the agency

​This place is a madhouse.

There’s someone wanting to breed cows, there’s an ex-chef of a fancy hotel, there’s an angry young man threatening to leave every day (“fuck you all!”), there’s another stumbling about drunk and grinning stupidly at everyone. There’s this chap who simply refuses to look anyone in the eye or smile, there’s a girl who blurts out what she thinks with an endearing lack of discretion. There’s the rights activist posting frantically on facebook, there’s that guy walking up and down in a silent, unnerving way, sneaking up behind our computers. There’s the world-weary, resigned chap in the corner, there’s the unperturbed illustrator lost in his own world. There’s the tomboy, with unexpected displays of girlishness, there’s the classroom bully with a heart of silly putty. There's someone killing us a little bit every day with his bad jokes, there's someone else who mysteriously disappears for really long hours during work, calling it lunch. There’s someone who laughs to himself periodically, making us all wonder whether he’s insane or whether he’s secretly laughing at our insanity.

Mornings usually begin with the santoor, go on to Telugu carnatic remixes, touching some Illaiyaraja on the way, before drifting into 90s Hindi film songs and some clean blues guitar. At exactly 10:30 a.m. every day, the gratingly overdone Nothing Else Matters is played by aforementioned angry young man with a seriousness I find amusing. On darker, busier days, Sadhguru spreads his gyan to a mix of believers and skeptics, after which plays a song about samhalofying zindagi such that it doesn’t become mauth. On some afternoons, violins and flutes spring to life, and on others, stand-up comedians on YouTube have their stage. Dog videos are regulars; whole movies are watched. There are politics, there is bitching, there are friendships. Everyone seems be ready to attack, counter, defend, prove. The energy level is high, frustration levels are higher, and heated exchanges take place every few minutes.

There are arguments, disagreements, disappointments, pull-your-hair-out moments. Heads come together to put together some brilliant stuff, whiteboards get inked in and abstract ideas bounce, fly, spin, shape up and get converted to the tangible. Brains tick, fingers type, hands draw, and the greys take on colour. Sketches are shared, criticism is selectively digested, approval is received with relief.

It’s incredibly satisfying to have cracked something and see it come to life... It's like learning animation and finding that something actually moves.

After five years in academic publishing and working with scientists, educators, researchers and professors (your typical khadi-kurta crowd), this is a breath of fresh air. After five years of Dears and Warm Regards, the lack of salutations is strangely liberating. After five years of careful, polite speech, the vocabulary took on colours within a week of being here. After five years of a silent editorial floor, the noise is more than welcome. I desperately wanted change, and that part is taken care of.

The very newness of it all is enough to sustain interest. There is constant food for the brain, there are a hundred stories and comics packed in a twelve-hour span. There are enough characters to fill a series. At the end of the day, everyone’s passionate about something, be it at work or outside work. There’s never not enough to talk about. Conversations aren’t boring. People aren't boring. Everyone comes in a distinct flavour. Everyone brings a different approach. Everyone draws a different tangent to the circle - and that's making this ride worthwhile.

A story worth telling

I was travelling to Chennai by train in a third class compartment. There were six of us – me, one uncle and four aunties. We silently stared at each other till it was time to eat, during which I made some small talk to break the staring match, and then we ran out of things to talk about so we sat and stared again till it was time for us to put up the beds and go to sleep. I was on the upper berth, much to my relief, and I gladly made my escape.

I climbed up the iron rails and heaved myself onto the berth, when suddenly I felt something cold on my arm. I looked down, and to my horror, my left arm was covered in blood, which was steadily dripping onto the blue leather. I instinctively covered my hand before opposite Uncle could see it and make a fuss. I tried to discreetly slink (well, I don’t think I can slink with my bulk, but I tried) down to see what had happened, while trying to casually retrieve a piece of cloth from my bag at the same time. Unfortunately, I was right under Uncle’s nose and he saw some blood drip from my arm. I smiled wanly at him, while he exclaimed loudly,

“OMG! You are hurt! How did that happen! OMG! Blood is coming!”

“Er, yes, Uncle, it’s nothing, not even hurting, see I’ve got some tissue...”, I said, desperately hoping to get him to lower his volume.

Meanwhile, Aunty in opposite middle berth saw what was happening, and springing up (banging her head on the upper berth in the process), started fumbling about in her handbag which she was clutching:

“Oh beta how did you hurt yourself! Wait put some cream to stop the bleeding! Tie a handkerchief round your hand! Let us ask for the first-aid box!”

And then she said this..

“Oh no beta, I only have Fair and Lovely! Will that help?”

I smiled at her and said it was really okay, and that the bleeding would stop soon. Except it didn’t.

I inched closer to the edge of the berth and noticed a large nail sticking out of the side. So that was the culprit! I examined the wound again, wondering if there were chances of an infection, wishing everyone would shut up and go back to sleep.

Meanwhile, everyone in my compartment was up, and before more suggestions were made, I asked one of the Aunties for talcum powder. Opposite Uncle suddenly looked excited and said he had a small dabba of talcum powder in his shaving kit. He scrambled down the berth, looking very pleased to be of help, switched on all the lights, pulled out a large suitcase from underneath the lower berth, and proceeded to unpack. I didn’t protest, feeling a bit silly, a bit guilty. He pulled out a bag, from inside which emerged a pouch. He unzipped it and handed me a small Ponds talcum powder dabba triumphantly. I put some on the wound, tied it up with my stole, and thanked him relievedly. I switched off the lights before any further ado and the night went on peacefully.

I went to Pondy after that, where I spent a lovely weekend playing music and watching crocodiles with the boy. I had a waitlisted ticket for my journey back to Hyderabad on the same train. My mother was travelling on the train too – both of us were in separate coaches. At the last minute, my ticket was confirmed and to my surprise, it was the same berth and compartment as it was on my onward journey. I went to my mother’s place and gave her company for some time. I told her the story of how I hurt my arm, and she said, “Of course you’re going to look out this time, considering you know there may be something on that berth that can hurt you.” We had dinner and I left back to my coach.

I held on to the ladder rails and hurriedly climbed up (I was afraid I might step on lower berth Aunty’s toes), when I felt something cold on my left arm. I looked down, and my worst suspicions had come true. I had done it again! A symmetrical, deep cut now dripped blood, just below the previous wound. I messaged my mother, who came to my berth, did some first aid and rubbed the embarrassment in.

After some time, the attender came to my berth with a giant pair of pliers, asking where this nail was. This was my mother’s doing. He yanked at the nail and pulled it out, thus ending the story.

It’s been over three years since this happened, and I still have two scars just below my elbow on my left arm. They look like they’re going to stay.

The birthday post - 27

The world is full of amazing people doing amazing things.

People kept telling me the other side of 25 sucks, but two years down, and it really hasn't been so bad.

In fact, it's been pretty kickass.

After five years in publishing, I switched jobs and joined an ad agency.
Ad agencies seem to be madhouses.

But music plays all day long, which is a plus. 

I might like to have a cat someday. I love the feeling of cats rubbing themselves against my legs.
I've gone a whole year without one train journey and it's making me miserable.

There's something about watching the whole world move in front of the window.

I like being around lots of people. Crazy, happy, nutty people having nonsensical conversations.

RC whiskey still transports me.
​I watch orca videos when I'm low.

I discovered Andy Gibb this year.

I have a crush on every other guy I meet.

My latest is this guy who washes cars near our office. Damn sweet chap, looks after our adopted stray puppy.

I've a weakness (and weak knees) for guys who are good with animals.

Also guys who make good dosas. And omelettes.

I was at the receiving end of the following comments this year:

You're cut out to be a writer, you're not cut out for advertising. (wtf?!)

You've got a cute nose. (many hours were spent examining it in the mirror)

You're full of surprises. (Now we're talking yo​.)

​How many works you have? Why you are doing so much works? When do you play? (Colleague's son, who spent a day with me at work)

Let me give you some advice. Listen carefully to people and then go ahead and do whatever the fuck you want. (This is a good strategy.)

I dislike driving in cities. 

Baby you can drive my car.. and maybe I'll love you.
I've learnt to be suspicious.
Trust doesn't come easy as you grow older.

I get a kick out of meeting people who are everything that I am not.

This new age traveller-tourist debate drives me mad. There is responsible tourism/travel and irresponsible tourism/travel. End of story.

It's like we want to define each and every thing and slot people according to the category they fall into.
We want to divide, divide, divide - whether we say it out loud or not, our minds are judging, allocating, classifying.

I am prone to feeling caged.

Open spaces attract me.

Openness attracts me.

I am impressed by people who have a single-minded focus.

I like doing multiple things at once and I've realised that's what makes me who I am.

My face is an open book. I suck at hiding what I think or feel.

I think I might be good at public speaking.
Being a Boss is tough.

Being a good one is even tougher.
I think I would like to be a Boss someday.

I'd be patient and calm and kind and inspiring and everyone would love me so...

​Family is steadying.

Love can be unsettling.

I love the sound of the mandolin.

I need to move to Bangalore.

The thought of moving abroad is just scary.

Mostly because you can't have 5 rupees chai on the roadside at 6 am.

I love white flowers. Peace lilies!
My favourite colour is green.

I hate groups that are formed by a mutual dislike for another person.
I'm an escapist more than ever now.

Try your best to keep away, but some songs just stick.
Ab blue hai paani paani paani paani paani paani

I've learnt the importance of trusting that good things will happen.

Sleep is a highly underrated activity, especially by creative people.

Good, uninterrupted, deep sleep is a blessing.

Photographs used to be such a special thing. A birthday, a family outing, a school farewell, sunset from Tiger Hill. Now they're just setting suns from everybody's balconies, new hairstyles, owls, and selfies with disproportionate forearms.
I find the word creative overrated. Again, a divide.

Everybody on this planet is creative.

I can wear kalamkari clothes all my life.
I always wanted to be dark and skinny, with curly hair. 

​I'm stubborn.

​I love making things for people.

I believe in aloe vera.

I'm a sucker for children's books.  ​

Birthdays make me happy.

​There's cake. 

I will go and kindly do the needful.

Saarang, Spandan, Pegasus, Riviera..

​I don't feel like it's been too long since we were all out in the open, feet in the air, about to hit the ground, only to take off once more, as we put all the energy in our bodies in sync with the screeching guitars. We sang in harmony, trying to hear ourselves above the vocalist, the air lifting our voices and  offering it to the vast starry sky above. Wisps of smoke wafted among us amidst the shadowy blacks. Frayed edges of jeans dragged under floaters, bits of mud sticking to them.

In the quieter corners, couples and groups of friends  huddled under the trees,  laughing, holding bottles of liquid that shone in the moonlight. Different colleges made friends by exchanging lighters, discussing the JAM or Mad Ads that were held earlier in the day. Late night matches were held - volleyball, football, tennis. Chants of every kind filled the air - winning chants, booing chants, cheering, hooting, chants in kannada, tamil, english. Orange slush was served at the stalls, congratulations were exchanged.

In the darker lanes, bushes shook with frenzied activity. The less adventurous couples walked hand-in-hand, some swaying gently. In the more frequented paths, lamp-posts stood at regular intervals, giving off a warm yellow light that bathed us all. There was something about that light.  In those three days of madness, it connected us together - a hotch-potch of faces and places - reflecting itself on tired but shining eyes, toothy smiles and knobs of acoustic guitars. It enveloped us in an energy that can only be found at college fests, and made us feel that we were all connected by a common thread. It established itself as a filter we would apply to pictures that we would revisit in future.

Suddenly all I can think of is riding my bike early in the morning to Ananda Vihara, down the road, up the hill, with the early morning chill biting my face and hands, and with the silvery sun rays through the trees. 

And I want to walk up the never ending flight of stairs, up to the entrance of the hall, look back and see the view, plump clouds that melt into blue at the horizon, the sweeping landscape of half of Secunderabad, the Buddhist monks playing downstairs with the garden hose. 

I want to sit in silence at the foot of the beautiful statue, close my eyes and get lost. 

When I get better, the first thing I'll do is this...

In your lowest lows you've really got nobody to turn to.

You can listen to some music though.

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.