently walk into. In a city, I do the city thing - walk briskly in big shoes with my ipod plugged into my ears with the volume on ridiculous levels. Inside the joggers' park, there are usually too many people walking in a limited space -- too  many calves in a blur in front of me -- some salwar-clad, some plump, some hairy, some toned and muscular. Too many ambling groups of people blocking the path, so I have to clear my throat loudly so that they move and give me space to proceed. So I find it easier to walk outside the park, where I encounter the daily dogs and uncles and aunties, with an exchange of friendly waves and nods spreading the much-needed morning warmth. 

And then sometimes I clean. Re-arranging books, scrubbing the carpet, washing clothes, all with loud music on makes me feel like I'm ridding the world of some of its sins. I clean with a vengeance. I clean like the PM's coming to visit. I iron my shirts keeping symmetry in mind. Oh cleaning is something I do rarely, but when I do it, I go all out.  And so at least once in ten days I put my mind, body and soul into bringing law and order into my otherwise chaotic universe. What a joy it can be.

Cooking is the new activity I've taken to recently. Today, after a particularly irritating day and a terrible backache, I walked to Ratnadeep (a store where I can spend hours and hours picking veggies and breads). After spending a considerable amount of time looking celery sticks, different brands of canned corn, hunting for extra black kohl (so I can step into my goth look next week), and wondering what Jockey undies are doing next to the utensils section, I walked out in a daze. At home, I arranged my ingredients in the kitchen with a sort of reverence, plugged in George Benson with the volume on neighbours-are-gonna-call levels, and set about spraying my pan with olive oil and sauteing my veggies. I dumped - no, I placed the tortillas on a microwave plate and meanwhile, looked at a hundred videos of how to fold tortillas. Having got it right the first time, I took photos of the second time and sent it to various people expectantly. Maybe I overdid it and sent too many pics because nobody replied. 

But who cares? I cooked. I de-stressed. I Grooved to Georgie. It was an evening bloody well spent. And now to tuck into the tortilla-frankie-burrito-creations with mother and watch Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani on TV.

Gah, as Mr Goon would say

​

I've been editing a book of stories about successful entrepreneurs and the wonderful, meaningful work they're doing, how they're impacting and changing lives and what not. It's full of oh-so-inspirational messages to budding entrepreneurs about following your dream and cliched junk like that. It makes me want to get off my ass and do it all at once, so I suppose the cliched junk is working.

I read a Hindi essay in school in which the author talks about 'drawing room heroes'. The concept of a drawing room hero is about one who sits in front of the TV and watches these amazing things people are doing out there and says "whoa! I'm gonna do just that!" and is inspired as long as he's in the 'drawing room', but by the time he walks to another room in his house, the feeling fades. Not the best explanation, but you get what I mean. And it applies to me too:  by the time I get home nowadays, dream or no dream, I really want to just sleep.

Sometimes I question my worth and what I'm doing and where the hell I'm heading and when I am going to "get there". What is this Tap basin sink etc.

Must get back to that Karmanye Vadhikaraste business.

I fell face forward on the office stairs today and possess a swollen thigh. Since this blog is turning out to be an angsty vent,  why not add the dear diary element to it?

I've been going back to one of the stories to read this:

Having a vision is essential: it should be a vision that is subject to adjustment in the face of a changing environment. Goals, on the other hand, remain constant, as does the work essential to achieve those goals.

Dammit dammit dammit!

profound

​

​When you really want someplace else, here is shoved right into your face. ​

Lyrical

​I've known some songs forever and ever but I've never bothered to listen to their lyrics properly. Once in a while, the words of a song will suddenly make themselves heard. Here are some lyrics that spoke to me of late.

1. Oo, loneliness will blind you
In between the wrong and the right 

-One of these nights, Eagles 

I always sang it as: 

Oo, loneliness will find you
In between the wrong and the right 

which I think makes more sense to me. I think both hold true.

2. More wisdom.

I guess every form of refuge has its price

 -Lyin' eyes, Eagles

3. This one has to be the one I worked hardest at "by-hearting" and singing along with when I was in school. And only now I realise what they're saying. Super funky lyrics. The rest of the song is pretty awesome too.

...And I am taken to a place where
Your crystal mind and
Magenta feelings take up shelter
In the base of my spine... 

-I want you, Savage Garden 

4. The next one is bloody corny, yet so romantic. One of their best songs. 

I am the man
who loves you inside and out
backwards and forwards with
my heart hanging out

-Love you inside out, Bee Gees

5. Kickass song, and what an intro.

Oh what a feeling I get when I'm with you
You take my heart into everything you do  

- Bad love, Eric Clapton 

6. A reminder, no matter how cliched, we all need. Probably one of the catchiest, best sing-along choruses ever.

So tonight gotta leave that nine to five upon the shelf
And just enjoy yourself
Groove, let the madness in the music get to you
Life ain't so bad at all

- Off the wall, MJ

7. A reminder of a different kind.

We're looooooost in the middle of a hopeless world

-Children of the Moon, Alan Parsons Project

8. I like how disco music has quite brilliant lyrics if only you stop to listen to it. 

Now you've got yours

What about me? 

-What about me, Chic

To keep in touch
All you need is love and music
To keep you satisfied please use it

-We got music, Incognito 

------------------------------------------

It's really all in the way they're sung. 

a childhood made of dreams

I don't know where my parents procured the Magic Toothbrush from, but it remains, to this day, the single most fascinating thing I have ever seen in my life. My brother and I woke up one day to find that we had just willed the 'changing colour' toothbrush to jump straight out of the TV ad into our hands. We carefully filled a mug full of hot water and dipped the brushes in it, waiting in anticipation. And sure enough, the purple toothbrush turned into a blush of pink and my brother's red into a happy yellow. (Ei my colour is better!, I told him triumphantly.)

And so every morning we spent a considerable amount of time dipping the toothbrushes in hot water, waiting for them to change colour, and watching them gradually fade back to their original colours while we brushed. In the household's morning madness of only-one-hour-running-water, dubbas to be packed and tiffins to be carried, the event of brushing our teeth suddenly assumed prime importance. 
 
We were fortunate enough to live just across the street from Walden, one of Hyderabad's best-loved bookstores, and next to Prime Time,' the dashing-car place'. And of course, we were fortunate enough to have parents who walked us across that street. Baker's Inn was a stone's throw away, and soon, Pizza Inn, one of Hyderabad's first pizza outlets came up behind it. There's a secret underground passage between the two, my brother told me, in hushed tones. Only I know about it. I'll take you some day. He never did.

I worshipped my brother for many years of my childhood. He was So Cool. He taught me to blow Big Babol bubblinggum bubbles. He read to me every night the abridged version of Count of Monte Cristo (which, for the longest time, I called CountayMontay Cristo). He took me on bike rides. He was Star Swimmer in Secunderabad Club, another place which adopted us when we were kids. He could do Scary Folded Eyelids. He taught me to play book cricket and 'house, hut, palace'. He got home tamarind seeds from his school, and I rubbed them against each other all day, trying to make a fire. He taught me swear words (unintentionally). But his Hero status ended abruptly, when, one night, I was woken up by a ghostly, ghastly apparition hovering over me, moving its pseudopodia-like arms about furiously. BOOOOOO, it rumbled at me menacingly. AAAAAAHHH!!, I screamed. When my parents pulled the bedsheet off his face, I went to bed furious, resolving to be a better judge of character in future.

And then there was the Curious Case of the Cupboard Cricket.  A Godrej almirah stood like a morose sentinel in the room that my brother and I shared. Every night it would emit a series of shrill chirps, following which Anna would give it a bang, and the noise would stop. After five minutes, it would start again. What is this cricket? I asked my mom. She said it was a harmless insect. I rummaged about at the back of the cupboard one day trying to find it. I had (thankfully) never seen a cricket before. (The sight of crickets today makes me jump like I'm one of their own.) I didn't find the insect, but I found an old giant pop-up birthday card instead.
 
Pop-up cards were something. So were yo-yos. So were my dad's beautiful letterhead papers that he carefully brought for me from various hotels that he stayed in. And then there were my mom's cakes. And Diwali sweets. And Holi pitchkaris. And notebook labels with cartoons on them. Balloons from Tank Bund were a special treat. And Lucky Dips.  And cups I would fill with soap water and blow bubbles out of with a straw (I later graduated, with the help of the maid, to blowing rin soap bubbles right off my hand). Santa came to Walden every Christmas. The annual house-washing event was also looked forward to with enthusiasm because the soapy floor favoured skating adventures. 
 
Summers were spent in my grandparents' place in Gujarat, where my cousins and I grew up eating mangoes, getting into neighbourhood fights, adopting street cows and generally having a notoriously gala time. We slept on the terrace on rajais, after having had puri-Shrikhand and having listened to my uncle's bedtime stories under the night sky. My grandfather was a great storyteller too - tales of the Trojan horse, anecdotes from the Mahabharat, quotes from Wodehouse, his own experiences as a teacher. In Chennai, another uncle, a sailor, told me stories of his travels, of ships and whales and tornados, and I waited patiently for an octopus to show up in them. A older cousin once came home and taught us to make boats of paper and camphor and float them in our bath buckets.
 
School was an altogether strange and surreal world. Maria placed cracker (balsam) seeds on her tongue, upon which they exploded. She could also walk on her hands. It was my dream to excel in similar feats. There were skeletons in the lab (that came alive at night with glowing red eyes) and crocodiles in the drain. There was piano class, where you could open up a piano to see the hammers hitting the strings. SUPW taught us to make jumping frogs out of paper. There was groupism and tree-climbing and ice-cream uncle and there were fights and tears and iodine knees. There were competitions and choir practice and dramatics (where I appointed myself as pianist for fear of being made an inanimate object).

Out of school hours, I was made, like many other kids, to learn Bharatnatyam and Carnatic music. When I hit a couple of notes on the Casio, my parents enrolled me for piano lessons. I made a get-well-soon card for my brother with a pig's face on it - and this, taken to be the sign of a budding artist - prompted my parents to send me to a variety of art and craft classes. And so I learnt to stitch odd-looking soft toys, paint on glass, mould pots and flowers from POP, pencil-sketch, carve sola wood, make gift boxes, write calligraphy, and what not. Happy with the fruits of their encouragement, my parents tried badminton and tennis on me but soon discovered that I was a lazy lump of lard. I did enjoy periodically poking the touch-me-nots growing by the court, though.
 
We also travelled quite a bit, during which the family transformed into a bunch of jokers. My dad worried about shower pressure in hotels. My mother worried about wild animals and about my brother, who went Too Close to Edges. I gambolled along gaily. In Hyderabad, we went annually to the P C Sorcar magic show and to my favourite childhood haunt, the Birla Science Museum and Planetarium. Trips to Softy Den and Pick N Move spelt Heaven.

Looking back, I feel that in more ways than many, exposure just landed on my plate. The simplest of simple things made a difference. Sometimes, my mother would deliver the love in the form of two dots and a smile of ketchup on a round uttappam. My parents, brother, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbours, teachers at school, teachers at various hobby classes, school friends, hobby-class friends, parents of friends, maids, drivers, watchmen, other apartment inhabitants, grocery shop uncles - everyone played an exclusive role in gifting me a glorious, magical, happy childhood. A childhood that is tangible when I rub two tamarind seeds against each other and press them on my palm, feeling the sweet, familiar thrill of their warmth.

finding my tongue

When I was a kid, music was my thing. When someone asked me what my hobby was, I said "playing the piano". When asked what I liked to do in my free time I said "I play the piano". I was the kid who bunked sports to go sit at rusty pianos in a musty, dark room. I was subsequently punished for bunking throwball. I knelt on a tar field, tears streaming down my face, not because of humiliation, but because I wanted to go back and continue playing. I was never a performer. I managed to pass a few Trinity grades, but I disliked being asked to play for an audience. I was happy when I was alone with a piano, both of us isolated, cocooned warmly by the knowledge that nobody would come by for a long time.

That was a good fifteen years ago.

Things are the same today. I have never been a band person. I'm still not much of a performer though I like having someone to sing. I'm a pathetic jammer. But now, I don't find the contentment I used to. Playing music has become less of a vent and more of a bother. I think it's because I understand more now. Had I not started listening to Keith Jarret or Chick Corea, I would've been a happier person as a musician. I would've strung a bunch of chords together and been content. But now, I know what I want something to sound like, and I can't get that sound out of my system. And I want to spare myself from my own audience.

It is frustrating to be able to understand something and be unable to reproduce it. It also frustrating that what you once thought you were a natural at suddenly seems alien. I hate having to make an effort to play music. Just be free, they say.  Let go. At which point I let my fingers wander over the notes aimlessly, modulating, dying into meaninglessness.

Translating abstract into words, verse and sentences is different. I get a kick out of writing exactly what's in my head. It satisfies, encourages, absorbs, relieves. I don't have a role model to follow. I just sit down and talk. I see a picture in my head and I can repaint it exactly the same way without using visuals. I feel a feeling and I can recreate that feeling - or at least, the memory of it. I don't have to try to be good, or try to be interesting. I don't write for a reader. I don't have to try. The ease of expression is liberating.

Writing is my thing.

.

It is often said we should celebrate the life that one has lived and cherish the good times. After he has transcended this earth to a place where they hopefully serve kuska and butter chicken, today, a year after his departure, the rest of us must make some time to remember him.

I met him first at a gig where I think I was playing a few notes on the keyboard which we all hoped would compensate for the lack of a bass player. It was that grating Staind song about being outside and looking in, or some similar junk which I feel too old to recollect now. He was playing with another band - some power metal type sound. After the gig, he came up and started talking to me about music - turned out we didn't have a single band in common - and thus began the frantic exchange of CDs and hard disks.

I realised quickly that he was smart - in an understated, unaffected way. He had a mind that broke down things into little bits - he was completely logic-driven and I was at the other end of the spectrum - completely emotion-driven. Which is why I ran to him for relationship advice and he saw me through lots of ups and downs on the graph, even (somewhat unwillingly) playing mediator at times. We spent hours talking earnestly about life and its meaning like most almost/early twenty-somethings do.

He was a man of few words. But when he said something, it made a lot of sense. How many of us sought him when things went wrong? And he would calmly listen, smoking his Gold Flake and grinning that lopsided grin. Sometimes you could hear him grin that grin on the phone. How many of us remember that song he composed on the guitar? He'd play that over and over again, the main tune neatly worked out, but always getting stuck at a point, always looking for lyrics, always ending up looking frustrated!

We had a crazy friendship - we called each other names, we judged, we were hilariously sarcastic (okay, he was), we were tough. I'm reading some old chats now and they make me laugh out loud (me: hey I got a raise! he: you're a rich bitch). He knew exactly where I went wrong. He would skip all the in-betweens and get straight to the point, forcing me to step back and find fresh perspective. He never told me what to do - he left it for me to decide, except when he got tired of my whining. But he said what he had to say, and I have to admit that he was mostly right.

Six years he formed an inseparable part of my life, a constant part. Steady in between months of no contact, when priorities changed, when we lost touch with other friends, when we had a hundred other things to do. But at the end of the day, we made time for each other, we stayed connected, and that's what makes a beautiful friendship.

Rest in peace. Your favourite Extreme song.

the birthday post - 25

SILVER JUBILEE!!!
Must celebrate this quarter with many quarters, halves and fulls!
So many people called and wished and gifted...
I know it's the thought that counts and all that but I love getting gifts.

I was asked by a bunch of people to write the budday post this year.
Wow, people actually read this stuff.

They did interviews and put me off in the papers last year - it was all very fascinating.
They asked me to pose and all - tilt head this side maydum, put hand there, smile more, leave hair, pose behind those leaves, etc.
It was great fun.

All the sudden publicity this year has been a bit scary..
So I'm deciding to be all mysterious and inaccessible from now on. Ha.

Last year, I learnt to say no.
I also learnt to say fuck off very politely.
I've grown thick skin. 
I don't dwell on things anymore.

Dealing with things is much easier now because I've learnt that nothing is the end of the world.

Wait - I'll say that in 2013.

Last year, I said I should become a travel writer.
This year, I did!

I lost a close friend this year.

The permanency of the loss is awful.

I moved forward last year and I am proud to have left behind all the baggage.
Which reminds me, I lost my luggage (containing valuables) at Singapore airport and, till the time they found it, all I could think about was the stuff that were gifted to me by various people.
I am clearer, more focussed and (maybe sadly) less sensitive.
I have learnt to be picky about those I let in.

I don't understand abstinence.
Why be miserable without eating the stuff you like when you can afford to?
I love Egg Factory.
I love all manifestations of egg except the egg itself in whatever-boiled form.

I have been deliriously happy.
Comic Con was an exhilarating experience and I was touched by the number of people who supported me.
I am an expressionist.
I don't care if your perspective is wrong or your limbs are misshapen as long as the drawing speaks to me.
It's a convenient excuse for me cuz I can't draw.

I get excited by code. I would have made a good coder.
Website design could totally be my thing.
I surprise myself every time I frame a sentence or draw a drawing that says exactly what I want to say.

I get irritated by inefficiency.

I hate slowness.
I know what I'm good at and what I'm not good at.
I am spoilt, pampered and very very lucky.
Having good friends at work is important.

In a guy, I admire confidence, focus and kindness.
In a person, contentment is what I believe is a beautiful, essential quality.
I look up to people who are driven.
I am hopelessly attracted to guys who are good with animals.
Beards are another thing.

No matter what the situation, my dad is always right.

Always.

I have fulfilled my dream of getting a (purple) two-wheeler. Vroom.
I thought it was filful in school - like fill till it's full, you know? Makes more sense.
Until last month, I always thought "many happy returns of the day" referred to return gifts at parties. 
Clearly, there's no guessing who's the clown in the family.

A friend taught me the importance of distraction.
You cannot be sad forever and you cannot sulk forever.
You have got to do things that make you happy cuz you're the only one in control.

You have to do things that aren't you, just to see what it feels like.
And so I discovered gym! It really helps mental fitness.
I also danced in front of other people but thankfully nobody remembers.

I am repetitive.
I am blessed with a wide circle of friends ranging from engineers and doctors to artists and hippies (even engineer-hippies) and all of them have something to teach me.

In art, I like detail only if it is meaningful.
No matter how many friends you have, school friends will always be in that wonderfully special zone where you can automatically pick up where you left of.
I have more than a handful of friends whom I have met online and gone on to meet in person.
Bangalore still remains my happy city.

I am emotionally a lot more independent than I used to be.
I think KKHH can still make me cry - the part where Rahul tells Anjali he loves her when he actually is rehearsing to tell Tina.
I'm going to write a picture book some day.
I warm to white space.
Bryan Adams can still make me sing along to him.

Travel consoles. That going going going feeling - it's peaceful.
The only series I've ever been addicted to is Grey's Anatomy.
I even dreamt that I had lost my job, but no worries! I got offered a position at Seattle Grace, and the cast welcomed me warmly on board.

I miss rain. Real, hard, pouring, cleansing rain.
I miss the mad, crazy, adventurous person I was in Vellore.
I'm learning to say goodbye to grey areas and, while I'm proud of it, it makes me feel grown-up in a slightly sad way.
But there are a great many other wonderful things to look forward to.

If you have any questions about life, please ask me and I will share some of the gyan.
I'm 25 now you know.

To be or not to be in the mighty Himalayas

Eight of us stood in the midst of the Himalayas in Sikkim, Northeast India, looking uncertainly at the landslide before us. The storm had moved great chunks of mud and rock downwards, birthing a gushing waterfall that blocked the road and surged down the mountain with a resounding roar. The travel agency had told us there would be a jeep waiting for us on the other side. If we get to the other side at all, I thought to myself, looking at the steep drop. Army men had gathered at the site to help travellers across. 

A loud bang suddenly shook all of us, and instinctively, we ducked behind the jeeps. ‘Terrorists!’ screamed my mother. Slightly amused by this dramatic outburst, the army guys explained to us that an alternative way was being built and that was the sound of the dynamite. We stood a few feet away from the waterfall, the spray already starting to wet our clothes. Our cook, a tall, burly man, who was accompanying us on our journey from Gangtok to Lachung, went first. He accidentally knocked his bottle of kerosene against a rock and the lid disappeared, demonstrating to us a possible fate. My brother, adventure-hungry as always, started heroically wading across the water. I, mumbling prayers to myself, gingerly stepped forward on a mossy rock. I slipped, and of that one second, I only remember the noise and the horror of finding nothing to hold on to. But almost immediately, I felt myself being hauled up quickly by a pair of strong arms and I found (to the delight of my 13-year old mind) myself looking into the eyes of an army jawan. There was no time for a fairytale romance, though--I was deftly carried across and deposited on the other side--he got back to business. By then, my brother had managed to get my parents, my aunt and uncle across. Our guide, a Gorkha man, lightly skipped across the slippery rocks like it was child's play. 

Once on the other side, we spent some time grinning stupidly at each other, triumph and relief reflected on all our faces. We swapped stories and pleasantries with other travellers. While we waited for our pick-ups, we took in the scene once again, slowly and in awe. Rugged mountains surrounded us, with white streams of water surging through them. Snow-capped peaks lay in the distance and there was an ominous stillness in the air. We sat by the side of the road on our suitcases, and watched the crowd disappear in lots into their vehicles. An hour passed and there was no sign of our jeep. We were the only ones left. My dad and uncle walked down the road but didn't come across any signs of civilization. Our unspoken fears manifested themselves in irate exchanges. ‘The kerosene smells,’ said my dad crossly. ‘The lid fell off,’ I informed him. ‘It smells terrible,’ he complained, ‘Close it.’ ‘We're going to get eaten up by wild animals,’ whispered my mother. ‘You never know what's gonna come out of the trees.’ I hoped for a yeti. The clouds darkened and hung above us threateningly. It was still early evening, but we were enveloped in the thickest of greys. Strange unfamiliar sounds penetrated the air--birds, animals and insects--adding to our nervousness. ‘There may be tigers around,’ my mother said. ‘No tigers here,' our guide supplied helpfully. 'Only bears.' 

We huddled together miserably, lost in reveries of our sane, safe lives at home. A couple of hours later, we heard a dull drone in the distance. It grew louder and an army jeep appeared. We flagged it down frantically and explained our situation to the driver. He was on duty and was going downhill. Looking at our desperate faces, he offered to hitch us a ride, provided we didn't reveal ourselves at the check-points. We all crammed into the backseat, the giant of a cook stepping on my little toe. All through the journey, I scowled at him. He, in turn, held the kerosene bottle close to dad’s nose and our Gorkha man hummed Nepali songs cheerfully. A good five hours later, we reached Lachung, a sleeping village that welcomed us into an idyllic cottage with the river Teesta rippling through the frontyard. Our cook, forgetting his sullenness, beamed at all of us and went on to prepare a delightful, warm and well-deserved dinner.

bittersweet

It's been three years since  I left Chennai, a city that has meant various things to me at various points in time. From family weddings, nadaswarams and crowded marriage halls, it suddenly transformed itself into a hub for gigs, hordes of friends and house parties. It also meant different people at different points in time. I've always been attached to places I've lived in but Chennai had a different kind of power - it was a place which could make me ecstatic, afraid, content and lonely. Very unlike the standard happy high Bangalore offers.

It used to be Madras for the longest time. A Madras of endless tongue-twister names of neighbourhoods. Of having to wear mallipoo at weddings. Of cousins and well, lots of cousins. Of a favourite uncle and Marina beach. And then it was about hurried, calculated train rides. To eat pizza. It became Chennai of - Chennai train eppo? - at the Katpadi station. Short trips were followed by longer visits for Saarang, JRO, Festember and the other inter-college fests. We all did the same things, I think. Many of us girls bought silver rings at Spencers. We all went to Sparky's. We all went to Landmark. We all went to Fruit Shop on  Greams Road everywhere but on Greams Road. Some made their presence felt in the party scene. Those of us who didn't listened to fascinating stories of R's beach house and the events that took place there. Gradually, the city grew important to me because of less than a handful of people, 2 or 3 regular eating joints, one street, one bookshop and about two familiar routes.

Loyola brought all kinds of change. There was joy in meeting new people, whole sets of new friends - and then there was the confusion and the angst of a twenty something. There were fun train rides and there were sleepless nights. There was the grand thrill which the Loyola air offered - a grand big college sitting among grand tall trees - with all sorts of grand activities taking place inside as well as outside the gates of the campus. There was the excitement of the new, but the apprehensions as well. My whole life revolved in and around Nungambakkam - and it took me around in circles with its maddening one-ways.  Endless walks in the area usually ended in mallu food at Crescent, a peep into Just Casuals or a stop to buy groceries - usually a comforting packet of curds. There was chaos.

Chennai forced separate worlds to converge and clash -- my memories alternate between dreamlike and nightmarish. Every day saw an emotional graph akin to the temple border of a silk saree. There were happy times, like those on the beach, with water swirling around my feet, cleansing and therapeutic. But the aftermath remained - the nagging, uncomfortable feeling of sand adamantly sticking in between my toes. When I left, I left with the feeling of not having made peace with the city. I haven't gone back since and I am yet to find out what now might be like.

I seem to have a love-hate relationship with Chennai. And revisiting that place would mean another layer formed over pre-existing lasagna-like layers. Despite what the new brings, I hope not to forget -- even a little -- the ones buried beneath.

But that's inevitable.

Fresh

Feels good to be back.

fork

You've got two options.

1. Be happy
2. Keep others happy

Pick wisely.

happy hours

from the terrace you could see the most beautiful colours -- golden pink and orange lending a sunset backdrop to the tall airtel tower.

it was a pale green house, nestled in the thick overgrowth that fringed the railway tracks.  an alarmingly tall weed plant once sprung up near the compound wall, growing to fame very quickly, and disappearing as suspiciously as it had appeared. when it rained, the ground would get muddy and slushy, and the mud would suck in the rolling wheels adamantly.

all the residents of the house had great big hearts, including the dog, who had a special online presence. we ate, drank, watched movies, laughed, philosophised, tripped. all of us who went in came out with stories. chappals were chewed up by the friendly neighbourhood cow (who was accused of eating up the weed plant too), monkeys stole chocolates off the window ledge, five computers mysteriously disappeared one day.

there was the familiar noise of people playing dota/cs, there was music playing on the comp outside, there was somebody watching a movie, everybody chilling. there was a nice, cosy drinking spot near the water tank that always overflowed. there was peace lazing around and it was contagious.

the house is painted purple now, the weeds cleared up.

exclusive

I heard my old self today, when I spoke to him. I hadn't spoken to (and hardly thought about) him in almost a year. We always had a warm, light-hearted friendship and laughed a great deal. I realised today, as I laughed with him on the phone, that over a year, nobody else had made me feel that way. and it suddenly struck me, how each and every person - from your next door neighbour at work to the milkman you barely glance at - is utterly irreplaceable.

under this ficus tree

lesson learnt last year: beauty is attachment. if we were all detached we might as well be inanimate. 


we've been put here in this world to be worldly.
what's the point in withdrawing?
what's the point of trying to find reasons? 
what's the point of trying to find a beyond? 
life's too short.
there is only here and now. 
take at face value, i say. be materialistic, be happy.

this year, i shall strive towards being horrifyingly superficial and delightfully shallow.

the birthday post - 24

24!

Almost silver.
Another year of accumulating many questions, some answers and lots of world-wisely gyan.
Travel took me places.
My love for reading has resurfaced. And how!
It's taking me places too.

Drawing is my own little trip.

No matter how much I crib about Delhi, I fall in love with the place a little more each time I visit.
Bangalore makes me happy in a way no other city does.
Chennai brings peace and nostalgia.
I should be a travel writer. I feel it in my bones.

You can never run out of places to see in India. 

I can spend all my life discovering the Western Ghats. 

Pick one place and explore it thoroughly, make it your own. 

Last year I said love is what you want it to be, this year I say love is where you want it to be.

I daydream a lot lesser. Sign of aging I suppose?

After years, listening to someone playing the piano feels like manna for the starved soul--my scattered jazz lessons are changing my life.
I have a huge complex about playing the piano.
The inability to reproduce what I hear/improvise makes me want to cry.
I feel I can only say what I want when I write.
Writing helps me organise my thoughts.

I hate talking. I don't open up easily.

I went through a mala phase where I wore one mala to work every day.

I don't speak clearly.
Even more so when I hear nice voices on the phone.
Yesterday a nice male voice called me--I didn't get what it said--I tripped over my sorry/pardon-and ended up saying "Sodden?"
It's like playing the piano. I trip and get mixed up.
I really dislike the two-step beat. 

I want to be able to write songs--put music to the words in my head.
Then also, I want to play the bass.
What is it with men and female bassists?

Picking a masters is very,very difficult.
I am drawn towards people who are self-made and independent. Entrepreneurs impress me.
Especially because I know I could be there if I wanted to. But I'm a big, big chicken.
I shall no longer be one. Starting NOW.

There can be no two people you react to the same way - every relationship is incredibly different.
Each person teaches you something about yourself.
Each person exposes a new you.

I met someone who turned my world upside down.
Or maybe turned it the right way up.

The feeling of wet mud below bare feet gets me high.
Paddy-field magic.

You really cannot put things in perspective until you get out and get yourself into shit. Ask me, ask me.

Time solves.
Time dissolves.

An unexpected apology from someone after three years was the most humbling thing that happened to me this year.
I feel like a new person now. I shall henceforth never, ever judge anybody.
All grudges shall sublime, peace will reign and a halo will fix itself above my head.

I stopped putting up a lot of writing on a public space.
I write like crazy, though.

You can be incredibly intimate without being physical.
I've become closeder but I want to be freeer.

One click of the mouse can work wonders.
I discovered my love for riding two-wheelers.

I'm a klutz.
Look-one bruise, two bruise, three..
My biggest fears are crickets and cockroaches.

I want to have a pet someday.
Reptiles fascinate me.
I would like a large green scaly monitor lizard soft toy.

New cities can be liberating.

The only thing that really calms me down is a hot shower.
The second thing is walking.

I love walking in new places.
Mostly alone.
I can't take in new places with a large group of people.
It's distracting.

My ability to multitask is steadily decreasing but is sharpening focus.

Family matters like nobody else.

I've mellowed down.
Mellowing down can be awfully scary.
I realised I like being alone a lot of the time.

I was extremely outgoing in college,  now social interaction can be bit draining.
I've got to come home to quiet.

I am awfully attached to places. More than people. Awfully attached.

I surprise myself all the time.

If somebody loves you, they will make an effort to keep you. That loving and setting free saying is bullshit.

I'm always trying to hold on to things.
Somebody once told me "Your ultimate goal is being together. My ultimate goal is just being.."

Argh, these drifters.. Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em.

Pride is a spur.
Ego toughens.

I love teaching. Something tells me it's my calling.

I'm way too conscious for my own good, and way too cautious.
I've had people telling me to "chill out" over the past one year more than I ever have.
I suffer from the inability to relax and let go.
Relaxing is my agenda for 24.

The most intelligent and sensitive people I have met are trippers.
Not sure I can say it the other way round.
I used to think hashbrowns were made of hash.
Imagine my horror at being offered hashbrowns at the Singapore airport.

Things always sort themselves out.

Everything's an experiment.

Try and err.

roommates

The room was large, airy and overlooked vast dry fields with the highway snaking through them. You could see the brown horizon-hills through the early morning mist, the forest fires burning quietly in summer, and the mysterious blue bus that went past every morning at 7. Our delight knew no bounds. This was a room we had chosen as ours. It was a room that did not have whitewash peeling off the walls cornering the floor with fresh white powder everyday. The chuna had been one of our greatest problems the previous year and had been a great source of dismay to whoever took pains to sweep the room. Though Dee rearranged the furniture every two months in hope of making more space, that room stayed stuffy and overcrowded. But this new place was paradise.  This was the stuff of daydreams.

Three iron beds sat at comfortable distances from each other. Three almirahs, their doors covered in half-peeled stickers and grafitti of last year, were soon stuffed with clothes, cosmetics, footwear, books and other once-considered-indisposable items that sat unused, in doleful hope of proving their worth someday. Dee's space was undoubtedly the cleanest, with her bed made, things neatly in place and cupboard nice smelling because of soap covers hidden under the newspapers. Alpi stacked so many things in her cupboard that you couldn't tell if it was messy. Mine betrayed signs of a compulsive hoarder.

We hardly ever hung out outside the room, but constantly made plans to tour the country. We planned and prepared birthday surprises for each other. We discussed school life (ah, the joys of icse!). We covered for each other. We gossiped. We washed clothes at midnight. We got high during the rains. We took care of drunks. We moved together room to room and lost things. We cribbed about the lost items till we'd lose something else. We shared goodies from home. We knew each other's secret places for hiding keys. Sometimes these secret places gave away other secrets. We saw each other through some alarming episodes of sleepwalking.

We endured each other's eccentricities with great forbearance -  Dee's hypochondria, Alpi's hyperactivity and my mood swings. Dee cribbed about feeling sleepy during exams. I cribbed about late night noise. Alpi cribbed about poor quality rotis. We all cribbed about the crows.

When we moved out, we contributed to the room in our own ways, leaving several bits of cellotape on the wall with remnants of posters stuck to them,  agarbatti stands by the desks (the night Dee thought there were ghosts in the room and we had to get rid of them by calling upon holy forces) and colourful clothes clips, which some juniors must be grateful to us for.

the return

To have close friends unexpectedly move to the city you live in can be elating.