When all the frenzy's died down,
And I get some time alone,
I think of what life would have been,
If you hadn't left home.
There in the bunk bed with me,
I know you'd understand,
When the rest of the world refused,
You'd be there to hold my hand.
There in the bunk bed with me,
We would together decipher life,
And find the courage to face the world,
Together- in good, and times of strife.
There in the bunk bed with me,
I knew I'd be myself.
It's because I trust myself to be more honest with you,
Than even with my own self.
There in the bunk bed with me,
The beds were two- but soul one,
The sorrows divided, the joys multiplied,
Our race against life was won.
Everything was such a dream,
And we were stradling the highs...
...But destiny is a cruel thing,
And it willed otherwise.
Now, the distances separate us,
And the unfortunate circumstances,
But I pray you'll be there to help me match step again,
With life, in its many dances.
Until then I will miss...
Those late-night cathartic masterpieces,
Those numerous assuring smiles,
Those laughs, those tears- so unapologetic,
Those giggles that could be heard for miles...
The world is kinda blurry now,
I search for sense somewhere,
And at the end of every disillusioning day,
I find myself wishing you were there...
There in the bunk bed with me,
A mere thought apart,
I close my eyes, reach out to your bed,
And feel you in my heart.
The bed next to me may be empty,
But your presence in my life will never,
Because a lot of who I am today is because of you,
And that'll be true forever...
Monday, December 10, 2007
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Haunting Questions
Sometimes at the end of a tiring day,
I feel the good and the bad, the happy and the sad,
Blurring into a single question:
What is the purpose of my life? Why am I here? Why now?
And suddenly, the recent drama,
the heartbreaks, the victories,
are reduced to miniscule moments.
I feel small, compared to the enormity of my task.
A mere tool for life to achieve its purpose.
Will I succeed? Will I fail?
Do I have it in me to carry the flame of humanity?
The numerous successors before me,
Seem to have left no clue.
It's still all opaque.
But there still seems like a cosmic conspiracy is forever brewing,
Like everything is staged.
Like somebody's forgotten to give me the script,
But everyone else is on perfect cue.
My biggest fear continues to be...
Will I go through life without even knowing the real purpose?
Or worse still...
Will I live my purpose without even knowing it?
Haunting questions, indeed!
I feel the good and the bad, the happy and the sad,
Blurring into a single question:
What is the purpose of my life? Why am I here? Why now?
And suddenly, the recent drama,
the heartbreaks, the victories,
are reduced to miniscule moments.
I feel small, compared to the enormity of my task.
A mere tool for life to achieve its purpose.
Will I succeed? Will I fail?
Do I have it in me to carry the flame of humanity?
The numerous successors before me,
Seem to have left no clue.
It's still all opaque.
But there still seems like a cosmic conspiracy is forever brewing,
Like everything is staged.
Like somebody's forgotten to give me the script,
But everyone else is on perfect cue.
My biggest fear continues to be...
Will I go through life without even knowing the real purpose?
Or worse still...
Will I live my purpose without even knowing it?
Haunting questions, indeed!
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Language- a Reflection of our Attitudes
In our house, we speak six languages. And more often than not, we speak a language that is a mix of a few, if not all of them. To us, its perfectly normal, but imagine the plight of the outsider! Even if they know half the languages, chances are they won’t understand the conversation. Now, imagine the confusion if this happened across the country- or worse- across the world!
Language today, I believe, is an honest reflection of our complacent attitudes. We like short-cuts, we don’t care a tuppence for perfection. We learn a language to communicate with those who speak it, but we rarely strive to know every bit of it. Our easy fall-back excuse is that Hinglish is hip, its cool. Just how universal it is, we don’t care! You don’t need to step out of India to realize that, just go a little south of this very peninsula, or into the heartlands of our country: the villages- and you’ll find lesser takers for your new-found ‘cool’ language.
Another favourite fact that people harp endlessly about is the inclusion of Hindi words into the English dictionary. Now, if you enter an English speaking country and start using those words and nobody understands, are they at fault for not having read every word in the English dictionary, or are you the stupid one for expecting them to?
According to me, there are few better ways of exercising one’s intellect than learning a new language. And there are few things more beautiful than listening to someone who has mastered a language speak. Today, there are so many things lost in translation. And the only cure is to know the different languages as well as we can. For different as they are, they- quite ironically- help in breaking all barriers!
Language today, I believe, is an honest reflection of our complacent attitudes. We like short-cuts, we don’t care a tuppence for perfection. We learn a language to communicate with those who speak it, but we rarely strive to know every bit of it. Our easy fall-back excuse is that Hinglish is hip, its cool. Just how universal it is, we don’t care! You don’t need to step out of India to realize that, just go a little south of this very peninsula, or into the heartlands of our country: the villages- and you’ll find lesser takers for your new-found ‘cool’ language.
Another favourite fact that people harp endlessly about is the inclusion of Hindi words into the English dictionary. Now, if you enter an English speaking country and start using those words and nobody understands, are they at fault for not having read every word in the English dictionary, or are you the stupid one for expecting them to?
According to me, there are few better ways of exercising one’s intellect than learning a new language. And there are few things more beautiful than listening to someone who has mastered a language speak. Today, there are so many things lost in translation. And the only cure is to know the different languages as well as we can. For different as they are, they- quite ironically- help in breaking all barriers!
A Myopic Epidemic!
A certain Richard Gere plants a kiss on an unsuspecting Shilpa Shetty and has a warrant issued against him for the oh-so-sacrilegious act; a designer-sari-clad Aishwarya gushes over hubby AB as he talks to the thousands of TV cameras in font; a look-at-me-I’m-not-dressed-as-a-police-inspector Jackie Shroff talks about… dabba-walas of Amchi Mumbai. “And oh yeah, we’re here only to spread awareness about AIDS- that deadly, deadly… (what is it again?!). And it’s not about us, it’s only about them- the poor victims. The whole world needs to hear their inspiring stories…” Right! When they get a break from your desperate publicity seeking stunts maybe?
Another World AIDS Day gone by with the same celebrity tamashas. What is the best way to get noticed if you don’t have any films lined up in the next few months? What’s the best way to make a place for yourself in the hearts of the public after a series of duds? What’s the best way to go from a nobody to a somebody? Go support AIDS! (Read: Go to a mega-glamorous function with half the media persons in the entire country present, kiss a few kids, dance with a few of ‘em- since your last movie didn’t have an item number, and talk at length about how much better a place the world will be if we together eradicate AIDS)….Yeah I know. It sounds like a cynical rant, but it couldn’t be more true.
They did get a few facts right. AIDS is a dangerous, incurable, life-threatening disease that needs attention- because prevention is the only known cure to date. But what has made the celebrity support so nauseating is that it has made AIDS almost glamorous, and certainly sounding like the last disease left on earth! What happened to killer diseases like TB, Polio, Hepatitis, Malaria that plague India to this date, and to which we haven’t found any solutions either? Oh wait, they’re not so important coz half the world doesn’t even know about them! Right? Wrong! Listen to this: More people die of these four diseases in India, than the number that succumb to AIDS globally every year. And a lot of it is thanks to the age-old problem of lack of awareness. Maybe the celebrities need to take off their blinkers and take a look around.
To face the truth, the search for a cure to the deadly illness has come to a grinding halt. There are the condoms, and… what else? Stories of new contraceptives being invented grab a select few moments in the spotlight and disappear into oblivion. In contrast, diseases like Malaria, Hepatitis and TB can be cured if detected in time. Our fervent Polio Campaign has also taken not one, but several steps backward. We have over 720 cases of polio detected this year, a record enough to dislodge Nigeria- the earlier top ranker. And we complain we’re not the best at anything!
The only hope now is that these myopic celebrities get a new pair of spectacles- or take a back seat. They have the power to attract the crowds, only wish they would exercise some discretion, and some much needed sympathy.
Another World AIDS Day gone by with the same celebrity tamashas. What is the best way to get noticed if you don’t have any films lined up in the next few months? What’s the best way to make a place for yourself in the hearts of the public after a series of duds? What’s the best way to go from a nobody to a somebody? Go support AIDS! (Read: Go to a mega-glamorous function with half the media persons in the entire country present, kiss a few kids, dance with a few of ‘em- since your last movie didn’t have an item number, and talk at length about how much better a place the world will be if we together eradicate AIDS)….Yeah I know. It sounds like a cynical rant, but it couldn’t be more true.
They did get a few facts right. AIDS is a dangerous, incurable, life-threatening disease that needs attention- because prevention is the only known cure to date. But what has made the celebrity support so nauseating is that it has made AIDS almost glamorous, and certainly sounding like the last disease left on earth! What happened to killer diseases like TB, Polio, Hepatitis, Malaria that plague India to this date, and to which we haven’t found any solutions either? Oh wait, they’re not so important coz half the world doesn’t even know about them! Right? Wrong! Listen to this: More people die of these four diseases in India, than the number that succumb to AIDS globally every year. And a lot of it is thanks to the age-old problem of lack of awareness. Maybe the celebrities need to take off their blinkers and take a look around.
To face the truth, the search for a cure to the deadly illness has come to a grinding halt. There are the condoms, and… what else? Stories of new contraceptives being invented grab a select few moments in the spotlight and disappear into oblivion. In contrast, diseases like Malaria, Hepatitis and TB can be cured if detected in time. Our fervent Polio Campaign has also taken not one, but several steps backward. We have over 720 cases of polio detected this year, a record enough to dislodge Nigeria- the earlier top ranker. And we complain we’re not the best at anything!
The only hope now is that these myopic celebrities get a new pair of spectacles- or take a back seat. They have the power to attract the crowds, only wish they would exercise some discretion, and some much needed sympathy.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Happy and... Gay?
It was my first day at Grady High school, my second day in Atlanta, and my fourth day of being in the US on my exchange program. During my first three periods, I had already been overwhelmed by the number of new people I was meeting, and was aghast at how nobody seemed to have even noticed my presence (despite me getting there in time to catch a front seat!). As I walked into US History, my fourth period class, I had learnt my lesson, and went and grabbed the corner-most desk. I was done with 'taking initiative' for the day (as they never tired of telling us at the exchange orientations), and wanted to wallow in self-pity for a while. Just as the class was about to start, in walked Michael- or, to me then, my angel. His eyes searched the room, and he chose the desk right in front of me- in that same corner. He came, slung his bag under the chair, and sat down. I noticed he had the most adorable curly blonde hair, before he quickly spun around and introduced himself.
"I'm Michael. Michael Tallini" He held out his hand as he spoke.
"I'm Arundhati." I said, then noticing the horror written all over his face, I added, "Yeah, you can call me Aru. I'm an exchange student from India"
His kindly blue eyes suddenly shone with excitement, "Wow! That's SO cool! I've always wanted to go to India! You know, I even tried reading the Bh.. bhaag..."
"Bhagawat Gita?" I volunteered, a genuine smile appearing on my face for the first time in the day.
"So is that really how you say it? I always wanted to know!"
And our conversation went on throughout the period, as the history teacher, Mr. Sartor, tried in vain attract our attention. But, for once, I didn't care. I had finally made a friend in this unknown land!
And from then on, I always looked forward to US History, not so much for the story of the gory history of America, but to meet my friend. My only friend.
Michael and I, we talked about everything under the Sun. He asked questions about India, but also about my life back there. These were genuine queries. A sharp contrast to the questions people asked me just because I introduced myself as an exchange student. With Michael, I almost forgot that I was from an alien country, and had a 'weird' accent (as the others would always remind me). With him, I was myself- a teenager- with my very own set of quirks and fancies. He woud always know when I was down, and know exactly what to say and do to make me happier. In turn, I gave him a big bear hug everytime he walked into class. We were inseperable in that class...
And this continued for almost six months. And then came a day that looked as normal as it could, but in fact, was completely otherwise.
I walked into class a little late, and Mr. Sartor had already started passing out the tests. I quickly gave Michael a hug and buckled down to start writing the test. As usual, Michael leaned over and wispered a 'best of luck'. I smiled and nodded. I looked at my test, and got into the whole which-president-was-elected-when-and-against-whom mode. Everything was fine...
...for a few minutes. Then, out of the blue, Michael tapped on my shoulders, "Aru?"
Being used to Michael's random outbursts, I wasn't too surprised, but wondered what it was this time.
"Did I ever tell you I was gay?"
One little question. And the insides of me wanted to scream "WHAT?!!!". Instead, I managed a meek shake of the head.
"Well yeah, I'm gay" He said, completely oblivious to the effect his statement had had on the listener.
For a while, I tried to look back at the test, and suddenly nothing made sense. I tried to act like I was testing, but finally gave up. Thankfully, the bell rang at the same time.
As I managed a smile at Michael, I ran out of the class, his words still ringing in my ear. I wasn't quite sure why I was so upset. Was it because he was the first gay guy I had ever known? Or was it because I hadn't known it for six long months? Or was it because it was a situation I had never faced before, and was not quite ready to react to?
As I went through the day, and finally went home, I looked back on it. I realised one of my main frustrations was that I never knew Michael was gay, despite knowing him so well! And then I asked myself, how could I?! He was so... normal! I mean, weren't homosexuals supposed to be all flambouyant and feminine and stuff? Every gay character I'd seen in movies was quite flambouyant, and I had a reason to believe so! But I hadn't known, had I?!
I was also quite frustrated he didn't tell me earlier. But then, I asked myself whether I ever introduced myself with my sexual orientation. If I didn't have to say I was straight, why would Michael have to introduce himself as gay? The more I thought about it, the more I realised how unfair my anger was. I had always thought of myself as very open-minded, but this made me check my own beliefs. And, though it took a while, I understood.
It was one of those moments of my life that I can confidently point to and say, "I grew as a person there"
Ultimately, Michael and I shared an even stronger bond than ever. I loved and respected him more than I ever had, and I even mustered the courage to tell him about my feelings after he 'came out' to me. With remarkable maturity, much beyond his years, he smiled his kindly smile, and said, "I understand. I should have introduced the idea more gradually. And your reaction was nothing compared to the usual ones. But I'm not ashamed to tell now. How can I be ashamed of myself?" Thankfully, he never noticed the little tear falling down my cheek.
Michael and I went on to bigger things, greater things. We came to the point where he regularly talked to me about all the gay couples drama, and I did not feel, in the least emarrased. I had accepted Michael for who he was: a wonderful human being, funny, curious, enthusiastic, loving, empathatic, and yes, gay. My first ever friend at Grady.
I thought I would share this story in the wake of the whole Manvendra Singh episode. The world is moving on, and how long will we insist on being stuck in old ancient mindsets (in the name of 'maintaining traditions'), and deny such natural feelings? How long will it take us to realise that homosexuals are every bit as 'normal' as anyone who falls for their opposite sex? In the times when a 'normal' boy-girl relationship comes under utmost scrutiny in society, I wonder just how long it'll take for people to accept that even two guys can 'go out'... The world is moving fast, and, let's accept it, we are far behind in a lot of ways. And until we actually accept ourselves- and are comfortable in our own skins- how will we move on?
"I'm Michael. Michael Tallini" He held out his hand as he spoke.
"I'm Arundhati." I said, then noticing the horror written all over his face, I added, "Yeah, you can call me Aru. I'm an exchange student from India"
His kindly blue eyes suddenly shone with excitement, "Wow! That's SO cool! I've always wanted to go to India! You know, I even tried reading the Bh.. bhaag..."
"Bhagawat Gita?" I volunteered, a genuine smile appearing on my face for the first time in the day.
"So is that really how you say it? I always wanted to know!"
And our conversation went on throughout the period, as the history teacher, Mr. Sartor, tried in vain attract our attention. But, for once, I didn't care. I had finally made a friend in this unknown land!
And from then on, I always looked forward to US History, not so much for the story of the gory history of America, but to meet my friend. My only friend.
Michael and I, we talked about everything under the Sun. He asked questions about India, but also about my life back there. These were genuine queries. A sharp contrast to the questions people asked me just because I introduced myself as an exchange student. With Michael, I almost forgot that I was from an alien country, and had a 'weird' accent (as the others would always remind me). With him, I was myself- a teenager- with my very own set of quirks and fancies. He woud always know when I was down, and know exactly what to say and do to make me happier. In turn, I gave him a big bear hug everytime he walked into class. We were inseperable in that class...
And this continued for almost six months. And then came a day that looked as normal as it could, but in fact, was completely otherwise.
I walked into class a little late, and Mr. Sartor had already started passing out the tests. I quickly gave Michael a hug and buckled down to start writing the test. As usual, Michael leaned over and wispered a 'best of luck'. I smiled and nodded. I looked at my test, and got into the whole which-president-was-elected-when-and-against-whom mode. Everything was fine...
...for a few minutes. Then, out of the blue, Michael tapped on my shoulders, "Aru?"
Being used to Michael's random outbursts, I wasn't too surprised, but wondered what it was this time.
"Did I ever tell you I was gay?"
One little question. And the insides of me wanted to scream "WHAT?!!!". Instead, I managed a meek shake of the head.
"Well yeah, I'm gay" He said, completely oblivious to the effect his statement had had on the listener.
For a while, I tried to look back at the test, and suddenly nothing made sense. I tried to act like I was testing, but finally gave up. Thankfully, the bell rang at the same time.
As I managed a smile at Michael, I ran out of the class, his words still ringing in my ear. I wasn't quite sure why I was so upset. Was it because he was the first gay guy I had ever known? Or was it because I hadn't known it for six long months? Or was it because it was a situation I had never faced before, and was not quite ready to react to?
As I went through the day, and finally went home, I looked back on it. I realised one of my main frustrations was that I never knew Michael was gay, despite knowing him so well! And then I asked myself, how could I?! He was so... normal! I mean, weren't homosexuals supposed to be all flambouyant and feminine and stuff? Every gay character I'd seen in movies was quite flambouyant, and I had a reason to believe so! But I hadn't known, had I?!
I was also quite frustrated he didn't tell me earlier. But then, I asked myself whether I ever introduced myself with my sexual orientation. If I didn't have to say I was straight, why would Michael have to introduce himself as gay? The more I thought about it, the more I realised how unfair my anger was. I had always thought of myself as very open-minded, but this made me check my own beliefs. And, though it took a while, I understood.
It was one of those moments of my life that I can confidently point to and say, "I grew as a person there"
Ultimately, Michael and I shared an even stronger bond than ever. I loved and respected him more than I ever had, and I even mustered the courage to tell him about my feelings after he 'came out' to me. With remarkable maturity, much beyond his years, he smiled his kindly smile, and said, "I understand. I should have introduced the idea more gradually. And your reaction was nothing compared to the usual ones. But I'm not ashamed to tell now. How can I be ashamed of myself?" Thankfully, he never noticed the little tear falling down my cheek.
Michael and I went on to bigger things, greater things. We came to the point where he regularly talked to me about all the gay couples drama, and I did not feel, in the least emarrased. I had accepted Michael for who he was: a wonderful human being, funny, curious, enthusiastic, loving, empathatic, and yes, gay. My first ever friend at Grady.
I thought I would share this story in the wake of the whole Manvendra Singh episode. The world is moving on, and how long will we insist on being stuck in old ancient mindsets (in the name of 'maintaining traditions'), and deny such natural feelings? How long will it take us to realise that homosexuals are every bit as 'normal' as anyone who falls for their opposite sex? In the times when a 'normal' boy-girl relationship comes under utmost scrutiny in society, I wonder just how long it'll take for people to accept that even two guys can 'go out'... The world is moving fast, and, let's accept it, we are far behind in a lot of ways. And until we actually accept ourselves- and are comfortable in our own skins- how will we move on?
Saturday, September 29, 2007
A Letter To The (So Called) 'Purists'
Dear 'Purists',
This letter comes after reading much of what all of you think of the new 'slash-bang' form of Cricket (more popularly called T20), and frankly, all I have to say is: stop whining.
Stop whining about the fact that this form of cricket is not a fair contest between bat and ball. Because it is. Take the semi-final between India and Australia as a case in point. Or any of the two matches played before or after by India. Especially the final. It was won not by the alleged 'slog shots', but with disciplined bowling- and a sensible innings from Gambhir. And yes, all ten wickets were taken, thank you.
Stop whining about the fact that there is no place in the format for sensible batting. All the match-winning innings played throughout the tournament have been a result of a good cricketing mind, and some brilliant cricketing shots. If the format demanded a strike rate well over hundred, the batsmen seemed to respond impressively. Even the six sixes over Stuart Broad by Yuvraj Singh in that match-changing over were 'good cricketing shots', save one.
Stop whining about how cricket is being 'polluted' with all the song-and-dance, and the like. If a few cheerleaders and lowered ticket rates is what it takes to take the game to the masses, then so be it. Because let's face it- the heart of cricket lies not with the tea-sipping, leisure-loving, rich gentlemen (who like to say 'good shot mate' to the most dubious of shots) from some remote county in England- but with the big-dreaming village lad (with a heart the size of a cricket field) from the remotest parts of countries like India and Pakistan, who likes to work hard and celebrate harder.
Stop whining. Grow up. Times are changing, and cricket- for once- is going along. The bars have been raised- and there's no place for complacency. Bowlers have been presented with the challenge of restricting a team to less than eight runs an over, and the cream of the lot have resonded beautifully. The batsmen too have been under pressure to play good cricket without losing their minds, and they've proved they are up to the challenge. The fielding standards have been raised, and catches that would've been considered near-impossible before, have become common-place. And with that- the pace of running between the wickets, the fitness, the athleticism, the ability to think on one's feet- has gone several notches higher.
Accept the fact that the world cup gone by has ushered in a new era of cricket- and a pace and intensity never associated with the game has now become an integral part of it. It has truly become the 'survival of the fittest'- in every sense of the term- and the faster you accept that, the better for yourself.
Because Twenty20 Cricket is here to stay. Whether you like it or not.
With love,
A 'New-Age' fan :)
This letter comes after reading much of what all of you think of the new 'slash-bang' form of Cricket (more popularly called T20), and frankly, all I have to say is: stop whining.
Stop whining about the fact that this form of cricket is not a fair contest between bat and ball. Because it is. Take the semi-final between India and Australia as a case in point. Or any of the two matches played before or after by India. Especially the final. It was won not by the alleged 'slog shots', but with disciplined bowling- and a sensible innings from Gambhir. And yes, all ten wickets were taken, thank you.
Stop whining about the fact that there is no place in the format for sensible batting. All the match-winning innings played throughout the tournament have been a result of a good cricketing mind, and some brilliant cricketing shots. If the format demanded a strike rate well over hundred, the batsmen seemed to respond impressively. Even the six sixes over Stuart Broad by Yuvraj Singh in that match-changing over were 'good cricketing shots', save one.
Stop whining about how cricket is being 'polluted' with all the song-and-dance, and the like. If a few cheerleaders and lowered ticket rates is what it takes to take the game to the masses, then so be it. Because let's face it- the heart of cricket lies not with the tea-sipping, leisure-loving, rich gentlemen (who like to say 'good shot mate' to the most dubious of shots) from some remote county in England- but with the big-dreaming village lad (with a heart the size of a cricket field) from the remotest parts of countries like India and Pakistan, who likes to work hard and celebrate harder.
Stop whining. Grow up. Times are changing, and cricket- for once- is going along. The bars have been raised- and there's no place for complacency. Bowlers have been presented with the challenge of restricting a team to less than eight runs an over, and the cream of the lot have resonded beautifully. The batsmen too have been under pressure to play good cricket without losing their minds, and they've proved they are up to the challenge. The fielding standards have been raised, and catches that would've been considered near-impossible before, have become common-place. And with that- the pace of running between the wickets, the fitness, the athleticism, the ability to think on one's feet- has gone several notches higher.
Accept the fact that the world cup gone by has ushered in a new era of cricket- and a pace and intensity never associated with the game has now become an integral part of it. It has truly become the 'survival of the fittest'- in every sense of the term- and the faster you accept that, the better for yourself.
Because Twenty20 Cricket is here to stay. Whether you like it or not.
With love,
A 'New-Age' fan :)
Thursday, September 27, 2007
My 'flashbulb' moment!
If you're Indian, go ask your grandparents what they remember of the day of the India-Pakistan partition, or your parents about the assasination of Indira Gandhi- or of the time when Kapil Dev brought home the 1983 World Cup. If you're on the other side of the world, ask them about the day of Kennedy's assasination, or for that matter- Martin Luther's, or even of the day when Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon for the first time. Chances are, they will not only be able to tell you what day of the week it was- but even exactly what they were doing in the few moments preceding and following that moment that they found out.
There are few days in our entire lives that we are able to relive almost minute-by-minute, what psychologists like to call 'flashbulb memories', and I lived one such moment not too long ago...
India won the first Twenty20 World Cup. To many, its just a fact. For me, it evokes a string of memories- of each and every one of the events that unfolded in those magical three and a half hours...
I remember just how overcast it was- the sky knit with clouds of gloom- but the weather on the other side of the window couldn't have been more different. As the two traditional rivals lined up to sing the national anthems- one could almost feel history being created. And every little thing that happened afterwards is etched in my memory. The first ball near run-out, to the magnificent first six that Irfan's bigger version launched into the stands and Asif's ultimate revenge.
And all along, the two urges tearing me on the inside- one wanting to stay, to not miss one second of the proceeding; the other not wanting to see- the stress, the tension- almost overwhelming. I remember running into my room, shutting the door, and pretending to read a novel that I now cannot even recall the name of- all the while, my heart in the drawing room- where the TV lay. I remember trying to act nonchalant, telling everyone that India was going to lose with the palatry score they posted- all the while wishing, more than ever, that I would be proved wrong.
I also remember running out every time I heard the faintest of shouts- and then rushing right back in- almost as if by my not seeing, Indian would win. I remember how a friend called, and as I talked to him, a flurry of shouts came from the TV room- I rushed, and can still remember the faces of my father and brother flushed with joy- with my father declaring that it was all over- Malik and Afridi were gone! I remember hanging up on my friend, and wathing every single ball that followed- pacing up and down the room- the excitement not letting me sit. I remember, very vividly, how Misbah and Tanvir almost single-handedly took the game away- I remember each of those five seemingly humongous hits over the boundary that followed- turning the whole match on its head. And I also remember the revenge of Sreesanth- that sweet sound of timber- as Tanvir walked back. But also the feeling that probably it was all over.
I also remember RP Singh's excellent penultimate over, but also the excruciating question just before the start of the last one- who would it be? Who would bowl the last over after Bhajji had gotten the stick in his two overs? Our most unlikely crisis-hero, as it turns out. Joginder Sharma. As he wiped the sweat off his face not being able to hide the nervousness and bowled the first ball- that got nowhere near the batsmen- one got the feeling that it was all over. Twelve runs. Six balls. Only one wicket in hand, but the in-form Misbah on strike. And a nervous Joginder Sharma. Could it get any easier for Pakistan? The six off the very next ball only added to the silence that one could feel in the surroundings- as dismay almost consumed each and every one of us in front of the TV set. Four balls. Six runs. Too easy.
And then came the ball that can probably be replayed at will in the minds of each and every Indian cricket fan... Joginder Sharma's third ball-- Misbah moving across his stumps to play what looked like a pre-meditated shot-- an unorthodox scoop-- the ball staying in the air for what seemed like an eternity-- and then, Sreesanth (and his God!) emerging out of nowhere and taking the catch-- and Ravi Shastri's exact words... "It's all over! INDIA WIN!"-- And the eruption of unadultrated blissful joy that immediately followed-- My father and brother running across the room with shouts of joy-- me, on the floor, crying in disbelief.
Ask me twenty years down the line, and I'll probably be able to live each one of those moments in explicit detail. Ask me fifty years down the line, and it'll still hold true. That moment, and everything that followed- the Indians in a heap over Sehwag; Misbah still at the crease- on his knees in dibelief, agony; the Indian victory lap; Bhajji and Irfan's joyous chest-bump; Dhoni taking his shirt off and presenting it to a fan; the presentation ceremony- and the riot of celebration that followed- in South Africa and on the other side of the TV set; and even Harsha Bhogle's parting words "the most deserving final in the longest time"...
Yes. They'll all live on. Each one of them. In joyous, explicit detail.
This was my 'flashbulb memory', what about yours? :)
There are few days in our entire lives that we are able to relive almost minute-by-minute, what psychologists like to call 'flashbulb memories', and I lived one such moment not too long ago...
India won the first Twenty20 World Cup. To many, its just a fact. For me, it evokes a string of memories- of each and every one of the events that unfolded in those magical three and a half hours...
I remember just how overcast it was- the sky knit with clouds of gloom- but the weather on the other side of the window couldn't have been more different. As the two traditional rivals lined up to sing the national anthems- one could almost feel history being created. And every little thing that happened afterwards is etched in my memory. The first ball near run-out, to the magnificent first six that Irfan's bigger version launched into the stands and Asif's ultimate revenge.
And all along, the two urges tearing me on the inside- one wanting to stay, to not miss one second of the proceeding; the other not wanting to see- the stress, the tension- almost overwhelming. I remember running into my room, shutting the door, and pretending to read a novel that I now cannot even recall the name of- all the while, my heart in the drawing room- where the TV lay. I remember trying to act nonchalant, telling everyone that India was going to lose with the palatry score they posted- all the while wishing, more than ever, that I would be proved wrong.
I also remember running out every time I heard the faintest of shouts- and then rushing right back in- almost as if by my not seeing, Indian would win. I remember how a friend called, and as I talked to him, a flurry of shouts came from the TV room- I rushed, and can still remember the faces of my father and brother flushed with joy- with my father declaring that it was all over- Malik and Afridi were gone! I remember hanging up on my friend, and wathing every single ball that followed- pacing up and down the room- the excitement not letting me sit. I remember, very vividly, how Misbah and Tanvir almost single-handedly took the game away- I remember each of those five seemingly humongous hits over the boundary that followed- turning the whole match on its head. And I also remember the revenge of Sreesanth- that sweet sound of timber- as Tanvir walked back. But also the feeling that probably it was all over.
I also remember RP Singh's excellent penultimate over, but also the excruciating question just before the start of the last one- who would it be? Who would bowl the last over after Bhajji had gotten the stick in his two overs? Our most unlikely crisis-hero, as it turns out. Joginder Sharma. As he wiped the sweat off his face not being able to hide the nervousness and bowled the first ball- that got nowhere near the batsmen- one got the feeling that it was all over. Twelve runs. Six balls. Only one wicket in hand, but the in-form Misbah on strike. And a nervous Joginder Sharma. Could it get any easier for Pakistan? The six off the very next ball only added to the silence that one could feel in the surroundings- as dismay almost consumed each and every one of us in front of the TV set. Four balls. Six runs. Too easy.
And then came the ball that can probably be replayed at will in the minds of each and every Indian cricket fan... Joginder Sharma's third ball-- Misbah moving across his stumps to play what looked like a pre-meditated shot-- an unorthodox scoop-- the ball staying in the air for what seemed like an eternity-- and then, Sreesanth (and his God!) emerging out of nowhere and taking the catch-- and Ravi Shastri's exact words... "It's all over! INDIA WIN!"-- And the eruption of unadultrated blissful joy that immediately followed-- My father and brother running across the room with shouts of joy-- me, on the floor, crying in disbelief.
Ask me twenty years down the line, and I'll probably be able to live each one of those moments in explicit detail. Ask me fifty years down the line, and it'll still hold true. That moment, and everything that followed- the Indians in a heap over Sehwag; Misbah still at the crease- on his knees in dibelief, agony; the Indian victory lap; Bhajji and Irfan's joyous chest-bump; Dhoni taking his shirt off and presenting it to a fan; the presentation ceremony- and the riot of celebration that followed- in South Africa and on the other side of the TV set; and even Harsha Bhogle's parting words "the most deserving final in the longest time"...
Yes. They'll all live on. Each one of them. In joyous, explicit detail.
This was my 'flashbulb memory', what about yours? :)
Monday, September 3, 2007
Thinking out-of-the-box? What's that?
Recently, faced with the eternal problem of the dismal number of submissions to the school newsletter, we- the newsletter committee- put our heads together to come up with- what we thought- was 'the' solution to the problem. We decided on a few topics that we thought were the talk of the nation- or of the youth at least- and we told each student to write at least a paragraph about what thoughts came to their mind when they heard the given topics. I mean, how could that go wrong? Everyone seemed to have quick opinions about everything, and how difficult would it be to put a few of those down in words?
But somewhere, our assumptions went horribly wrong.
The first problem? "What am I supposed to write?" Quite understandable, I said to myself, as this was the first time that the newsletter was doing something of this sort. As I explained that they just had to put down their opinion, the confusion only seemed to grow- "But... but am I supposed to write for or against the topic?". As I repeated the answer I had given earlier, adding 'it is completely your decision'- there was a marked indifference on the faces.
If the start was dismal, the results were even more so. As we scanned paragraph after paragraph submitted by all the classes ranging from 6th to 12th- we tried hard to mask the disappointment with some humour ("Okay, so let me predict what the next paragraph will start with..." and such). But the truth was, any one could have written those paragraphs (barring a few). Because all of them seemed to have the same opinion- and most of them even started with the same sentence! We had given topics like 'The school food', and 'The effectiveness of the Indian Education System', and 'Live-In Relationships'- expecting, at the very least, some mixed responses from the students. But the first two mostly drew articles unabashedly glorifying the school food and our education system, quite contrary to what one would hear down the corridors, or in the class. And the topic of 'Live-In Relationships', which seemed to attract so much conversation in class and outside it- with people being equally vociferous in defending it as well as opposing it, managed to draw just the one article!
As I took my stock of editing home, and went through more piles of the same things I had read so many times over, my first feelings were those of frustration, and bitter disappointment in the inability of the students to express their honest opinions when given the platform.
It was not until I had a good cry, and the whole house knew about my disappointments, that I realised that they were probably misdirected- and even a wee bit unfair. Maybe, just maybe- they weren't completely at fault.
How can they be blamed when, all their schooling life, they've been told what exactly to write- complete with the exact number of words they need to write it in? What else could explain the fact that most of the students use 'guides' for literature of a particular subject- something that is so purely supposed to be left upto interpretation? How can they be blamed when they've been told all their life what exactly their opinion about a particular piece of literature should be?
How can they be blamed when expressing dissent has never been something that's been encouraged? Afterall, going with the norm seems to have its proven awards- students who seem to be unable to even carry out a conversation in a language have been known to score the highest marks in a paricular exam- especially if it happens to be a nationally reputed 'board' exam. Learning by rote seems to have its obvious advantages. And for people who actually have another opinion? Hard luck mate!
But its not just the board exams that encourage our tendency to 'go with the tide'. An inbuilt fear of rejection- that of non-acceptence- seems to be a commonly known trait of the entire human race. So are we afraid of taking a stance? Are we too used to playing it safe?
And what exactly are we moving towards? A society where our real opinions have been covered with what people want us to think? Or one where there's a complete lack of the former? And why?
In a country like ours- a democracy that thrives on the motto of 'of the people, by the people, for the people'- how can we expect positive changes if we just don't hold opinions, or are too busy playing it safe? Why do we not believe in the fact that voicing our opinions- especially if they are different- can bring about some concrete changes?
Why are we afraid to stand out- to be unique? Will there be a day when we will be as uniform- as indistinguishable- as french fries coming out of a structure with a huge 'M' over it?
But somewhere, our assumptions went horribly wrong.
The first problem? "What am I supposed to write?" Quite understandable, I said to myself, as this was the first time that the newsletter was doing something of this sort. As I explained that they just had to put down their opinion, the confusion only seemed to grow- "But... but am I supposed to write for or against the topic?". As I repeated the answer I had given earlier, adding 'it is completely your decision'- there was a marked indifference on the faces.
If the start was dismal, the results were even more so. As we scanned paragraph after paragraph submitted by all the classes ranging from 6th to 12th- we tried hard to mask the disappointment with some humour ("Okay, so let me predict what the next paragraph will start with..." and such). But the truth was, any one could have written those paragraphs (barring a few). Because all of them seemed to have the same opinion- and most of them even started with the same sentence! We had given topics like 'The school food', and 'The effectiveness of the Indian Education System', and 'Live-In Relationships'- expecting, at the very least, some mixed responses from the students. But the first two mostly drew articles unabashedly glorifying the school food and our education system, quite contrary to what one would hear down the corridors, or in the class. And the topic of 'Live-In Relationships', which seemed to attract so much conversation in class and outside it- with people being equally vociferous in defending it as well as opposing it, managed to draw just the one article!
As I took my stock of editing home, and went through more piles of the same things I had read so many times over, my first feelings were those of frustration, and bitter disappointment in the inability of the students to express their honest opinions when given the platform.
It was not until I had a good cry, and the whole house knew about my disappointments, that I realised that they were probably misdirected- and even a wee bit unfair. Maybe, just maybe- they weren't completely at fault.
How can they be blamed when, all their schooling life, they've been told what exactly to write- complete with the exact number of words they need to write it in? What else could explain the fact that most of the students use 'guides' for literature of a particular subject- something that is so purely supposed to be left upto interpretation? How can they be blamed when they've been told all their life what exactly their opinion about a particular piece of literature should be?
How can they be blamed when expressing dissent has never been something that's been encouraged? Afterall, going with the norm seems to have its proven awards- students who seem to be unable to even carry out a conversation in a language have been known to score the highest marks in a paricular exam- especially if it happens to be a nationally reputed 'board' exam. Learning by rote seems to have its obvious advantages. And for people who actually have another opinion? Hard luck mate!
But its not just the board exams that encourage our tendency to 'go with the tide'. An inbuilt fear of rejection- that of non-acceptence- seems to be a commonly known trait of the entire human race. So are we afraid of taking a stance? Are we too used to playing it safe?
And what exactly are we moving towards? A society where our real opinions have been covered with what people want us to think? Or one where there's a complete lack of the former? And why?
In a country like ours- a democracy that thrives on the motto of 'of the people, by the people, for the people'- how can we expect positive changes if we just don't hold opinions, or are too busy playing it safe? Why do we not believe in the fact that voicing our opinions- especially if they are different- can bring about some concrete changes?
Why are we afraid to stand out- to be unique? Will there be a day when we will be as uniform- as indistinguishable- as french fries coming out of a structure with a huge 'M' over it?
Thursday, August 30, 2007
The True Youth Icon...
[Disclaimer: I'm probably one of the most loyal supporter of the Indian team you can find. However, 
the truth will remain the truth]
the truth will remain the truth]I just watched Sania's second round match at the US open (that she won 6-3, 7-5), and my whole family was rejoicing- literally shouting, and prancing around- all the exhaustion of the day forgotten. Now, just about twenty minutes later, everybody is trying to find an excuse to get to bed early- and tempers are flying all over the place. The reason? Just a flick of the remote control away. The Indian Cricket team in England. Enough said.
Tomorrow, the papers are probably going to carry a whole page of articles on what the Indian team could have done better-- and Sania will find all of one article for herself later on in the sports section. Why? Why isn't a milestone win by an upcoming player not enough to overshadow a loss by a team (that's been doing pretty poorly anyway!) from the same country? Would the responses have been the same, had it been the other way round? Probably not. Why? One word. Cricket. Or our near-obsession with the game, and all involved in it. In fact, I admit I am one of the crowd too...
But today changed a 
few things... Or probably the last few months did. Sania's continued rise in International tennis has been drawing quite a bit of attention as of late, and it makes me wonder, of she deserves more attention than she is getting. Most would argue otherwise. I mean, afterall, we do know what each of her t-shirts say (Including the headline-grabbing "well-behaved women seldom make history"), and her faster-than-my-forehand cheeky replies have been perfect fodder for the gossip-seekers (On being asked recently what she thought of her opponents having a game plan to attack her weak backhand, her quick reply was "Well, they must be repenting bitterly!")
few things... Or probably the last few months did. Sania's continued rise in International tennis has been drawing quite a bit of attention as of late, and it makes me wonder, of she deserves more attention than she is getting. Most would argue otherwise. I mean, afterall, we do know what each of her t-shirts say (Including the headline-grabbing "well-behaved women seldom make history"), and her faster-than-my-forehand cheeky replies have been perfect fodder for the gossip-seekers (On being asked recently what she thought of her opponents having a game plan to attack her weak backhand, her quick reply was "Well, they must be repenting bitterly!")But here are a few reasons Sania is clearly more deserving than the Indian Cricket team:
1. She is young. And she has a whole career ahead of her. Unlike the Cricket team, where most of the players that actually seem to be performing today are almost certainly not even going to be around for the next World Cup!
2. She has fought her way to the top. She has seen the worst. She has creeped up the ranking- top three hundred, top hundred, top seventy, top fifty, and now- the top thirty. A Cricket player, on the other hand, finds him name being chanted by the entire nation just for making it to the team. Instant popularity!
3. She is fit. She works hard on the court. Runs around with grit, and determination. Fighting for every point with her all. While her counterparts treat the cricket ball like a hot potato on the field- and desperately need a dictonary that actually has words like 'fitness', and 'team spirit', and 'hard work'.
4. She improves with every game- and certainly every season. The difference in her game from the time she last peaked in 2005, and right now, is remarkable- to say the least. She seems to go from strength-to-strength, converting even her weaknesses into her strengths. The Indian Cricket story is, on the other hand, a sad saga of not learning from ones mistakes, and relying wholly on one's strengths...
5. She is aggressive. Both on- and off-court. On court, her strength lies in attacking her opponent- pushing them in a corner. And even when she's not at the top of her game, she manages to intimidate the person on the other side of the net. Her counterparts, seem to take
the adage 'Cricket is a gentleman's game way' too seriously though- whether it be in our passive strike rates, or our generosity with runs on the field, or even the kindness with which we return favours- dropping catches that are gift-wrapped and sent into our hands... Oh no! We are too gentlemanly to become all aggressive!
the adage 'Cricket is a gentleman's game way' too seriously though- whether it be in our passive strike rates, or our generosity with runs on the field, or even the kindness with which we return favours- dropping catches that are gift-wrapped and sent into our hands... Oh no! We are too gentlemanly to become all aggressive!Basically, Sania represents India. And its aspirations. The youngest country in the world-on the threshold of great success. Aggressive, smart, determined. Wanting to take on new challenges everyday with renewed vigor. Not relying on past greatness to see it through...
Maybe the Indian Cricket Team needs a well-deserved break from the limelight-- and maybe, if that happens, I'll be writing a blogpost a few years down the line asking people to notice the new cricket team... (wow! That'll be some day!)
But until then... Chak De! Sania!!
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
The bitterness of truth...
So Hannah and Mom are away to the little town that mom works in for two days, and shashwat and I have stayed back coz we cannot afford to miss school [And to make most of the Independence day holiday]
And of course, just an hour after they leave...
"The cooking gas is over!" Cries my cook as I have just taken up my physics book (We have cooking gas cylinders here- that get replenished once they're empty)
I look dismally at the kitchen. She is right in the MIDDLE of her cooking-- the gravy (sabji, as we call it) is half cooked, and she's just beginning to cook rotis (Indian tortillas)- and the kitchen is a mess. Her expression is even more infuriating- she looks at me like its all my fault.
Crisis management... *ring ring*...
"Hello?"
"Hi.. mom. Umm... we just ran out of gas"
"ohhhhhh" I hear her sigh at the other end. "Is she (the cook) still cooking?"
"yeah. she's not done with anything yet" I'm getting more and more frustrated. Why can't she just offer a magic solution like she always does?
"Okay. Do one thing" Something in her voice tells me its not gonna be something I'll like. "Go to our old house and get the gas cylinder from there. Do you know how to detach it?"
"No" I say in a grumpy, almost complaining tone. I can feel my heart sinking. I had hoped for a day of solid studying, and generally chilling and doing what I like. But by the way things were going, that seemed far from likely...
"Ask one of the workers to come with you and get it" A reference to the people still working on the furniture in mom and dad's room (just one of the disadvantages of moving into a house when it is only half-done)
"Okay"
"Do you have money for a rickshaw?"
"No!" I say with a new hope... Hoping she would just tell me to stay home and eat the left overs...
"Just borrow some from your granny" Oh of course. Ms. magic solutions. What was I thinking?
"Okay" I say, even more sullenly.The cook has been following me around the house all through this conversation, constantly asking me questions: Are you talking to your mom? Can I go? What should I do with the raw batter?... I wanna yell so loudly: CAN I FINISH TALKING??!!!
But I just hang up on mom, and tell her to put everything away. Right now, all I can think of is mom's direction: "ask a worker to come with you-- go to the old house-- detach the cylinder (I still dunno how!!)-- haul it into the rickshaw-- bring it home and plug it in"... I don't have time to deal with anyone else. I tell her she can go home...
I finally convince one of the two people working in the inside room to come with me (incidentally, his name is Arun)-- and he timidly follows me to the rickshaw stand a little distance away, and sits as far from me as he can once we get into one.
We finally get there, and thereon, things go (surprisingly) smoothly- the guy knows how to detach the cylinder, and we manage to get into the rickshaw and get home fast enough not to be charged ridiculous amonts of money. I pay up 20 bucks (from my wallet- yeah, I found some at last)... and we haul the heavy cylinder upto the thrid floor, and attach it.
Ah! All well!
Oh! Wait "Didi, I'm hungry!"
In my hurry to get the cylinder to the house, I'd completely forgotten what exactly I got it for! There was no food. And a hungry brother is not the best person to have around.
Crisis management! *ring ring*
"Amma, I want the cook's number!"
"But why?" Arrrrgghhhh!! Because just when I sit down to study in peace (which, if you remember, was the reason I didn't come along!), everything has to go wrong!!!
"She left"
"Well, she won't come back. She must have already gotten home."
In the meanwhile, I looked at the half-cooked stuff lying in front of me, and decided I would finish the cooking off-- that would be the fastest thing.
"Nevermind, I'll cook the rest and feed Shashu"
"But putta..." She did not believe me, obviously. "Do you want ME to call the cook?"
"No mom. I'll manage!"
"But... but you don't know how to finish cooking the sabji..." And she launches into elaborate instructions on how to finish cooking..."But are you sure?" She finishes, still not sure.
"Yes ma. I'll manage. I promise. I'll call you if need be"That convinces her. "Okay putta. Take care! I'm sooooo happy!! This made my day... thank you so much for handling everything!"
I finish the call, and take on cooking with a renewed vigor. The house maid watches on sceptically, offering to do it herself every five minutes. I refuse... I WANT to do it now.
After adding a few things to the sabji and setting it on boil, I take on the rotis and (very slowly) make a few.
"Shashwat! Get a plate and serve yourself!" I try to sound all mom-like.
This is fun. And my brother is actually obeying me for the first time. He gets a plate and watches in amazement as his sister, whom he's never seen in the kitchen, is actually COOKING a full-blown meal!
He serves himself and starts eating. I look at him with a questioning look.
"Its forgettable" he says.
I feel the rage building up in me. "Why don't YOU try cooking once, and you'll know what it takes?!!"
"I'm only talking about the sabji. The rotis are good" He saw me making only the rotis, and assumed the cook had already cooked the sabji when she left.
"I cooked the sabji too!" I say defiantly.
"Oh!" He looks down, finishes the rest of the meal, and goes back into his room.
I just finished my lunch. It WAS forgettable. Even the rotis.
Oh for the bitterness of truth....
And of course, just an hour after they leave...
"The cooking gas is over!" Cries my cook as I have just taken up my physics book (We have cooking gas cylinders here- that get replenished once they're empty)
I look dismally at the kitchen. She is right in the MIDDLE of her cooking-- the gravy (sabji, as we call it) is half cooked, and she's just beginning to cook rotis (Indian tortillas)- and the kitchen is a mess. Her expression is even more infuriating- she looks at me like its all my fault.
Crisis management... *ring ring*...
"Hello?"
"Hi.. mom. Umm... we just ran out of gas"
"ohhhhhh" I hear her sigh at the other end. "Is she (the cook) still cooking?"
"yeah. she's not done with anything yet" I'm getting more and more frustrated. Why can't she just offer a magic solution like she always does?
"Okay. Do one thing" Something in her voice tells me its not gonna be something I'll like. "Go to our old house and get the gas cylinder from there. Do you know how to detach it?"
"No" I say in a grumpy, almost complaining tone. I can feel my heart sinking. I had hoped for a day of solid studying, and generally chilling and doing what I like. But by the way things were going, that seemed far from likely...
"Ask one of the workers to come with you and get it" A reference to the people still working on the furniture in mom and dad's room (just one of the disadvantages of moving into a house when it is only half-done)
"Okay"
"Do you have money for a rickshaw?"
"No!" I say with a new hope... Hoping she would just tell me to stay home and eat the left overs...
"Just borrow some from your granny" Oh of course. Ms. magic solutions. What was I thinking?
"Okay" I say, even more sullenly.The cook has been following me around the house all through this conversation, constantly asking me questions: Are you talking to your mom? Can I go? What should I do with the raw batter?... I wanna yell so loudly: CAN I FINISH TALKING??!!!
But I just hang up on mom, and tell her to put everything away. Right now, all I can think of is mom's direction: "ask a worker to come with you-- go to the old house-- detach the cylinder (I still dunno how!!)-- haul it into the rickshaw-- bring it home and plug it in"... I don't have time to deal with anyone else. I tell her she can go home...
I finally convince one of the two people working in the inside room to come with me (incidentally, his name is Arun)-- and he timidly follows me to the rickshaw stand a little distance away, and sits as far from me as he can once we get into one.
We finally get there, and thereon, things go (surprisingly) smoothly- the guy knows how to detach the cylinder, and we manage to get into the rickshaw and get home fast enough not to be charged ridiculous amonts of money. I pay up 20 bucks (from my wallet- yeah, I found some at last)... and we haul the heavy cylinder upto the thrid floor, and attach it.
Ah! All well!
Oh! Wait "Didi, I'm hungry!"
In my hurry to get the cylinder to the house, I'd completely forgotten what exactly I got it for! There was no food. And a hungry brother is not the best person to have around.
Crisis management! *ring ring*
"Amma, I want the cook's number!"
"But why?" Arrrrgghhhh!! Because just when I sit down to study in peace (which, if you remember, was the reason I didn't come along!), everything has to go wrong!!!
"She left"
"Well, she won't come back. She must have already gotten home."
In the meanwhile, I looked at the half-cooked stuff lying in front of me, and decided I would finish the cooking off-- that would be the fastest thing.
"Nevermind, I'll cook the rest and feed Shashu"
"But putta..." She did not believe me, obviously. "Do you want ME to call the cook?"
"No mom. I'll manage!"
"But... but you don't know how to finish cooking the sabji..." And she launches into elaborate instructions on how to finish cooking..."But are you sure?" She finishes, still not sure.
"Yes ma. I'll manage. I promise. I'll call you if need be"That convinces her. "Okay putta. Take care! I'm sooooo happy!! This made my day... thank you so much for handling everything!"
I finish the call, and take on cooking with a renewed vigor. The house maid watches on sceptically, offering to do it herself every five minutes. I refuse... I WANT to do it now.
After adding a few things to the sabji and setting it on boil, I take on the rotis and (very slowly) make a few.
"Shashwat! Get a plate and serve yourself!" I try to sound all mom-like.
This is fun. And my brother is actually obeying me for the first time. He gets a plate and watches in amazement as his sister, whom he's never seen in the kitchen, is actually COOKING a full-blown meal!
He serves himself and starts eating. I look at him with a questioning look.
"Its forgettable" he says.
I feel the rage building up in me. "Why don't YOU try cooking once, and you'll know what it takes?!!"
"I'm only talking about the sabji. The rotis are good" He saw me making only the rotis, and assumed the cook had already cooked the sabji when she left.
"I cooked the sabji too!" I say defiantly.
"Oh!" He looks down, finishes the rest of the meal, and goes back into his room.
I just finished my lunch. It WAS forgettable. Even the rotis.
Oh for the bitterness of truth....
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Lessons abound...
"The value of something is seldom known until lost"
Who would have thought the past year would reinforce the popular epithet SO many times, I'm almost sure never to forget?
When, a year ago, I left India for the United States, that WAS my intention- to put myself in a position where I would be able to value what I had this end- things I'd taken for granted. It was one of the motivations that pushed me to accept the opportunity with the enthusiasm that I did. But the lessons after that seemed to be uncalled for-not that lessons are supposed to come pre-warned- but they are sometimes so very hard when you don't even have a hint. The latest- Hannah's impending sudden departure- is another to add to the list, that only seems to get tougher...
At most times, I seem to think I'll know what I'll miss... That is, until the threat of and impending departure- mine or someone else's- looms over the head like a fatal sword, and then everything seems to suddenly come uder a completely different light. Thinking about something as the last time you might be witnessing it changes it so radically, and makes your reaction to it so different- it is almost never the same again.
And I quickly realise that the first of those lessons- laving family in India for a year- was probably the mildest. Given that I always knew I was going back after a year, it wasn't as hard afterall! I realised a few things that I'd taken for granted, and was glad for an opportunity to go back and make some things better- to be able to look at them in a different light.
But the others- leaving friends and family in Atlanta, leaving Grady high school, and Hannah leaving back for home- seem so permanent, so unrectifiable. I managed to gague their true value only in the last few moments- making it near impossible to go back to make things better...
Regrets. So many of those- making me wish for time travel more than ever. Regreats- that will probably always remain what they are- regrets. Regreats about doing some things, and not doing others; regrets about saying some things and not saying others. Regrets- that make you wonder how much better, how much more special something could have been if you had acted differently. But they are what remain in the hand when all else is lost- like stubborn pieces of stones in a fistful of smooth sand...
Hannah is leaving. I don't know what to feel about that yet. We've been together for SEVEN long months- spent almost every one of those moments together. It's difficult not to take the bond for granted. But now that she is leaving, I look at ordinary, day-to-day things with a renewed interest- a queer pre-nostalgia. Everything from our silly talks late into the night, to our random bursts into songs we love, to random tidbits of memories we share, to the spontaneous hugs, to her adorable 'awoo-woo!' call whenever I'm down, to all those laughs, the smiles, and tears we've shared.I had taken it all to be permanent. Maybe, the fact that she would have left at the end of the year anyway was never in my mind when I thought of our bond...
A sister. I always wanted one. Who would have thought I'd get such a wonderful one? An ever-smiling, ever-understanding, ever-supportive one? ... And who would have thought she'd be taken away from me at such a short notice? The person who probably knows me better than anyone else- my deepest confidante, and staunchest friend. Someone I've grown to love so much, I almost don't notice it. So many times I've felt like we were one soul in two bodies- like we could read each others' minds... like we could communicate without words... Maybe it happens with living together so long... You become one.
So its no wonder that her departure feels like someone is coming and severing us into two- ruthlessly. Maybe its good for our development as individuals- to be forced out of our somfort zones and to be forced to take on the world on our own... But the mere thought is so painful- it gives me a heartache.
I try to make most of the remaining few memories- tp not spoil them by thinking of what's gonna happen in near future... but its hard. Its hard not to feel so heavy in my heart, to stop my tears from swelling up every time she leaves my presence.
I'm going to miss her so so much.... she takes a part of my soul with her.
Who would have thought the past year would reinforce the popular epithet SO many times, I'm almost sure never to forget?
When, a year ago, I left India for the United States, that WAS my intention- to put myself in a position where I would be able to value what I had this end- things I'd taken for granted. It was one of the motivations that pushed me to accept the opportunity with the enthusiasm that I did. But the lessons after that seemed to be uncalled for-not that lessons are supposed to come pre-warned- but they are sometimes so very hard when you don't even have a hint. The latest- Hannah's impending sudden departure- is another to add to the list, that only seems to get tougher...
At most times, I seem to think I'll know what I'll miss... That is, until the threat of and impending departure- mine or someone else's- looms over the head like a fatal sword, and then everything seems to suddenly come uder a completely different light. Thinking about something as the last time you might be witnessing it changes it so radically, and makes your reaction to it so different- it is almost never the same again.
And I quickly realise that the first of those lessons- laving family in India for a year- was probably the mildest. Given that I always knew I was going back after a year, it wasn't as hard afterall! I realised a few things that I'd taken for granted, and was glad for an opportunity to go back and make some things better- to be able to look at them in a different light.
But the others- leaving friends and family in Atlanta, leaving Grady high school, and Hannah leaving back for home- seem so permanent, so unrectifiable. I managed to gague their true value only in the last few moments- making it near impossible to go back to make things better...
Regrets. So many of those- making me wish for time travel more than ever. Regreats- that will probably always remain what they are- regrets. Regreats about doing some things, and not doing others; regrets about saying some things and not saying others. Regrets- that make you wonder how much better, how much more special something could have been if you had acted differently. But they are what remain in the hand when all else is lost- like stubborn pieces of stones in a fistful of smooth sand...Hannah is leaving. I don't know what to feel about that yet. We've been together for SEVEN long months- spent almost every one of those moments together. It's difficult not to take the bond for granted. But now that she is leaving, I look at ordinary, day-to-day things with a renewed interest- a queer pre-nostalgia. Everything from our silly talks late into the night, to our random bursts into songs we love, to random tidbits of memories we share, to the spontaneous hugs, to her adorable 'awoo-woo!' call whenever I'm down, to all those laughs, the smiles, and tears we've shared.I had taken it all to be permanent. Maybe, the fact that she would have left at the end of the year anyway was never in my mind when I thought of our bond...
A sister. I always wanted one. Who would have thought I'd get such a wonderful one? An ever-smiling, ever-understanding, ever-supportive one? ... And who would have thought she'd be taken away from me at such a short notice? The person who probably knows me better than anyone else- my deepest confidante, and staunchest friend. Someone I've grown to love so much, I almost don't notice it. So many times I've felt like we were one soul in two bodies- like we could read each others' minds... like we could communicate without words... Maybe it happens with living together so long... You become one.
So its no wonder that her departure feels like someone is coming and severing us into two- ruthlessly. Maybe its good for our development as individuals- to be forced out of our somfort zones and to be forced to take on the world on our own... But the mere thought is so painful- it gives me a heartache.
I try to make most of the remaining few memories- tp not spoil them by thinking of what's gonna happen in near future... but its hard. Its hard not to feel so heavy in my heart, to stop my tears from swelling up every time she leaves my presence.
I'm going to miss her so so much.... she takes a part of my soul with her.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
If only...
Its been a good four weeks since I got home. Good enough time to sit back, soak in my experience and move on with life here. I have learnt, in the past year, to live in the intensity of the moment- think about the past and future, yes, but not get lost in them. I have tried to live each moment for what its worth... I've tried my best to give each one its due. And I've been proud of what I could achieve with it- another whole life, another set of friends, and family that I love with the same intensity...
But I cannot help but question now if I'm quite capable of balancing two lives- doing two sets of friends and family justice. And I quickly realise, that to live every moment of my life in the past year, I compromised on this life here- At most times, I convinced myself to live only one life-the one I was leading there- and to no do injustice to both by trying to live each simultaneously.
Now, try as I may to convince myself that it is the same situation turned on its head, the fact that I'll never be leading the previous life like I did the past year makes things so much harded. And I also realise that I find it increasingly difficult to detach, and reattach. I've made the cardinal sin of combining both, trying to live both simultaneously.
I find it hard to accept loss- and I find myself asking myself the proverbial question time and again- 'Is it better to have loved and lost, or never to have loved at all?' The pain of loss, sometimes, is excrutiatingly painful, and I find myself alone each time my mind runs through the fact that somethings are lost- forever- and the others will never be the same again. At such times, I make the common mistake of busying myself with work, shutting my mind to the thoughts- only for them to return stronger, and with more bitterness.
If only I can sit and let them take over for a while, give my mind enough time to soak them in- and ultimately, accept them. If only I can begin to live life, instead of loomin
g around the transition between the two- living neither. If only I could reciprocate the love, and care around- without having my mind trace itself back through past memories. If only...
I have the power to love, but do I have the power to let go? Do I have the power to let things take their own course? To leave some things upto time to decide? Maybe not...
I have a ways to go.
"...And I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep..."
But I cannot help but question now if I'm quite capable of balancing two lives- doing two sets of friends and family justice. And I quickly realise, that to live every moment of my life in the past year, I compromised on this life here- At most times, I convinced myself to live only one life-the one I was leading there- and to no do injustice to both by trying to live each simultaneously.
Now, try as I may to convince myself that it is the same situation turned on its head, the fact that I'll never be leading the previous life like I did the past year makes things so much harded. And I also realise that I find it increasingly difficult to detach, and reattach. I've made the cardinal sin of combining both, trying to live both simultaneously.
I find it hard to accept loss- and I find myself asking myself the proverbial question time and again- 'Is it better to have loved and lost, or never to have loved at all?' The pain of loss, sometimes, is excrutiatingly painful, and I find myself alone each time my mind runs through the fact that somethings are lost- forever- and the others will never be the same again. At such times, I make the common mistake of busying myself with work, shutting my mind to the thoughts- only for them to return stronger, and with more bitterness.
If only I can sit and let them take over for a while, give my mind enough time to soak them in- and ultimately, accept them. If only I can begin to live life, instead of loomin
g around the transition between the two- living neither. If only I could reciprocate the love, and care around- without having my mind trace itself back through past memories. If only...I have the power to love, but do I have the power to let go? Do I have the power to let things take their own course? To leave some things upto time to decide? Maybe not...
I have a ways to go.
"...And I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep..."
Monday, June 4, 2007
"Like a silk blanket..."
As DJ and I lay on the hammock in Scott's backyard- at an unearthly hour- at a recent sleepover at his place, we both gazed through the vines that grew over the house, at the singular star that was visible. The place was peaceful, everyone was asleep, and the wind smoothly caressed our bodies.
It was rare for it to be so quiet between us. Ever since we've known each other since September of last year, ours has been a wierd friendship- sometimes soft and caring, sometimes loud and turbulent, and other times- just plain silly. But never quiet. We always seemed to have something to say to each other- whether it be words of encouragement to get through tough times, or little nabs at each other in Debate class, or yelling at the top of our lungs to express the anger we felt, or just the occassional deep conversations we had about life in general- we were never quiet.
But for the first time, I realised how golden silence was- and how it encompassed a million words in the matter of a moment. And more than anything, I realised how satisfying it was- how calm, and yet ruffled; how deep, and yet light; how comforting, and yet thought-provoking.
I finally found some words to describe the feeling, "Isn't silence almost like... like a silk blanket DJ? I can almost feel it covering my entire body- ever so lightly..."
For the first time in a long time, he agreed, "That's some deep shit man!"
But it made me think back to the other times- when silence had not been all that golden. The times when it was awkward- when it just seemed like the absence of words; the times when it stung- when some things that just needed to be said, never were; the times when it was deafening- when it screamed out to me to talk.
I wonder if silence changes its personality from situation-to-situation, or from person-to-person. Was it the moment that had made if feel like silk, or was it just my friendship with DJ that transcended words?
Maybe it was just a mix of both. It was the deepness of the friendshi
p that we shared- that made it so comfortable, where the unspoken words were just understood. But it was also the beauty of the moment- the serenity of the night, and the stillness of life that it brought along- that made it all the more beautiful, all the more powerful, all the more silky.
In a way, it seemed like all the words that were actually said, were more misunderstood than this one moment of silence. It seemed like this one moment seemed to heal all- the past, the present, and even what was yet to come. It seemed like the absence of words made it easier for the thoughts to go from my mind to his- without passing though our mouths and ears.
So why is it that sometimes, some things just need to be said? Why can't the words be understood? Why can't the blanket of silk lie gently, and not itch? Why can't the million unspoken words express themselves? Why?
Whatever it may be, it was one of the most beautiful moments of my life...
It was rare for it to be so quiet between us. Ever since we've known each other since September of last year, ours has been a wierd friendship- sometimes soft and caring, sometimes loud and turbulent, and other times- just plain silly. But never quiet. We always seemed to have something to say to each other- whether it be words of encouragement to get through tough times, or little nabs at each other in Debate class, or yelling at the top of our lungs to express the anger we felt, or just the occassional deep conversations we had about life in general- we were never quiet.
But for the first time, I realised how golden silence was- and how it encompassed a million words in the matter of a moment. And more than anything, I realised how satisfying it was- how calm, and yet ruffled; how deep, and yet light; how comforting, and yet thought-provoking.
I finally found some words to describe the feeling, "Isn't silence almost like... like a silk blanket DJ? I can almost feel it covering my entire body- ever so lightly..."
For the first time in a long time, he agreed, "That's some deep shit man!"
But it made me think back to the other times- when silence had not been all that golden. The times when it was awkward- when it just seemed like the absence of words; the times when it stung- when some things that just needed to be said, never were; the times when it was deafening- when it screamed out to me to talk.
I wonder if silence changes its personality from situation-to-situation, or from person-to-person. Was it the moment that had made if feel like silk, or was it just my friendship with DJ that transcended words?
Maybe it was just a mix of both. It was the deepness of the friendshi
p that we shared- that made it so comfortable, where the unspoken words were just understood. But it was also the beauty of the moment- the serenity of the night, and the stillness of life that it brought along- that made it all the more beautiful, all the more powerful, all the more silky.In a way, it seemed like all the words that were actually said, were more misunderstood than this one moment of silence. It seemed like this one moment seemed to heal all- the past, the present, and even what was yet to come. It seemed like the absence of words made it easier for the thoughts to go from my mind to his- without passing though our mouths and ears.
So why is it that sometimes, some things just need to be said? Why can't the words be understood? Why can't the blanket of silk lie gently, and not itch? Why can't the million unspoken words express themselves? Why?
Whatever it may be, it was one of the most beautiful moments of my life...
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