did you write something yet? --3

It is getting really easy to name these posts (hehe!)

The 'hehe' in the end is a complete lie. Not sure if I am the only one who has to trudge through the slush of serious birthday/newyear/some-arbitrary-point-on-the-calendar related blues wearing cotton socks. My cerebral cortex activity takes me on these exhausting treks and I am an unwilling puppy tugging on the leash in my attempts to release free.

I write this to snuggle in the warmth of a life excerpt (I discovered my fascination for stories dating back to when Siddharth and I would hold our badi dadi (everybody calls her Didi) hostage for them while lying width-wise on a khatiya. The dimensions on the jute-rope cot were such that while us little people fit just fine, our badi-dadi was forced to curl her legs awkwardly while keeping mosquitoes at bay with the back and forth of her palm leaf fan. We would be all-ears-aboard shrouded in the octopus-ink darkness and far-far away glow-worms of the sky. It was fantastic. Sometimes, I can still manage to haggle out stories from her.)

And suddenly, academic noose became tight enough to be noticeable when we stepped into the Board exam year. Up-to that point, I was a decent student who coasted along with less hard word and ambition than her peers; and had fuzzy life plans based on meaningless data from Hindi movies (Only now, much later, I realize why TV curfews were implemented with such rigor at home.) My pre-Board math scores didn't quite match up to the expected and I remember being pinned down by Tr. Chari's unhappy-accusing-eyes and later bawling myself inside out in shame. I had no training in working hard for doing well at tests (!) and was often careless in my hurry to complete answering an exam (!!)

On that day, the day of the exam, I was yoked to my anxiety and my disquiet while I attempted to recollect everything I had studied at a per second frequency. On the first page of my Math question paper was a 'prove:' problem whose solution did not jump out at me and I decided to save it for (as advised by Math practice books) when I was done with the rest of the questions.

My panic had started cutting the oxygen supply to my brain as the allotted time drew to a close and I could not get back to the skipped questions (a total of 8 marks of the maximum 100) before my answer sheet was taken away. My world became viscous and I waded out of the classroom alone with the reverberation of having done badly.

My comprehension returned to focus on my father's face in the crowd. He was there, standing at the gate("wait, why isn't he at work?"), sparkling with ("but how did he know?") and actually radiating confidence and pride ("perhaps our umbilical cord attachment tugged at him to come and see me at the exam venue") . My countenance, a tightened grip at not giving away how mulched up I was peeled away to show the crumpled, defeated and lost me. Papa wrapped me in a giant hug and I let myself be the little girl I actually was. Together we walked back, with my school bag slung over his arm. We stood under the big tree near home to discuss the question paper, and assessed that I would score a 91. By the time we arrived, I felt less dispersed and the world took on her hues again.

Later, Soumya mentioned to me that she couldn't imagine the possibility of being hugged amidst people if she dared cry in public.

My brother and I have had the fortune of sharing our parents with a lot of people and have grown up thinking that it was the way. I have kept this story (and a few others) within several memory folds lest I am tempted to share the bits that I am fiercely possessive of.

Perhaps I have grown up. Oh well.

For the sake of your curiosity, it was 79 for my math exam. I spent the first few months of 11th grade skirting around Tr. Chari, afraid of having let her down too. One Friday, she smiled her compassionate smile at me in the second floor corridor. I could not walk up-to her, thinking I would on Monday. But that was too late.

Did you write something yet? -- 2

I sit down to write, here, because (CachinnatingCockatoo!) Ma told me that she read one of my posts. [For those who cannot tell, that is Captain-Haddockism {for those who cannot tell- from Tintin (for those who cannot tell - really?)}]

Talking about the glorious fantasticity of mother (mine or yours, actually all mothers) is, well, several minutes of clacking keyboard keys and then clacking at the delete button for another almost attempt. It brings me to where I am aware that I should just get up and get a snack because that is easier to do.

Together, we lived the confusion of the reverse-gearing of the violet-color-pencil incident and the consequent terror-induced numbness for a six year old; and her voice held me in a warm embrace for some beautiful moments over an inexpensive VoIP call.

Such magic.

Once, we decided to take a bus to the city for a girls' day out. We lived at the end of Noida where all you could do to do anything was to take a bus to Delhi where you could actually do something - like the famous eat-shop-eat routine of Dilli Haat, or the Connaught Place ramblings. While we waited for a state-run GL32, a local-goon-owned private bus came zipping by and tempted us with the possibility of a shorter trip time (a combination of reckless driving and the strategic shortcuts) - it wouldn't have taken us as close to our destination, but our wait time under our umbrella under the hot sun would end and we'd be on our way! As soon as we had boarded and before we could get comfortable, I happened to see that GL32 was not far behind, and I was ready to supergirl to it. Only Ma refused to cooperate - that is, deprive the goony driver and conductor of the ticket earnings from us.

(sound of reason and resolution) "It will not be fair to them (pointing at the bus operator), we have already boarded this bus"

(whiny) "BUT Ma, we will NOT have to wait for ANOTHER bus"

We were having this conversation in English (our go-to exchange medium for serious conversations). The bus-operators were able to catch-up soon enough and realized that if the sickly-looking girl got her way, they'd be out of twenty rupees. An altercation followed, where they said that we could de-board provided we pay the full fare. Before I could counter-argue, Ma handed the bus-fare and took a seat. Their menacing demeanor had rattled me and I sat beside her navigating through the maze of my red emotions.

We sat there, together, silent and exasperated with our unwillingness to see the other's viewpoint till we arrived at the stop that required a change of transport. Soon however, we were distracted and happy about being back in civilization - the general color and sounds of the city squeezed us out of our overcast moods.

Her incredible ability to empathize with anyone and anything is the content of moral science books (Chapter 1: "How Suniti taught pigeons to share food" Chapter 2: "How Suniti helped a poor salesman make a living" Chapter 3: "...")   Once, she insisted that I purchase a mix of good-looking and less than perfect looking pea pods so that the vegetable and fruit seller person could sell his stock. As kids, we could never get away with wasting food (though I was on the far spectrum when came to fussing about food) because she would gently remind us how important it is to respect food.

I don't know how to conclude this post. She is awesome, what more can I say.

Did you write something yet?

I play dodge with anyone who flings this water-balloon at me, including myself. Usually, I sit in-front of my machine, write a couple of sentences, get distracted/overwhelmed and my focus shifts onto something else - a trip to the kitchen, a new tab on my browser for music, another new tab on my browser to read something to accompany the music, a bathroom trip - just about anything. To be fair, I am writing more in my journal (not as much as I would like to, yet - but more than before) and my brain and fingers' protest-screams are getting more feeble with every visit. 

We were at a grocery store this one time and a sign saying that eye-pencils were on sale stared at my face. [Stores offer as much help as one needs in making impulsive decisions and keeping you in the premises for as long as possible - so grocery stores also sell clothes and makeup; clothing stores also sell furniture, and house-hold goods stores also sell grocery (the world is round, after all.)]

So, this 'blackest-black' pencil looked at me like an unhappy puppy desiring my attention, and I puppy-eyed Evan in return. His reaction was that of disbelief ("You want a fourth one?!" "umm, I don't have a black one for when I am not wearing blue, green or brown!") and laughed at me in the same decibel I use on him when we are in the ice-cream aisle. He was still laughing when he said that I was "So (oo) vain!".

(gulp!)

His observation was made on a very light note, meant to be forgotten after an affected reaction of hurt; but the anion of its truth stayed with me and much later led me down the spiral corridors of my mind's catacombs.

Among all the things I take pride in, not being narcissistic is one of them (!) Rigorous convent-schooling has embossed the idea that any emotion greater-than-or-equal-to self-love is inappropriate. As a consequence, more often than not, I find myself trapped in the region of less-than-or-equal-to self-acceptance. ugh.

On occasions that I get a glimpse of my vanity in life's rear view mirror, it shames and disturbs me so much that I have to go into hiding to unravel and re-crochet my disoriented mind-space. The otherwise suspended, mostly harmless fat-drops of conceit coalesce into a colossal cannibal who devours me in one giant gulp and I find myself staring in disbelief at the Tetris pieces that just won't line-up.

I am not quite sure of the point I am trying to make. Perhaps what I am getting at is how everybody is made of good pieces and the less-than flattering bits. So, maybe the narration here should include the not-so-stellar aspects too. That would be far more ground-level than the everyday circus on social media -- proclamations of being the best and the demand for validation. Our fragile sense of self-worth has become so naked under these floodlights. ["All the world's a stage..."]

We'll see what's next.

the schism

original image sourced from the internet
and tinkered with to fit the narrative

I often wonder if the distances between what is said, what is meant, what is heard and what is interpreted are variables for other people too. I start this post on that slightly unclear note because sometimes when I think back on conversations that have a splatter of an unexpected reaction, I wonder if word-strings had been unable to navigate the said-meant-heard-interpreted maze. I also want to believe that I am not the only one occupying the bewildered bandwagon on the matter.

On one occasion, as a student of class 2A at Mount Carmel, I was particularly proud about carrying a brand new dozen color pencil set for art class that day. We were all coloring in our drawing books, and the pencils were being passed about around me to whoever required a particular shade for their work. At the end of the period, the pencils found their way back to me. Just as I was about the close the set and get ready for the next class, I noticed that the box was missing (and I distinctly remember this part) the violet pencil. I was particularly distraught because suddenly my new set was incomplete.

Some of us girls looked around to see if it had rolled into some obscure corner without anyone noticing, but with little luck. Then, on a classmate's suggestion that I should tell the class-teacher, the small-voice, teary-eyed me went up to the big desk and shared my predicament. The teacher was not happy at all and instructed us to look for the missing article accompanied with a warning that if the pencil was not found, each of us would be required to bring a rupee for a new box for me. In the midst of my distress and just outside it; the problem compounded manyfold.

Assisted by a time-portal similar to the one that facilitated its disappearance, the pencil found its way back into the box - it had rolled to the bottom of the box, and its sister pencils were sitting on top of it. So, I dutifully walked up to the big desk again to inform the teacher, armed with good news this time.

Her reaction stunned me and I recoiled in panic. The teacher gave me harsh moral science lesson about how wrong it was to blame others. I was made to stand in front of the class and apologize because (according to her) I had accused them collectively of stealing from me. My little brain and my forever-hyperactive sense of right and wrong wanted to push-back to assert that the idea of theft had not occurred to me at all, but could not muster the courage. Among the ancillaries of a convent-based education is that considerable effort goes into deforming you into your most timid version, blunting your sense of defiance and your ability to question authority.

This was among the earliest instances when I was unable to navigate the chasm between my words and else's comprehension. Self-reflections are polka-dotted with not-too-unfamiliar imbroglio and I cannot be confident about any change for the better either.

I am a conversational-Neanderthal (groan!) Oh well, I guess I will trudge along. 

How about ..

..a new post that takes me completely by surprise for the lack of labored deliberation I am notorious for. Well, here it is.

It is raining in Pittsburgh, and I find myself here in another attempt to relieve the pressure of a brain full of words doing a dance in my head - holding hands to make a sentence, and then changing formation to hold hands with other words to make another sentence. They tease me for my inability to befriend them and join the dance. The longer I wait, the more elusive their dance-steps become.

Not too long ago I had the chance to be reacquainted with Delhi Monsoon. Voluptuous rain-drops permeating through the skin into my entire being in one of those surreal life-moments when all your molecules align themselves along one axis.

Years ago, this one time while hurrying home, I boarded a bus which was missing the front glass panel on the conductor side. It started to rain and my co-passengers proceeded to elbow their way out of the direct drench (to the extent possible when you are stuffed inside the bus-skeleton like a sack of potatoes). I happily sat alone at this seat through the ride, with all the water scrubbing-off from me another exhausting day at college. It was glorious. The driver glanced at me more than once to check if I was alright in the head.

This narration escapes flutters of the mind from further back on the linear time scale we employ for the ease of pegging experiences on a straight line.

A bunch of us girls were waiting for bus N-17 to school. Obese, spherical raindrops were shattering themselves against their landing surfaces. We were all packed tight under our umbrellas, trying to save our uniforms, our white canvas shoes and our bags from getting soaked. The bus was late because of the water on the streets; but it did come, scooped us in and headed towards Chanakyapuri, the destination.  When we arrived, we found out that the classes had been canceled for the day because of the weather. (This was pre-cell phone era, when communication was limited enough to be pleasant and something to look forward to.) So, the bus full of children headed back the same way it had come.

We were let off from across the stop where we had boarded less than an hour ago and unlike the end of a typical school day, there was no sign of parents/elders to receive us. The rains hadn't stopped, and so, being the eldest of the group of more than a dozen (but all of twelve years having just started seventh grade) I decided to bring all the children home with me. We held each other's hands to form a chain and waded home, starting from me and ending in the next eldest girl among us, with all the primary schoolers between us. There was enough water to reach my knees (and the waists of some of the little ones) and no conceivable way to figure out the location of potholes, so we walked in the middle of the road, following exactly the steps of the one in-front. The starting point was the hardest part and we were able to reach home with some difficulty.

When my mother answered the door she was surprised to find her daughter back, accompanied by a pack of Carmel- uniformed children. All of us were towel-dried and given a snack of hot milk and biscuits. I do not remember when it stopped raining, but it was very nice to be home; dry,warm and fed. I brought out colors and paper and we sat together doing art while parents were called and given updates and road directions for picking up the kids. In a few hours everyone had been sent home.

The following day, we were all at the same stop waiting for the same bus to school. One of the mothers thanked me for my presence of mind and handed me a box of chocolates and a small gift as an encouragement. I did not think I had done anything heroic, but it is always nice to get chocolates.

I am no longer in touch with any of the children from the bus stop - I guess we are all scattered in different parts of the world. I am not sure if anyone would remember the day either. The bus conductor for N-17 was a big rough sounding man, who once told me (surprisingly, with a smile) that I take very good care of the children from my bus stop. The observation made me return his smile, despite my limited comprehension of compliments.

Happy New Year!

The issue with keeping a record of your time on earth using the somewhat arbitrary system of your revolutions around the sun is, in my humble opinion, grossly inadequate in its capacity of a tracker. It is ill-equipped for everything except to make you (me) feel miserable about the (now) terrifying expanse between what is and what was expected to be. For whatever reason, my color-palette and brush set is different from that of who/what-ever is painting the bigger canvas.

This one time, a friend and I were standing at the edge of Lake Washington, staring at the beauty of the sunset. He mentioned that his life looks different from what he had imagined for himself; and in one of those moments of aura-ed glory, I had suggested that it was never guaranteed to us that our myopic plans will be in congruence with the *big* plan. I remember he looked at me all wide-eyed; completely taken by surprise that a pretty little airhead had voiced the idea. He confessed that it had taken him a really long time to figure that out before asking me about the source of that wisdom.

How easy it is to forget, and how important it is to remember (or least store it in a ready part of your own hard-drive).

This kernel had tucked itself in some inaccessible corner of my mind and I lived the last few weeks as a hamster on a worry-wheel. I was miserable about the divide and filled with heavy feelings pervading my comprehension of all things. It really did not help that my birthday was here again - these seem to come around so much more quickly now than before. Perhaps the earth moves faster around the sun the older you grow (haha!)

From around the time when I needed assistance with putting books together for the next day's study schedule at school, I was part of the group that went for an inter-school painting competition on Republic Day that year which was hosted on the roof-top of the Bhagalpur Engineering College. The junior group was to work on the theme 'Seasonal Flowers' and the seniors were to illustrate 'National Integration'. Not many of us knew the actual meaning of the word 'seasonal' and as a concession we were allowed a quick peek at the flower beds a few floor-levels below.

I drew a poppy bush with half-a-dozen flowers in full bloom and a few others eager to follow suit.  I wrote a stylized 'petunia', below this bright red drawing. When the allotted time was up our drawings were collected and presented to the panel of judges, and participants were instructed to stay in our places. I remember being impatient and wanting to go home, but I was too timid to even request for a bathroom trip and so stayed put. Few of my friends were watching the activity at the judges' desk curious about the results and someone told me that my drawing was on 'that' desk.

Soon (but what seemed like a long time) it was time to declare the result, and (who'd have guessed) my drawing won (gasp!) the *first* prize. My name was called and as a response my body vacuum-sucked my stomach in and I became the third-person in my own narrative. I walked up to the stage in disbelief, accepted the prize (engraved brass-shield) in disbelief and returned to my seat in disbelief. I was so numb that I could not feel elation till much later. It was the first and the only time (yet) that I have won the first prize for something in my life.

I pen this life-event because I felt a similar disbelief-filled-elation when I read through messages, postings, texts and phone-calls on the occasion of my birthday (I happily blame facebook for being rigorously insistent that you make your contribution to ensuring that someone-anyone has a happy birthday). It was an exhilarating revisit to my fundamentals of optimism, affection and smiles that climb up-to the eyes.

So, thank you. I suspend my dislike and distrust for social-media on this occasion. I confess that I am a long way off of an immediate change from my notoriety for not acknowledging conversation-snips; but the affection is reciprocated in equal measure, if not more.

I am. I am just not here.

The cobwebs were gathering dust, and I took an impromptu decision to clean up some.

I judge people on their sense of cleanliness - I try not to, but its difficult with my frame of reference. My Ma's house is like a shiny red apple; and I am genetically designed to be mindful of respecting and loving physical spaces that house and protect me (and sometimes, friends). What better way than keeping things in order and scrubbed. But that is just me.

My megalomania for a virtual presence is negatively correlated with my (aargh) age. I had started this blog as a foray into non-academic writing, and for updates for my (I would like to believe) web-savvy family back home. I have failed on both counts.

A few weeks ago I was in conversation with a friend discussing a piece of writing. I was told it lacked warmth and it was more opaque than he remembered me. My writing pleaded guilty; and I reflected out loud that perhaps its the truth, the reality of the present. Of-course, this was met with rabid disagreement, and there wasn't a conclusion, since neither of us were willing to negotiate our stance.

Also, a few weeks ago I posted a youtube video I found when I fished into a seemingly intriguing post. 
Here's the link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UF7oU_YSbBQ
It a collection of interestings - music, singer's voice, location, theme, story, and (the best part) the mutual acknowledgement of the protagonist and son, from seconds 0:26 to 0:28.

I time travelled about two decades into the past when we were in New Delhi for Summer vacations. Vacations, when there was money, usually was all of the four children of the family and one set of parents. My mother's parents lived in Delhi, and later Chandigarh. Our holidays were mostly spent there and sub-vacationing in adjacent cities and towns.

My father took us to see the Lotus Temple - a concrete structure with precast concrete ribbed roof clad in white marble. Weather notwithstanding, it is usually swarming with tourists like other places that feature in travel brochures. We reached when the heat was at its highest, and the red sandstone paving was perhaps trying to keep up with the temperature of sun's surface. The barefoot walk to the temple was an adventure for the brave and most people were taking shelter under sparse shading options (pun intended). Mirages were nervously suspended a few inches above ground, and the regular water spray on the hot paving had little effect. 

I was huddled with my brothers under the barely sufficient shade of the structure where tourists were required to leave their footware, and absolutely refused to undertake the heroic act of walking/hobbling the distance to the main building. 

I must have been emphatic about my dislike for the idea, because my father decided to pick me up in his arms and save my little feet from the heat. I did not think much of it then, because I had declared myself deserving of the affection and pampering of everyone in the world I knew. And some more. It was silly, but it was when I could count my years without double counting my fingertips. 

I distinctly remember a bearded foreign man standing under some shade looking at the daddy-daughter duo in amusement. My father and I noticed him noticing us, and my father said to him "It's because I love my daughter". The man nodded his assent with a smile, and we were on our way. 

I cannot recall much more of that visit, I do not remember being overwhelmed by the scale or the beauty of the building or what we had for snacks after. I do not even remember when I disengaged myself from my father's arms. 

I was oblivious to the existence of this event as a memory till a few years ago when I was in an abstract conversation with someone, and this incident took shape in words and found its way into my monologue. 

I have watched this link fondly many times over; the affection in the utterance of 'Appa' and 'Muthu' resonates with my sentiment for my parents, family and home. 

Perhaps I am homesick.