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My nemesis

I deplore parents who treat their children unkindly. In addition to it being cruel, it also results in producing a man who is sadistic, bitter and deeply unhappy. This is a story of one such being. Perhaps if he hadn’t been as starved as he was as a child, he wouldn’t aim to cause so much pain and misery to the scores of innocents whom he claims to help.

This man practices an age old form of discrete torture. The sinister people of his kind meet and discuss various forms of causing the human body intense pain. They also arrived at the conclusion that Man, in general, is a pretty dumb species. The kind that can be tricked into believing that flab is bad, that sushi is fish, and that Yoga is good for you.

Perhaps I should take you through a daily routine to disenchant you from the belief that it makes you fit and flexible. It doesn’t. The term “a pain in the butt” was solely invented for this purpose. Speaking of soles, they can hurt too, by the time he is done with you.

To begin with, he insists that we should begin at an unearthly hour, when the cock is still snoring away. In some parts of the world, you could be beaten to death with a salmon for waking people up at that time of the day. I am currently applying for a visa to that part of the world. It is a mild disadvantage that they also occasionally eat you up, but that is a price I am willing to pay for an extra hour of sleep.

I’ve never been particularly flexible. Fit, yes, but if someone asked me to swing from a bar during the gym period at school, I’d just hang there and wait for someone to let me down again. I was also quite bad at biology since you had to remember complicated names that had too many k’s in them. It is a testimony to my terrible decision making ability that I managed to choose the one form of exercise that requires extreme levels of flexibility as well as a good memory. It takes about fifteen seconds to say the name of a position, and it takes thirty for me since I have to scratch my head and smile benignly till he says it for me.

He then proceeds to make you kick your legs and twist your hips so that you end up in a position that I am quite positive God never meant for you to achieve when he created you. He also smirks several times, and the smirk turns into an obvious grin when your face twitches in pain. Then he asks you to raise your legs and raise your arms and generally resemble such non living items such as a dining table, a chair, a pair of tweezers and the like. He enjoys demonstrating how hopelessly inflexible you are by tucking his legs beneath his arms and rolling around on the carpet, though why someone would consciously want to resemble a bowling ball is beyond me.

The classes are useful in a way. I have realized that even if the exercise isn’t helping me, the sheer threat of blinding pain keeps me away from that plate of fries and that extra helping of rice. Because trust me, nothing is worth the table position.

Terror

The grenades soar over invisible borders
The arrows will strike, the heads will roll
They know not of the paradox they create
They weaken the limbs, they strengthen the soul

Their thoughts follow no thread of reason
They know not their cause, and neither do we
They charge ahead, burning with vengeance
Injustice, a vehicle for brutality

History, not learnt from but used instead
As seeds to sow irrepressible pain
In the young and restless minds that will
Repeat mankind’s mistakes once again

Of what use is religion, or the path of God
If they head in the opposite route, steadfast
In their belief that the world must be cleansed
His name on their lips, murder in their hearts

Seamstress

I weave a web of fairy tales
The temptress paints a fantasy
Whims dance gaily like little nymphs
Beckoning reality

The nimble needle deftly moves
Seamlessly, through satin sheen
When within a fold, she stops
In or out or in between?

Two colours gently intertwine
Hues if a song are melody
Merrily they spiral around
Taut, in balanced harmony

They move through thick and thin by turns
A lilting echo in their wake
Enticing steps, a charming tune
I hope the thread will never break

Come hither

Do come and watch the show!

18 until today

I found it hard to believe that I became an adult, the whole of last year. Now I find it completely preposterous that this year is my last one as a teenager. I’m still seventeen in my head. I’m still not accountable. I’m still a child.

I still love a heart shaped black forest cake on my birthday. I’m not old enough to be embarrassed by the number of candles on the cake. I still have friends who think that spraying someone purple and dumping cake on their head, while making them wear a ridiculous(and secretly loved) blue party hat on the aforementioned head is an important birthday ritual. I still enjoy being fussed over, and being asked “Who is the birthday girrrrrl?” so that I can answer “ME” with a big grin on my face. And I still refer to people who are on the other side of 20 as “grown ups”.

I wish Peter Pan would appear right about now at my windowsill and offer to take me away to Neverland. I wonder if I’m going to still retain that part of me that loves calling people “a monkeys’ backside” five years from now. I think I will, I think I will.

Here is to everyone who wished me, and everyone who didn’t (hint), and everyone who made my day so special. It was the best birthday ever!

Men are from...who the hell knows?!

He: So, I cut my hair!
Me: Aaaaargh! Why? Why?! It isn't even summer!
He: Whats your problem? You were the one running around a month back hollering "I want to cut my hair!"

Men. They trudge around with crew cuts and baggy jeans, shirts that should be worn by someone half their size, or double, wearing enough perfume for eight horses and three cows, or smelling like eight horses and three cows.

They either know something about fashion but just can't remember what the capital of India is, or they're incredibly smart and wear pants that show off their underwear.

Why am i allowed to cut my hair and you're not? Let me tell you.

1. Women hardly cut their hair so that it is above their ears.

2. Our haircuts normally cost more that fifty rupees(including the head massage).

3. The person who cuts our hair is not a fifty five year old man who has just been yelled at by his perpetually nagging wife for forgetting to buy the groceries, and has a gigantic pair of scissors in his hand.

4. We never fall asleep in the beauty parlour.

5. We don't think brylcream is the solution to all our problems.

6. We don't try looking like prison inmates.

7. We dont think bald is cool.

8. We wash our hair more than once a month.

Of course, there our some exceptions to that last rule in the race of men. The ones who love green apple shampoo and loreal conditioner. But then, you, my friend, have much more to worry about than just fashion.

I thought, therefore...

Not just black and white. So many shades of grey.

I was talking to someone who I spent most of my childhood with. We drifted apart in what were probably our most defining years, and when I look at us now, it seems almost impossible that we started out from the same place.

I’ve been through a constant process of assimilation, discarding, defending. I know she has too. It is simply that we took different turns. At a lot of points apparently.

That’s not a bad thing. Or good. It is just different. Just that.

It is difficult to walk away from something without classifying it as right or wrong. Good or bad. Black or white. I have a tough time doing that.

And yet, those movies with the good cops, the bad thugs, and that damsel in distress don’t work for us anymore do they? Whatever happened to the traitor? The damsel learning kung fu? The villain winning because he was smarter?

Isn’t that what makes it so much more interesting?

And that is what I want. Plenty of shades of grey in between. And perhaps that streak of red running right through it all. I’m not talking about throwing caution to the wind. But allowing the wind to turn me in different directions, so that I can see all around.

I hope to never come out of that process. I hope to constantly meet people who will shatter my convictions, or turn me in new directions, or strengthen my belief in my own. I don’t ever want to be so blinded by enlightenment, that I lose my ability to grasp any other idea.

Popping out to say cuckoo

Its easier to write
In verse I realise
The poetic license helps

A black poodle yelps

Like the nude emperor
You o foolish courtier
Will think this makes sense

A white picket fence

And now because I’ve stated
So blatantly, you shall rate it
Ridiculous beyond compare

Is a unicorn a mare?

Your hope for my redemption
Depends on the assumption
Marbles are still inside

A merry yuletide!

So shake your head and walk
Or perhaps stay and mock
While I dance my little jig

Oh and figue is french for fig!

To a faded friend

Did you know we would look at each other one day, and not be able to recognise what was important about the other? Or perhaps remember, but not care so much anymore?

I care. For one thing, because I hate change. I hated it when my mother changed her spectacles when I was in the eighth, I hated moving to a new house even though I was getting my own room, and I hate this.

But more than change, you meant a lot to me, at some point in my life. Id rather you disappeared after that, if things werent going to be the same. Atleast then, I neednt watch the steady deterioration. Of you in my mind, and perhaps of me in yours.

I don’t wear rose coloured glasses, and I don’t live in a world of perpetual sunshine. But I know this. If someone is important to you, and their position in your life is important too, you don’t let go so easily.

I don’t care anymore. But that is because I didn’t have any other choice.

My kingdom for inspiration

I find myself unable
To pen a decent line
The words they come
But disappear
Before I make them mine

Unfinished beginnings
Are now quite abundant
A phrase I choose
Will soon become
Invariably redundant

The rhyming scheme I follow
Does not stick to my norm
I would prefer
A b c b, but now
That aint the form

And so a traitor to the art
Bows her head in shame
And writes instead
Of lost talent
That she once used to claim

Betty bought some butter

It was the morning after my night of resolutions. Every two months or so, I introspect, find my life devoid of meaning, and realise that the secret to a healthy existence, is learning to make candlesticks, or ravioli.

Amma always has her fight face on everytime I enter the kitchen with a determined look on my face. She’s the kind of person who has this little black book where she jots down all your previous misdeeds so she’ll never forget. And there aren’t so many really. There was the time I blew up the mixie, but that was my sisters’ fault for not supervising a kid. And then there was the time we melted chocolate on the stove and it had to be professionally cleaned...ok, so its not exactly a little black book.

My skills in the kitchen are limited to an excellent malai kofta curry, and a delicious chocolate sponge cake. But that, I maintain, is only because I haven’t tried making anything else. And like any other obnoxious, stubborn 18 year old, I am confident that anything I want to do, will be a piece of cake. Or in todays case, an omelette.

Being the obnoxious, stubborn 18 year old, it is obviously highly frustrating when people try telling me what to do. Whatever happened to creativity and experimentation? And why should I follow kitchen rules, when noone listens to mine? I have quite a few actually. Like cookie dough must be sampled by dipping fingers into the bowl before baking, pretty aprons must be worn, and under no circumstances is the cook supposed to clean up once the dish is done.

Amma is sort of unreasonable that way. She doesn’t respect artistic temperament at all. Creative minds can’t focus on one thing for too long, there are statistics somewhere on wikipedia to prove that. And even if you aren’t remotely imaginative, how are you supposed to remain interested in an egg for more than 15 minutes?

This was no ordinary egg I was dealing with though. If I lived in a cartoon, this would be the egg with the closely knit eyebrows and the red slits for eyes.

Needless to say, my efforts resulted in something which did taste like an omelette, even if it didn’t look like it. Perhaps with a little less salt that usual.

I think the capsicum pieces were supposed to be in the omelette too.

Amma said she wasn’t feeling too hungry.

Abstractness

Forgiving and forgetting, that was all she was doing lately. Inking in stubs of memories into her existence, mulling over what ifs that would at times overwhelm her. She looked at her reflection, running her fingers through her freshly washed hair, as memories danced in and out of her eyes.

Dwelling on the past was dangerous. Weren't there enough poems written by the sad and wise? Enough cliched quotes she had read in her lifetime?

Perfection had seemed such an amiable concept when she was younger. The blind confidence that everything would fall into place, that she would get exactly what she wanted one day, perhaps with a bit of a struggle in between.

But that would be too simple, wouldn't it?

Thoughts were getting entangled, yet she knew there was just one thread she needed to find that would smoothen it out. It was all about will power in the end. And that was something she needed to depend only on herself for.

She smiled as she penned it down.

"The secret to happiness was discovered on a warm Tuesday afternoon, in a room filled with old sports equipment and posters of classic rock artists."

Entirely fictional

Blur

I’m in the midst of confusion, but there is this profound sense of calm. Like I am watching as an outsider while I’m sitting right in the middle.

The thing that gets to me about people is that what we say and what we mean are almost always completely different. And sometimes, I get so tired. Because most of the time, I can figure out what people really want to say, and once in a while, you’d rather immerse yourself in blissful ignorance.

Familiar routines

College started a month back, and I still haven't attended a full week yet. I am eternally grateful to Anna University for their new "85% attendance is good enough" rule.

It feels funny to be in the second year, I've become so used to avoiding places where groups of seniors congregate, and now suddenly it doesn't matter. Cannot believe it has been a year, that in less than a month we're not gonna be the "juniors" anymore.

Have suddenly been challenged to a series of tt matches, after an innocent game when the apparent champion lost *shudder* to a girl.

Results came out last week, and I'm happy with the 86.3. It doesn't seem to make a difference with the profs though. Not with dragonlady around, but a whole post needs to be dedicated to this unique individual.

Have been moping around because everyones leaving. Dumb sister left for dumb New York last week, and yes even though we mail each other 20 times a day, I'm still mad at her for going away. Am hoping to see her in London this December, but that depends upon my benevolent Dad(he reads this blog you know)

Read the last harry potter book twice. Stood in line at 5:30 in the morning, something that is not outrageous if you are a true fan.

Made my own breakfast today, but oo thats too good a story to be given away as a tidbit.

Coming soon, "The attack of the springy omelette"

My favourite thing

The rain kisses my lips and all at once, time becomes inconsequential. The leaves are greener, the earth smells fresh, the steady patter and the gushing winds form that delicious melody that makes my heart skip and my feet tingle, as I throw open windows and sing rainy day songs, and I forget. About non waterproof watches and umbrellas in my bag. Of dripping on the carpet or ruining good shoes. It is simply me, and my glorious rain.

So much that is done, so much to do

The trip was awesome. What trip do you ask? I got back only in the beginning of this week after a vacation that lasted almost a month. And it was, in very unintellectual terms, "kickass".

I don't want to delve into details now because I hope to put up my travel notes online, a resolution I declare in public so that my butt feels too guilty to just sit around doing nothing. Speaking of travel notes, I shall also strive to put up my European vacation entries, something I am quite proud of. They are long overdue, but I did misplace that beautiful diary, which remained lost for a considerable amount of time, but I have found it, and I solemnly promise to hope to be optimistic enough that I will not lose interest like I did with my Bharatnatyam classes, yoga, and the violin, and will put it up.

Otherwise this week has been a mishmash of warm days on the beach playing football, plenty of movies I've forced friends to watch twice, bowling, go karting and pool. Obviously, I now request those with a benevolent heart to hand out money for...well...poor little me, and I'm being completely literal.

I have read quite a few good books this summer. "Ignorance" by Milan Kundera, "Dispatches from the edge" by Anderson Cooper, "The bookseller of Kabul" by Asne Seierstad, and almost but not quite "Longitudes and attitudes" by Thomas Friedman. Am currently devouring "The kite runner" by Khaled Hosseini. Very excited about my gift vouchers from Landmark!

I cant end this without mentioning the gorgeous weather, and even if you feel inclined to disagree thanks to your undoubted pigheadedness, I'm quite positive it is due to my arrival.

The Gods are not crazy.

A wee bit o celebration

It has been a whole year since I started this blog, and I pat myself on the back for frequently making a fool of myself so that I have something to write about(That is the ONLY reason I sometimes look like a goofball, ye ignorant curs).

I would like to thank my ardent fans(yes, both of you), my old laptop that taught me to try again and again, no matter how many times it would conk, my mother who is my constant source of tea, without which hyperness would be impossible, and my sister, for teaching me that no matter how crazy I appear to be, there is someone in the world more insane than I am.

Thank you Amsterdam, goodnight!

Update on life

• Sister becomes slightly crazy and kicks phone from table while in the middle of a tribal dance of sorts.
• Mom's temporarily borrowed phone has aggravating smiley screensaver.
• People stare weirdly at a cuckoo 18 year old in the neighbourhood talking to herself as she is walking and threatening to pour water on phone if it doesnt stop leering.
• Phone is fixed and all things are bright and beautiful once again.
• Downed three cups of tea and proceeded to sing opera songs to friend calling long distance.
• Choreographed new "plumbing" dance after being the only person in my batch to get it for the university practical exam.
• Classmates threaten to pour water on my smiling face if I dont stop "acting like a baboon", and I sadly realise the irony of life.

Verse

I seek no shelter from grey clouds that carpet skies above
I ask for no compassion from eyes filled with tears and love
I am not afraid of terrific rain that threatens to pour
I will cherish each blessed ray, and then search for more
Till I soar, bleak lands below, above the heavy cloud
And the space I begged for, is everywhere around
Will I then forget the tough sacrifices made
Perhaps I will, perhaps, I'll give it all away