The little things in life...

The indecent farewell

2011-06-30T21:18:00.004+05:30

With the recent ouster of Roger Federer from the Wimbledon quarter-finals and the Big Three of Indian cricket clearly in their twilight years, I was left wondering about how bad we are – as sports fans – at saying goodbye.

My earliest memories of tennis and cricket involve all four. Federer defeating Sampras at Wimbledon, that famous changing of guard. Tendulkar brewing up the storm in Sharjah. Laxman and Dravid pulling off that impossible win against Australia at Eden Gardens. They have each been, in their own way, defining moments in the recent history of the two sports. Ones that drew me to the sports, and have held me all these years.

Saying goodbye, therefore, is a little more than a wave of the hand and wishes for happy trails. It’s the end of what the sport had come to represent. To think of the sport without them is empty, almost pointless. It is no wonder then that we demonstrate the classic symptom of a long relationship nearing its end: denial.

We search, constantly, for evidences of their natural decline being a mere blip in a career that will never wane. So a victory against Djokovic in the semis marks the ‘return of Federer’, a fighting century by Dravid against the West Indies shows that ‘his hunger for the game remains unaffected’, and any Tendulkar hundred adds further fuel to his ‘second coming’. We seek out these incredible, and increasingly rare, achievements with a single-minded focus, ignoring the other factors that come into play.

Federer trails 8-17 in his head-to-head against Rafael Nadal, who is now more his nemesis than rival, and hasn’t won a Grand Slam in 18 months. Tendulkar now opts out of more matches than he plays, and when he does bat, has the comfort of batting along-side arguably the strongest line-up in the world today. Dravid averaged less than 26 in six out of the last 16 series he played before his ton at Sabina Park. Statistics may not reveal the whole truth, but they don’t completely lie. The faster we accept the facts and prepare to say farewell, the more we will save ourselves the heartburn.

Their run might have gone on for longer than the average player, and credit should be given to their longevity and mental strength, but to say that they are playing like they used to at their peak is taking away from their dominance in their prime. Federer denied anyone a place at the top for an astounding 237 consecutive weeks, Tendulkar was the anchor that held an Indian innings in place in the 90s – his wicket leading to an inevitable collapse, Dravid was impenetrable when he decided to hold one end up.

There is no shame in admitting that the men are past their prime. That their decline would make for somebody else’s peak is just a testament to their greatness, but a decline it is. In choosing to be blind to that, we are denying them the farewell they deserve. By asking for more, are we suggesting they haven’t given us enough?

It is time to untangle ourselves from the past that binds us. Rather than deluding ourselves to the point where repeated failures will disappoint us, making the goodbye more bitter and murky than it should be, the twilight years should be celebrated for what they are – the dying embers of a career well-served. We owe it to the men who have enthralled us for more than a decade.

Easier said than done, I know.

The Assam Trails: Names and identity crises

2010-05-19T10:10:00.015+05:30

It's been three weeks in Assam now. Enough time to settle in and get immune to the fluctuating weather, the food, the people. But not quite enough to make me immune to the incredible cuteness of the three kittens on campus.

Among the first things that I worry about when I go to a new place is my name. Seems like a small matter, but if you really think about it, you realise newcomers with an easy name are far more approachable than those with long, exotic-sounding, difficult-to-pronounce ones (yay exchange program orientations!). So I'm always afraid when I'm introducing myself- torn between whether to introduce myself as 'Arundhati' or 'Aru'- because while the latter is easy to pronounce, people quickly figure it's a nickname and ask for your real one. And if, after that, they are unable to pronounce it, it just gets embarrassing for them. So usually the way to go is to give my full name, and when they struggle with trying to say it, crack a joke about stupid long names, and insist on being called Aru. The problem there begins when people think it an assault on their ego, and insist on calling you by the name they cannot quite pronounce! And it's downhill from there. They'll see you, can't remember your name, avoid making eye-contact and keep walking by. And it just gets harder and harder to communicate. Makes for some hilarious anecdotes later though.

Sure enough, my name provided an anecdote that's already done the rounds at Aagor multiple times over. Though not of the exact nature I feared. When they heard I was coming, a call was made to a local staff person to come and pick me up 'Delhi se ek student aa rahi hai' (A student is coming from Delhi). And since my name was so difficult to pronounce, it was decided they'd hold up a placard with my name at the railway station. And since it was so long, it was read out to them in two parts 'Arun', 'Dhati'. What resulted was two guys at the railway station with a placard that read 'Arun Dhati from New Delhi', looking for a guy who'd descend from the AC compartment. Apparently, every young guy who got out with a backpack on that platform of the New Bongaigaon station that day was welcomed with a placard being shoved into his face. And so when the girl who was supposed to get picked up descended from her non-AC coach, it was no wonder that the tiny platform was deserted, with no one in sight except ogling vendors.

Thankfully, a call was made, and they realised the small matter of gender had been confused. Much reflective of the Hindi they speak- where the 'ling' gets confused over and over. So I did get picked up and dropped off safely, but the confusion provided many a laugh over tea in the days that followed.

Thanks to that small anecdote however, most people on campus now know my name. Most have learnt how to say 'Arundhati' fairly well, and the others are happy with 'Aru' (or 'Aw-roh', as the Assamese say it). Rohimal, one of the guys who came to pick me up, and I ended up bonding fabulously as a result the hilarious sequence of events. Humour, as it often does, brought me closer to everyone, made me more accessible, gave us some common ground.

As with the name, the other things also seem to have sorted themselves out and found a way of comfortably falling in place. The food, that I was quite apprehensive about, has started appealing to my taste-buds. And I've by now figured what does not agree with my tastes, and filtered it out of my diet. I now know jute leaves are bitter, pumpkin leaves have an acquired taste and ferns are just weird. The mounds of rice on my plate are also getting bigger by the day, as my appetite steadily grows. Nothing to compare with the mountains on everyone else's plates, of course, but there's a perceptible increase. Also, having started out being the slowest eater (I was never so conscious of my pace of consumption), I have managed to slowly get to the point where people don't have to sit around and wait for me to finish eating (incredibly awkward, that). Mini victories these, but very satisfying in their own small way.

Life also seems to have settled into somewhat of a routine. Earlier, I was terrified about the fact that I'd have to bathe in ice cold water every morning (as all the other weavers do on campus). Now, I've figured out a way of working around that. I insist on walking back from the Aagor office to the campus every evening after finishing work (a good two km walk, I think), thus ensuring we're sweaty enough to brave the coldness of the water by the time we get back. It works well enough.

And then of course there are the rains. They pour down with an unapologetic abandon, making everything around seem even greener, and very mucky! I have given up trying to keep my sandals respectably clean, and now they are an unrecognizable shade of grey (from a very royal blue, mind you). I've gotten used to my clothes perpetually feeling damp, my face forever oily, the electricity being frequently gone. I have figured out enough Bodo to be able to answer to the only two questions people seem to have- 'How are you?', and 'Have you eaten?'. I have feasted on the amazing library on campus for hours on end- though it always leaves me wanting more. I have gotten used to having meals with a cat and her three babies constantly rubbing up against me and begging me for food. I've even become immune to the shock of the sudden sting of insects of weird shapes and sizes feeding on my blood while I'm obliviously working/sleeping/reading. It's been three weeks, but it's starting to feel like I've been herefor quite a while.

And while all this starts to feel like home, one sudden stimulus- a song, a smell, an email, a visual, a fleeting memory- jolts me back into what feels like a previous lifetime. Or one of the several different lives I seem to have lead. It makes me wonder who I really am- the girl who enjoys bathing in a river, eating desi bananas while riding to distant, beautiful villages on a bicycle, and sleeping like a log by ten; or the girl who walks around Manhattan all day, and ends up having a late dinner at a cute roadside French cafe, marveling over how good ricotta cheese tastes with a side salad and talking about going to Nationals in debate to talk about the virtues of selflessness; or the girl who walks Delhi streets in a kurta with a jhola hung across it, changing buses, metros, cycle rickshaws, attending rock concerts while hogging on gol guppas and chole bhaturas from the local thallas. Which of them is really me? Each of them given me the same amount of joy, if not the same kind. They each feel equally comfortable. And equally uncomfortable.

It feels like a schizophrenic existence this, and bothers me for several idle afternoons. Then I remember I'm the South Indian, brought up in Gujarat, studying in Delhi, who speaks Marathi fluently. Who am I kidding? I belong everywhere and nowhere. All at once. And one afternoon of reflecting on it wasn't going to give me any answers. It's going to be a lifelong struggle.

The Assam Trails: Adventure for some

2010-04-30T17:55:00.021+05:30

The reason for my relative (and apparently conspicuous) absence these last couple of days has been a little stay in a nearby village "to rough it out" (as Sunil uncle put it with a glint in his eye). How different could it be from my previous experiences with roaming, working and living in the villages of Gujarat, I asked myself. I was soon to find out.

An hour-long exhilarating bike ride later, I am dropped off at the house of the coordinator of the biggest cluster that Aagor works with- the Mangolian cluster. Abo Dipali, the petit, soft-spoken and diligent (as I was to later find out) coordinator greets me with quick questions, "How long would you want to stay? Do you know how to ride a moped? Should we go?" I barely gasp for breath, and answer her the best I can. Owing to my inability to ride mopeds ("on those roads!" I'm tempted to say), and her lack of confidence in riding doubles, we're left with having to walk. It works out well for me because it reduces the difficulty in communication while on the move, and I agree cheerfully. She looks a little suspicious about my ability to walk the distance, but says nothing of it, and we're on our way.

Of course the Assamese weather decides to be unpredictable yet again and- for the first time since I'm in Assam- the sun beats down mercilessly that day. We walk long distances, and I chatter with her for the most part. Abo Dipali is in her early thirties, and has been working with Aagor for seven years. She has been married for three years, and has a young son of two. Noticing her relatively good spoken Hindi, I quiz her about her education. "I've studied till ninth standard. We were too poor to afford education beyond that. My father died when I was young, and my mother struggled to support her five children," she says matter-of-factly. I ask whether it is fairly common for women in her village to marry this late. She nods, and then quickly adds, "Of course there are the really good-looking girls who end up eloping or marrying early. Most do it because they are not educated or have no value for it." I laugh. Clearly, the "beautiful and dumb" stereotypes are not just restricted to the urban set-up.

We talk about her life and she quizzes me about mine as we walk through several villages. The huts here in Assam- much like the rest of it's landscape- strike me with their simple beauty. What exactly it is, I fail to put a finger to, but something about the clean, simple exteriors coated with white mud and the abundance of greenery around is aesthetically pleasing. I can't stop clicking pictures, and Abo looks at me with a bemused expression. "How different are the huts in Gujarat?" she asks. "It's not this green there," is all I can manage. Maybe that's what it is, I think to myself. It's this generous greenery that infuses everything here with an almost ethereal beauty.

As we enter a village, I notice how most of the huts closely surround each other, sharing walls, often even courtyards. Wherever we go, people come to find out who this differently dressed young girl is, and unabashedly shower me with questions. Unfortunately, most of these are in Bodo or Assamese, and I shake my head to indicate I do not understand a word. "Delhi," I say. And they understand. Abo Dipali then fills them in about me, every single detail I have shared with her, and they all respond with appropriate expressions. Most even try to tell me how sad it is that they do not know Hindi, and their genuineness is heartbreaking. Try finding this sincerity and curiosity in the city, and you'll go round in circles.

I am offered tea everywhere, and having already let them down on the language front, I give in. I'm usually not a big fan of chai, but the delight with which they offer it to me is quite irresistible. As a result, by the end of our walk, I have downed about eight cups of chai, more than I've consumed in my entire twenty years of existence. That, coupled with the my recent rate of intake of betel nut, is going to have my mum seriously questioning how much 'good' this might be doing to me!

Often, the problem with not knowing the language of a certain place, apart from the not-being-able-to-communicate bit, is the constant feeling of being the topic of conversation. Even worse is when your fears are confirmed. As we sit around in one of the houses, the ladies animatedly talk for a while, and occasionally burst into laughter. One of them asks me a question that I cannot comprehend. After looking around for some translation and realising I wouldn't get any, I take a chance and shake my head, hoping against hope this isn't some fatal flaw. There is collective laughter, and guessing I haven't done half badly, I breathe. As we leave, Abo Dipali finally translates. "She said you should drink some sharaab, alcohol!" I am totally puzzled, but decide against asking why. I figure some things are best left alone. I don't want to know.

As we finally walk back home after the long day's work, Abo tells me about the impact Aagor has had on the lives of these weavers. "They are able to earn a living more easily," she says. She goes on to tell me how a majority of the women we met during the visit didn't have husbands. They were either dead, or had run away in the fear of all those to whom they were heavily indebted. My instinctive question is to ask what the alternative to weaving would be. Daily wage labour, she informs me. Mostly paddy, grown from about May to December provides ample opportunity to earn daily wages. But it is mainly a hand-to-mouth existence. Weaving, on the other hand, allows them to save. They form groups of about five to ten members, save money on a regular basis, and give loans to members whenever the need arises. It is microfinance at its most basic.

As we walk back, another thought quickly strikes me. I recall being told about the villagers' love for meat. And it has been playing on my mind for a while. I look for a way to subtly weave it into the conversation. I start by asking about their daily diet. And while she describes it to me in detail, I quietly break the news. "You don't eat meat?!" she exclaims, "Not anything?!" "I eat egg," I say. "Oh," she says with a remorseful sigh, "We love feeding our guests meat. I was thinking I would make some for you tonight." The sadness is palpable in her voice. Heartbreaking. For the first time in my life, I wish I ate meat.

By the time we get to her house, I am starting to look forward to a nice bath. It has been a long exhausting day, and a long bath would be heavenly. Little do I know I'll get more than I bargained for. Sure enough, almost on cue, she asks, "Do you want to take a bath?" I nod. "We don't have a bathroom. Do you mind bathing in the river?" I smile, memories of my childhood crowding my head. "Not at all, I'd love it," I say.

As soon as we get to the bank of the river, a fair distance from the house, I realise there's a bigger problem. With the entire river bank being a never-ending plain, getting in and out of clothes was going to be an issue. But it's just a process of letting go of your inhibitions, I figure. And once inside the water, I'm ready to forget everything. I prance around for a little bit, dive in and out, feel the sand beneath my feet and between my toes, and rediscover the me that has always lived up to being a 'fish in the water'. Before I know it, half an hour is up, and the sun threatens to disappear and leave us in darkness. I rush out, sheepishly apologizingly for losing myself, and we head back.

Back in the house, Abo enters the kitchen to start cooking. I follow. No cooking gas, she informs me. No electricity either, she adds apologetically. I smile and offer to mince the onions. She refuses and tells me to sit. We get chatting while she cooks on the little hearth. I ask how she stays away from her son while working. "My husband takes care of him. He doesn't work because someone needs to take care of him" she informs me while feeding more wood into the fire, "he even cooks when I get late." I'm mighty impressed. How often do you hear of the woman being the sole bread-earner of a family by choice while her husband chooses to stay home and rear the child? It's a heartwarming role-reversal, radical even by urban standards. Even as we chat about other things, it keeps playing at the back of my mind- would I ever find a guy who could support my passion like that? Even by the low light of the oil lamp, I can tell she is happy, contented.

We then eat, and since it's too dark to do anything else, fall asleep soon afterwards. I look at my cell phone. It is 7:30pm. The time I'd usually get up from an afternoon nap at in Delhi. My biological clock, having endured so much abuse in the last month during the exams, was being turned upside down. Yet again. For some reason, homesickness chooses to hit me at the most unsuspecting moments- moments such as these. Most often it hits you like a freight train going downhill- and you're a wreck before you know it. One more month, I tell myself. Thankfully, sleep comes soon enough and I drift into dreams of home and family.

I wake up the next morning to a cacophony of sounds. The rooster, the baby, the dogs, the pigs, the chicken, and drowning them all out, pouring rain on the tin roof. I lie in bed and take it all in for a while. The rain soon subsides, and ultimately stops. I then head out, clean myself, and Abo proudly shows off the bicycle she managed to borrow for the day so we each had one to ride. Soon, a steaming hot cup of tea and a very burnt tongue later, we're on our way. The rain is gone, but has left huge puddles that need to be navigated around, and I can tell it's going to be an entertaining cycle ride.

As the day before, we stop at several weavers' houses. And this time we get to observe them in the different stages of weaving before the yarn even ends up on the loom. There are several stages, each incredibly monotonous and time-consuming. And so it is no wonder that setting up the yarn to be put on the loom becomes a community-building exercise. All the neighbours come together, chat, sing, and get the work done. "If you don't go to help someone else, they won't come to help you," Abo informs me. Clearly, 'to each his own' is an alien concept here. Here, everybody's business is everybody else's. They weave together, eat together, live as one.

When we are done with the last village and are heading back, dark ominous looking clouds gather, and before we can take shelter, the heavens descend upon us. When it rains in Assam, it pours. Unapologetically, wholeheartedly. Abo asks me to open the umbrella she's fixed to the back of my bicycle, and I gladly follow her directions- constantly concerned about my camera. However, riding with one hand on the bicycle and the other holding the camera proves to be more of a challenge than I earlier imagined. There still are the puddles to be navigated around, and now there is a steady gust of wind. I nearly topple over a few times, but manage to save face overall. I am so engrossed in my difficulties, I forget to look around. But when I finally do, it takes my breath away. Just when I thought it wasn't possible, Assam gets even more beautiful. I have to fight the temptation to get my camera out and click away, but I try to drink it all in. And suddenly, I feel a rush of overwhelming happiness. What an adventure, I think. I could do this many times over. All of this.

As I lie in bed that night I think about my adventure. And in a sudden moment, I realise what is an adventure to me is everyday reality for most here. Would it still be as appealing, I wonder. As beautiful?

The Assam Trails: An Acquired Taste

2010-04-27T15:55:00.015+05:30

Waking up to the sound of rain isn't exactly 'normal', nor is being up at six thirty and having the world around you already in motion.

It's been two days at 'The Ant' for me. And if the appetizer is anything to go by, the whole meal promises to be pretty unforgettable. And very out of the ordinary. The Ant (the Action North East Trust) is a voluntary organisation set up by Sunil Kaul and his wife Jenny near the town of Bongaigaon in West Assam that focuses its work on the poorest and most disadvantaged sections of the northeastern region of India. It works in several ways and on several levels, and I'm currently interning with its daughter organisation 'Aagor' (meaning 'design' is Assamese)- which is a weaving enterprise that aims at providing a sustainable livelihood to disadvantaged women by engaging them in several weaving projects that incorporate local traditions and aim at making them marketable as modern apparel. The collaborate with several other organisations, including FabIndia, to market their products. So if you see a gorgeous translucent silk stole at FabIndia, it might well be made of Eri silk (or what they call non-violent/ahimsa silk) manufactured in these very areas.

One of the biggest things that strikes you about the campus (where the main office and hostel is located- and where I stay) is its quiet, unassuming beauty. There is nothing about it that's been decorated for the outside world, but it pulls you in through it's rickety wooden gate- into it's dedicated, hardworking world. The smiling faces of the staff, most of whom don't understand a word of Hindi but are eager to let you in, welcome you. There is a river at the back that quietly flows- and which I'm determined to dive into several times before I leave this place.

This morning, my initiation into it's working began with a tour around campus and especially the weaving block-- where about 24 women work away at the looms from six am to six pm, creating a familiar, comforting drone of wood softly hitting wood. This morning is also the weekly coordinator meeting of Aagor that I'm expected to attend and absorb something from. These coordinators are the the ones who connect a specific set of villages or a specific geographical area (called a 'cluster') to the main tailoring and marketing departments of Aagor. They take it upon themselves to distribute the yarn according to the order, and collect the fabric from these clusters to give them back to Aagor.

To further understand the intricacies of the system, I am asked to accompany Abo Bina- the coordinator of one of the clusters. 'Abo' means 'elder sister' in Assamese and is usually used as a term of respect. As a result, I now have to quickly get rid of 'didi' and 'aunty' (usually met with blank stares or I-don't-know-what-you're-saying-but-you're-sweet smiles) from my vocabulary.

The next question, that of how to get places, is quickly taken care of before my mind starts wandering places. I'm handed a pair of keys to a bicycle with a smile and a "I hope you know how to ride one!" Getting all excited about possibly riding a bicycle on these beautiful roads, I quickly dash, get my camera and my ever-trustable jhola. And with that, we're off. The bicycle ride is more heavenly than I could ever find words to describe. As we go along the road, a gentle breeze blows across the lush green of the paddy that surrounds us, and the joy of riding on a road without worrying about any kind of traffic is just indescribable. The sun peeps through warmly on occasion, but it is mostly overcast in the most wonderful way. This, in the peak of the the afternoon. Thinking of how we'd be hiding for cover in Delhi at this hour, I chuckle to myself.

We soon wander off the road into areas with a thick undergrowth and a small trail leading us along. Seeing all the moisture and the grass, my first question to her is almost instinctive, "Are there snakes around?" She laughs. "Too many," she says, "But they're harmless if you don't do a thing." A slight shiver passes down my spine as I think of the unwelcome slimey reptiles, but thankfully the surroundings are overwhelming enough to drown the worry for the rest of the ride.

We start with visiting several houses and the resident weavers. Weaving, I'm told, is intrinsic to the Assamese culture. Everyone has at least one, if not more, weaving looms in their houses. They weave their own clothes at home, and lead a very self-sufficient existence overall. I notice this as we stop from house to house. Everyone works on these looms-- with colours that can catch your eye from a distance. Pink, yellow, blue, green, purple. Each in several shades, with several confusing local names. Each helping create a piece of fabric that entices customers to buy it nationwide.

The first thing we're offered as we approach a house is freshly-cut betel nut and some betel leaf to go along. At first, I find it peculiar, and not having ever been a fan of desi pan, I hesitantly make myself a pan with elaborate directions from Abo Bina (take a leaf-apply the white powder- fold it- but some betel nut into your mouth- and eat the leaf next). As soon as I eat it, the bitterness of it floods my senses, and I wonder what hit me. The pan made in the cities, even the non-sweet ones, have more condiments put in to cushion the impact of the betel nut. All I have here is a flimsy leaf, and some barely-there white powder! Even as we drive away after chatting with them for a good ten minutes, the taste of the pan refuses to leave my mouth, practically having coated it with a nonperishable layer (or what seems like it at the time). It's an acquired taste, I tell myself. It'll take getting used to.

My next opportunity to 'get used to' comes soon enough. The next house we stop at offers us the same. And the next, and the next, and all the ones that follow. The only thing that varies is the container- often indicating how well-off a family is. Otherwise, it's the same overwhelming bitterness, the same flooding of the senses. After a couple more, I decide I'm done trying to 'acquire the taste', and start politely refusing. It works well, and my stomach stops grumbling as much as it did earlier.

As we get back, I start quizzing Abo Bina about the various designs on the textiles. She informs me- in very adorable broken Hindi that starts getting hard to follow when you lag behind with your bicycle- that all the designs Aagor does are inspired by nature. There are the hills (Pahar), the wink of a peacock (Daorei Mekhrip)- and even the fern (Dinkhiya). Apparently, these are not kept just to the weaving looms- and sometimes carry over into the kitchen. As I sat for lunch earlier in the day, I was served suspicious looking green vegetables (I thought they were beans, initially), and was informed they were actually the locally available ferns. Having only seen these growing in wild abandon everywhere-- and between the pages of the thickest books in our library back home (Mum is incredibly fond of pressing these pretty things to later use to make cards etc), you can only imagine where my shock was coming from. I reluctantly ate some, and it tasted nothing like anything I'd eaten before. Acquired taste, I told myself.

As we came to the end of our long cycle ride-- over bamboo bridges, through open meadows and flooded fields, and on endless concrete roads-- I was almost sad it had to end. However, my stamina was telling, and I knew I couldn't stretch much further. It had been a good three hours of cycling, and I walked back with a surprising spring in my step.

However, now that I'm here, finally on my bed, I can feel my calf muscles groan and complain. They need some getting used to of their own.

The Assam Trails: Love at first sight

2010-04-26T18:10:00.005+05:30

[Disclaimer: The build-up, I realise, is a tad bit long and dragged out. Feel free to skim over the rant and get to the substantial part]

By the time I had barely gotten through 12 of the 36 hours I was to spend on the train, the train ride had already begun testing my limits. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for long train rides all by myself, I go advocating them with the annoying enthusiasm of door-to-door sellers, complete with the perma-grin and the cliched “You should try it once and you'll be left begging for more” dialogues. But this one was getting especially difficult to bear.

The start was to blame I guess. The whole thing began on the most annoying note. As soon as Brahmaputra Mail noisily rolled into platform 1A of Old Delhi station at 11pm on the 24th of April, it looked like a situation tailored for chaos. The compartments were either not numbered, or haphazardly so- so that S3 came after S8; and so forth. In the resulting clamour, I ended up traversing up and down the platform, looking for someone who could give me reliable information. Finally, I chanced upon a TT (Ticket collector), and asked him where S10 would be. He confidently pointed to one of the compartments and strode off without a second glance. I then managed to gather up all three of my bags, and made my way to one of the doors. I had assumed getting on would be fairly difficult, given my experience with Indian Railways in the past. I hadn't accounted, however, for the agitated, ruthless young men who were milling around the same door, almost climbing over one another to get on first. The fact that the lights inside the compartment weren't switched on wasn't helping the cause either. Finally, somehow, after major amounts of hustling, cursing, elbowing and stink-eye-giving, I was on board. I quickly harnessed my new-found energy and almost steam rolled over to my seat-- with a God-help-whoever-dares-come-in-my-way attitude. Once there, I realise I'm in the company of seven other very lecherous looking men. Tired, frustrated, and now scared, I'm all but on the verge of tears. Just let this damn train start, I tell myself, I'll climb to my seat (a side upper, quite thankfully) and be dead to the world. Not to be so, apparently. After the train finally sped off and out of Delhi, the chaos refused to die down. The constant traffic of people ruthlessly trampling all over my feet and bags had now driven me to a point of infuriation I didn't quite know I was capable of. And just when I thought things couldn't get worse, a man nonchalantly walked up to me and said “That's my seat.” Working hard to prevent myself from punching his face, I ask for his ticket. It's the same seat number! Then, some rational part of my brain asks me to check for his compartment number. S8. Big sigh.

With a benevolent smile I go, “You're on the wrong compartment, bhaiyya.”

And he goes (practically yelling- so much for the benevolence), “Hello madam! Get your facts right first! This is S8.”

Holy crap. “Which way is S10?”

He point it to me. And I drag my weary, sleepy self there- with my three bags in tow- each becoming heavier by the minute.

However, the night adventures seem to have stopped by then. The TT comes, checks my ticket, and I plonk my luggage on my upper berth and quickly fall asleep cuddling it.

The miseries seemed to transfer on to the next day, however. By the time I wake up, my entire body is lathered in sweat, and I feel like I'm being cooked alive in an oven with no escape door. My stomach grumbles, reminding me there's more to surviving than just lying there waiting for the heat to pass. I decide brushing and generally cleaning up might help the cause, and I walk to the sink, splash the boiling hot water on myself and rinse up a bit. Getting back, I realise lethargy has set back in, and looks like it has come to stay. I forget about the whole hunger thing and try to fall back to sleep. No help. One part of my brain also tells me I'm probably dehydrated and need some ORS (in whatever form) at the earliest. I wait (not so patiently) for the next vendor to come along. And soon enough, one does. Buying a lemon-based aerated drink, I let him go. Its temperature matches that of the surroundings, but I gulp it down in a hurry, and instantly feel better. The wonders sugar can do! The next couple of hours follow the same pattern-- stopping vendors, buying whatever drink they sell, and sustaining myself till the next one comes along. A call from mum also reminds me I need to eat something substantial. And so begins the next stage of project 'Keeping myself alive'. Now, every vendor selling everything is stopped. And so my stomach ends up at the receiving end of everything healthy and unhealthy; tasty and 'ugh' that passes through compartment S10.

Thankfully, evening finally comes along and takes with it the unrelenting sun. And also my general irritation. I brighten up a little, finish reading one of the three books I brought along for company, and make phone calls to apologize for all the collateral damage (read foul conversation) the heat had caused. I then sit and wonder why I'd ever want to get myself in this situation. It was filthy, hot, uncomfortable and (to my mind at that time) absolutely unnecessary. I mope around a little more, eat a lot more, and then troop back up to sleep. Halfway through the second book, I'm fast asleep- with dreams of mum's food and my bed calling out to me.

The next morning, I feel like I've woken up on the wrong train. Or am still in some fantasy. There is a cool breeze coming in through the same windows that were spewing fire the precious day, there is no sun-- or at least not the unrelenting kind, and there's a nip in the air that makes me cover myself with the blanket that's being used as a pillow so far. I spring up, my embarrassing equivalent of pinching myself, and try to figure out what's wrong-- or finally right.

I jump down and look out the windows, and pleasant green paddy fields dancing in the breeze greet my eye. The slight moisture in the air fills my senses, and I rush to the door. I catch the therapeutic wind all over my body, and look out at the surroundings. Dozens of paddy fields interspersed with little bodies of water accumulated from the frequent rains, little thatched huts cozily nestled between an overgrowth of palm trees all around, and the faint outlines of hills in the very back. I rush to get my camera, wondering just how beautiful nature could get. Without realising, the next two hours were spent clicking away and generally taking in the loveliness that surrounded me. Nothing seemed enough. I lapped up more and more of it as it came, growing more delighted by the minute. I finally realise I am overwhelmed. And in love. It is as fitting an example of 'love at first sight' as there could be. I cannot tear myself away. It finally takes a police-man, concerned about this girl hanging on the edge of the train for such a long time, to come and drag me away. Even then, I get back to my seat with a smile that refuses to fade, and an impatience to get to my destination and get working.

And, with the same intensity with which I wondered why I ended up here, I wonder how I will ever be able to wean myself away.

I am head over heels.

Dholavira and its tantalizing allure

2010-02-09T22:43:00.002+05:30

As my family and I drove by the endless stretches of barren land, over the wide expanses of salt of the Little Rann and though the many families of camel lazing on the roads towards the tiny desert island of Khadir, we all thought we had a fair idea of what to expect once we got to our destination. In the preceding few weeks, we had poured devotedly over Gujarat tourism brochures, looked up all possible links on the internet and stocked ourselves with enough History books to last a lifetime. We were ready and raring to go. But nothing- none of any of this- was to prepare us for the impact Dholavira- one of the most recently excavated Harappan cities- has on an individual.

As we entered the village of Dholavira- which gave the site it's name- it seemed like any other settlement in Kutch- the rounded huts, the beautiful 'geri' work adorning the mud walls, the stunning white murals with dancing mirrors- simple, elegant, hardly awe-inspiring. We wondered where the ruins lay- the much-promised grand dilapidated structures of the ancient metropolis of nearly 5000 years ago. After going through the paces of putting away all our baggage, and washing away all traces of the nine-hour drive from our faces, we were ready- camera, notepad, et al.

When we were greeted by our guide- Jaimal-bhai- at the museum constructed at the base of the site, we expected this to be like just another guided tour- full of pre-prepared speeches with a dramatic flair and empty, error-ridden facts that just sounded good to the ears. It turned out to be anything but. Jaimal-bhai, despite having studied only up to seventh standard and being essentially monolingual (he spoke a fair bit of Hindi, but was most comfortable in Gujarati), spoke of Dholavira with the kind of authority and depth in understanding that could match up to any scholar. His story too unfolded as he led us through the ruins. Apparently, when excavation began in 1990, the director of excavations at ASI (Archeological Survey of India), R.S. Bisht took him under his wings and employed him in the careful excavation of the site over the next nearly twenty years. Jaimal-bhai was one among the many picked from the village of Dholavira itself, but one of the very few who remained to see it through till the very end. It is for this reason that as we walked across the site, he would point to places as if they were alive and bustling with people like they would have been five thousand years ago. He saw the city as a live, three-dimensional area-- while we stared at the flat, seemingly incomprehensible ruins with bafflement. He had seen this city- every tiny square millimeter- and it now practically ran through his blood. The flair and passion with which he talked about it, one could see how much love and sweat he had poured into aiding its rebirth. It was thanks to this man that we saw Dholavira for what it is- a remarkable desert-city far ahead of its times; and an absolute miracle- considering its geographical location.

For about 1500 years, between the 3rd and the 2nd Millennium BC, Dholavira was one of the five biggest cities of the Harappan Civilization. It was a city of many firsts. Embraced by two rain-fed rivulets- Mandsar and Manhar- on either side of the city walls, and situated on a desert island surrounded by endless stretches of parched land, the Dholavirans built up a city with a water management system so intricate, it's ingenuity remains unmatched even today in the desert state of Kutch. One gets the sense that, out of necessity, every single drop of water on this parched land was saved. Out of the 100 acres of area covered by this site, the reservoirs take up nearly ten- stretching along all four city walls- sixteen of them laid out end -to-end and connected with tiny channels to keep the water flowing and prevent stagnancy. Among these is the famous rock-cut reservoir in the south of the city- cut into living rock- probably one of the first of it's kind in the world. But the water management does not end with these awe-inspiring, yellow limestone structures. Every other building in Dholavira reflects an acute consciousness for the need to preserve water. There is a well laid-out drainage system throughout the city- and collected rain water from all over the city- including from little ducts in the fortification walls. All other drains also show remarkable sophistication. They are covered, well-connected and large enough to enable regular cleaning- usually big enough for an entire person to walk through! This understanding of how to conserve and channelize water enabled them to create a metropolis that, at its peak, is said to have supported a population of nearly 15,000. Even today, five thousand years hence, we do not find a city that matches it's scale and grandeur in the arid lands of Kutch.

But the firsts do not end here. Dholavira is laid-out as a parallelogram within a parallelogram, with the 'Castle' area- the area where the ruler must have lived and ruled from- lying at it's very heart. Adjoining it is the 'Bailey' area where the officials must have resided. The Middle Town shares it's boundaries with both, and stretches out towards the North. The Lower Town is larger still, and covers nearly the entire Eastern side within the fortification walls. What is remarkable about these structures is how the ratios of their widths and lengths are so precise and can so easily be rounded to whole numbers. This is true for every single wall that was built in the city, and thus cannot be mere coincidence. It could have been achieved only by precise mathematical calculations and drawings which were then translated on the ground that was undulating by 13 m in gradient. It was indeed an engineering marvel!

The wonders do not end here. Between the Middle town and the citadel is a large open field of about 550 X 45 mts. made of sun-baked bricks and plaster. This place could have hosted large gatherings of people on its many grandstands surrounding the structure- and could, at a time, hold up to 10,000 people! It is still unknown what exact purpose it served- whether is was a sports stadium, a market place, or a ceremonial gathering place. It could be quite likely it played more than one role- but it has been named the 'stadium' by Indian historians.

Facing this grand stadium is the largest of the citadel gates- the Northern gate- which had what Bisht has dared to call 'the oldest signboard of the world' over it. It was three meters in length and contained ten characters from the yet-to-be-deciphered logosyllablic Harappan script. It was gypsum inlaid into wood, so the signboard has completely decayed, but the gypsum impression remain- for present-day historians to express wonderment and raise questions over. What did this signboard proclaim? Could it's entire population read what was written? What kind of a social organization does this point to?

The questions are endless. With Dholavira, one realizes, they always are. This, uncharacteristically, remains one of it's most attractive aspects of this ancient metropolis. The fact that so much about it remains shrouded in mystery lends it an allure that is quite unlike the other, more extensively studied Harappan sites. It is something that makes you want to go back and revisit the site, to wrap your head around questions of how and why it rose and declined as and when it did, to have an opportunity to chance upon broken fragments of bangles, buttons and other artifacts that got skimmed over in the initial excavations. What Dholavira gives us is that rare opportunity to actually demystify the symbolism of all that has been found- and is yet to be. It indulges the visitor with an inclusiveness that cannot be felt in areas where all the answers have already been discovered. Dholavira tantalizingly flirts with you, revealing only enough to keep you coming back.

The Upholder of Dharma

2009-12-09T15:34:00.003+05:30

For some reason, most of the literature that's ended up in my lap in the last few months has been predominantly about the epic Mahabharata. And having grown up reading it, thinking about it, living it since I was a little girl- the number of new ways in which these interpretations forced me to look at the epic astounded me. The number of small intricacies that I had earlier skimmed over came together to give me new perspectives on the characters, their motivations, their value systems. And the most prominent among those that had escaped my scrutiny earlier was Yudhishthira- the eldest of the Pandavas; the 'upholder of Dharma'. Since the very beginning, I had slotted him away as being not much more than a wimp. The one who silently watched when his wife was being stripped of her dignity in the Hastinapur court, the one who saw the need to be the 'voice of reason' at all times in the name of 'Dharma', the one who possessed no real superhuman powers- unlike the God-like bowmanship of Arjuna, the brute strength of Bhima, the talent with animals of Nakula, the renouned clairvoyance of Sahadeva. To me, he was the ultimate party pooper. If it were not for him and his want to stick to the truth and duty at all times (and keep Bhima and Arjuna from doing what they really wished), I sincerely believed the Mahabharta would have been even more colourful than it was. Draupadi would have been avenged right there and then, Duryodhana would have been killed before he became such a tyrant and wrecked havoc, the Pandavas would have never gone into exile, and the great war wouldn't be necessary.

I realise now that the Mahabharata wouldn't have been the epic it was if it weren't for him. For, in being the upholder of Dharma in a world where Adharma was rampant, he held together the fabric of the story with the thread of truth. And in doing so, he did the most thankless and least heroic of all jobs. In sticking to his duty, he gave up on flamboyance and all the resultant glamour. He was happy to be sheet anchor- the side actor who goes unnoticed in the brilliance and glamour of the rest of the cast. But if it weren't for him, they each would have crumbled under the weight of their own brilliance. If it weren't for him, the epic would have been a cluster of utter chaos

As the rest of the world gasped and gaped as Sehwag took Sri Lanka to the cleaners on the second day at Brabourne, I found a reflection of Yudhishthira on the other side of the pitch. As Rahul Dravid took guard, a sense of serenity and peace prevailed. As he approached his duty, his Dharma- to keep one end up- with the single-mindedness only he is capable of, he lent some sanity to the madness that was unfurling at the other end. There it was again- the most thankless, least heroic job- being approached with assurance and an innate calm. Singles taken at the beginning of the overs, balls defended at the end-all with a mechanic precision and will that was almost other-worldly. Happy to be the invisible thread holding together the most brilliant of innings. Nobody noticed the seam. Nobody wondered what would happen if it came apart. Because for so long- time after time and almost without fail- it has held together the fabric of the Indian Cricket Team. So predictably, it is easy to take for granted. Much less be thanked, it is hardly ever noticed. But it- he- keeps going. Despite the flakiness of the selectors who can't decided between youth and experience, despite bad runs of form, despite the thanklessness of the job- for over a decade now- Rahul Dravid has kept going. Caring only about his call of duty all this while- he has been the upholder of Dharma on the cricketing pitch. And when he isn't there anymore, the battlefield is going to feel a lot less just. And no chariot will ride two inches above the ground anymore.

The Conjurer

2009-11-14T10:35:00.007+05:30

My earliest memory of cricket is not the clearest. Maybe it had to do with the TV. Or maybe it had to do with me being all of eight. All I remember is a diminutive man- quite unremarkable really to any novice spectator- in the midst of a sandstorm. As that memory has evolved over these past eleven years, for some odd reason, the image etched in my mind has gone from the little man braving the storm to him actually whipping it up. Perhaps it has something to do with having watched him whip up storm after storm all these following years. Perhaps it's just my mind seeking poetic satisfaction. Either way, my clearest, and least hampered, aspect of the memory remains that feeling at the bottom of my stomach- that until this man did what he was doing- there was hope left in the world. The unreasonable belief that he could put no foot wrong. And then on, cricket has never been the same. Nor has my life. Call it love, if you may.

When I recently read that the man completed twenty years in international cricket, I was surprised by how unaffected I was. While the world harped about the greatness of the achievement, the genius that lay behind the longevity, I questioned myself over and over why this seemed like just another ordinary fact to skim over. It didn't even make it to my facebook status updates, for crying out loud! Wasn't it true that since that glorious day at Sharjah, I'd spent every day worshiping the man with the kind of devotion that would shame the most devout believers? Wasn't it true that every small landmark, every single quote was collected, recorded and repeated verbatim at will? Wasn't it true that every time he walked out to the crease my heart surged with hope and happiness- and every time he walked back, the same heart was smashed to smithereens? Wasn't it true that after watching one of his specials, I'd look like I'd slept with a hanger in my mouth for days? Wasn't it true that he single-handedly controlled my happiness for a decade? Why then, this apparent nonchalance?

I think I have the answer finally. In so many ways, to me, Sachin Tendulkar is forever. He is the game, and the game is him. To imagine a game- a world, really- where he isn't at the crease wielding his relentless willow, would feel strangely incompletely. And somehow just not right. So the challenge is not to imagine him playing for twenty, or thirty, or even forty years for that matter. It is not imagining him there that is.

I don't claim he's perfect. He's far from it. He hasn't the spectacular flamboyance of Bolt, or the prodigal genius of Phelps. At least not at all times. What he carries- though- is something special. He plays with heart, and a dedication that is other-worldly. He plays as though he was born to play cricket. And they don't make them like him anymore.

Someday, many many years down the line, when the world has transformed into an unrecognizable place, I will be boasting to my grand children about the single proudest thing in my life- that I lived in the times of Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar. The Conjurer of Storms.

Roger Federer. 'Nuf Said.

2009-06-08T07:32:00.008+05:30

"Well, I think when I look at Roger, I mean, I'm a fan. I'm a fan of how he plays, what he's about… he's a class guy on and off the court. He's fun to watch. Just his athletic ability, what he's able to do on the run. I think he can and will break every tennis record out there."

- Pete Sampras

If you want to be a tennis player, then mould yourself on Roger Federer. I won three Wimbledon titles and I wish I could play like him.

-John McEnroe

"I'd like to be in his shoes for one day to know what it feels like to play that way."

- Mats Wilander

"I am so proud to have him around. It is very pity that I am not able to play with Pete Sampras, but it's OK, I can see Federer on the tour. I could tell my grandson someday that I have competed against the greatest player on the planet"

-Ivan Ljubicic

"I've never enjoyed watching someone playing tennis as much as Federer. I'm just in awe. Pete Sampras was wonderful but he relied so much on his serve, whereas Roger has it all, he's just so graceful, elegant and fluid-a symphony in tennis whites. Roger can produce tennis shots that should be declared illegal."

- Tracy Austin

"He's the most gifted player that I've ever seen in my life. I've seen a lot of people play. I've seen the (Rod) Lavers, I played against some of the great players—the Samprases, Beckers, Connors', Borgs, you name it. This guy could be the greatest of all time. That, to me, says it all."

-John McEnroe

"You really gave me a lesson on how to play tennis"

- Robin Soderling after the French Open finals

"If you were to ask me who was the best player I had seen and the best player I had played against he would win on both counts. He's so humble and down to earth."

-Tim Henman

"Roger Federer is the only guy I watch for his strokes. He is just beautiful. He can hit every single shot you could ever think of. John [McEnroe] and Ilie [Nastase] were very talented but you always knew there were some shots they couldn't hit. Not with Federer. I would go and watch him practice, he's so good."

-Ivan Lendl

"What he's done over the past five years has never, ever been done — and probably will never, ever happen again, Regardless if he won there or not, he goes down as the greatest ever. This just confirms it."

-Pete Sampras

"A lot of people say it’s better to be lucky than good. I’d rather be Roger than lucky."

-Andre Agassi

"You guys are brutal. Absolutely brutal. The guy has only made two Grand Slam finals this year. I would love his bad year. I would love it."

-Roddick in 2008

"He’s the most complete tennis player in the history of tennis, that’s for sure. With all due respects to (Andre) Agassi and (Pete) Sampras and the rest of the gang. But I never felt so uncomfortable against any of the players before."

-Marat Safin

"Roger's got too many shots, too much talent in one body. It's hardly fair that one person can do all this—his backhands, his forehands, volleys, serving, his court position. The way he moves around the court, you feel like he's barely touching the ground. That's the sign of a great champion."

-Rod Lever

"Roger is at the top, and he's the only person at the top, regardless of how much people want to make rivalry comparisons and this, that and the other. He's the best player in the game. There's no question in my mind."

-Andy Roddick

"You bring up tennis in this day and age and a lot of people roll their eyes, and they're not interested. But listen: if you're not paying attention to this guy, if you appreciate sports, you have to take a moment to appreciate this guy. It's like Tiger Woods. A lot of people are your meat-and-potatoes sports fans: I like football, I like basketball, I like baseball. If you don't appreciate golf, that's fine. You don't have to watch it, and you don't have to pay attention to it, but you have to appreciate the greatness of Tiger Woods. It's the same with tennis. You don't appreciate tennis? I'm not telling you that you have to. But, if you don't give Roger Federer his due, then you're just missing the boat. Roger Federer is the best player in any sport today, and it's not close. It's not close."...

- Mike Greenberg of ESPN Radio's Mike & Mike in the Morning

"[In the modern game], you're either a clay court specialist, a grass court specialist or a hard court specialist ... or you're Roger Federer."

-Jimmy Connors

The kudos tumble in...

2009-06-07T22:04:00.000+05:30

There are so many articles out there that captured the moment. But this one made me tear up a little. And left me with very little else to say.

When even the Heavens wept...

2009-06-07T21:51:00.000+05:30

...with sheer joy.

The Final Verdict?

2009-06-07T13:10:00.000+05:30

Roger Federer, as he enters his fifth consecutive French Open final, faces his ultimate test of greatness tonight. It all hangs in the balance- lifelong shame vs. eternal glory, ridicule vs. respect, mediocrity vs. greatness, the lable of a choker vs. the lable of the Greatest Ever. It all comes down to tonight's match. If the media are to be believed, that is.

I think it is a load of bull.

To bring it all down to one moment, one match, one tournament- is ridiculing the envious legacy this man has built over the past five years. The crowds he has amazed. The opponents he has traumatised. It is such a typically petty thing to do- to bring it down to one case of will-he-won't-he, and judge the rest of his career on its basis. Makes it easier, you know. Why expend the effort in analysing the circumstances, quality of opponents and technical finess, when we could just pin it down to one question: 'Can he win the French?'? Afterall, someone's got to don the title of 'The Greatest Ever'- and if someone can't win one of the Grand Slams, must he even deserve to be in contention? There are so many more out there to pass judgements on- and if this one doesn't quite fulfill our prerequisits, why even bother? One less person to have to analyse with honesty and sincerity- oh the relief!

Nevermind the twenty consecutive Grand Slam semi-finals. Nevermind the fact that he's run into the Best Clay-courter of All time (another tag we ourselves have graciously bestowed, of course). Nevermind the number of and quality of opponents he has crushed over the years- the Safins, the Hewitts, the Roddicks- who all swear by his greatness. Nevermind all that. We are the judges and we decide. If he can't win the French, he ain't the greatest. Plain. And simple.

One small hitch though- life ain't that plain and simple. And neither is greatness. So when Roger Federer steps onto to Court Philippe Chatrier tonight, try to suspend all judgement and revel in the historic value of the moment. Become a part of the ride and allow yourself to get enthralled, instead of being the mute judgemental spectator. Don't be afraid of falling in love- with the man, his grace, his destiny. If you only allow yourself, you'll see why Roger Federer is the best thing that has happened to the game since tennis balls. And why no tags are sufficient. Regardless of the result tonight.

The Number 44

2008-11-05T14:54:00.000+05:30

A little more than 45 years ago, a black American man stood in front of two hundred and fifty people at the Lincoln Monument in Washington D.C., and said, "I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character."

Today, another black American man stood before more than a hundred thousand countrymen in Grant Park, Chicago, and said, "If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer."

Martin Luther King Jr- the pioneer of the Civil Rights movement in a segregated and racially intolerant country- had a dream. And Barack Hussein Obama- the new president-elect of the United States of America- is living it.

Anyone who has witnessed the moment, and the speech that followed, has watched history being made. As I watched Obama deliver his amazingly inspiring speech a few hours ago, I wondered why my eyes were welling up. It could not be just the words- because beautiful and eloquent as they were, I have heard a lot more of those without even coming close to choking up. It couldn't be just the images of the happy family- Michelle, the "rock of his family and love of his life" and his two beautiful little daughters- a family very much in love. It couldn't just be the images of the millions in Grant Park who had tears carousing down their cheeks- including legends like Jesse Jackson and modern day heroes like Oprah Winfrey. It couldn't just be the fact that a black man now held the most powerful office in the world. It couldn't just be the fact that a black woman held up a poster reading "Yes We Can"- knowing she had never believed it with this intensity.

As an Indian, and a sharp cynic for most things America stands for, why was I moved? Now, five hours later, after all the commotion has sufficed, I know. It is because this event is not only about one black man transcending race and bringing America to the threshold of a new era- it is, ultimately, an event that marks the triumph of human spirit above all else

- the ability of a people to recognize that we need Change we can believe in. The ability of a single human being, with no connections in the hallways of Washington, with a resume that takes a beating at every political debate, a distasterous middle name in a country paranoid about anything Islamic, no money in his pocket, and a skin colour that could be the end of the most brilliant of minds- it is the ability of one such man- armed with only a Dream- to realise it. It is his ability to make up the best run political campaign in America- and perhaps the world- right from scratch. It is the ability of that same man to inspire hope around the world in times when cynicism was the order of the day, when 'inspirational' was a word for only cheesy self-help books. It is that- and more- that moved not just me, but probably everyone who was watching- Australian or German, white or black, straight or gay, Republican or Democrat- whether they admit to it or nor. It was the triumph of the will of man.

All through the campaign, Obama has been a picture of calm and composure, never once letting his emotions get the better of him. Tonight, when everyone on the TV set and in front of it choked over their words, he looked like a man who was ready for his job- never once faltering during the speech where he acknowledged his election as the 44th president of the United States- an event that will be talked about for generations to come, and that will pave way for a million more dreams. More than anything else, Obama has embraced himself on this campaign trail- changing his name back from Barry to Barack Hussein, never once using the Race Card to his advantage, never once trying to downplay his Islamic and black roots, never once trying to wish away his realities. He proudly owned his roots. And now he owns the most powerful office in the world. And deservedly so.

Oscar-Winning Speeches and Vultures in a Desert

2008-10-25T16:24:00.000+05:30

Okay, so this one has no point. None whatsoever. Its more on the lines of a rant slash vent. So bear with me.

This morning, as my brother excitedly discussed the buying of this year's batch of Diwali fireworks with my dad, I decided to butt in. Its become quite an expected thing these days. My butting in, I mean. And its also not the most popular thing in my family's life either. For several reasons. One of which is that everything I seem to say is either considered too 'Americanised' or too 'quintessentially teenage-ish'. Neither of which I can totally deny. But the accusation both of which can hurt pretty badly.

Anyway, so back to this morning. And back to the excited brother and my unwanted butt.

"Why don't we boycott crackers this Diwali?", I said, pretty excitedly, quite sure I'd be greeted with a chance to elaborate, in the least.

"Noooooo!" wailed my brother, turning to my father with a piteous expression. I swear, the onlookers must have thought I'd asked him to give up his life for the sake of a hobbit. Or sacrifice his entire chest of clothes for charity. Or give up his dream of buying the X-BOX 360.

"But Shashwat..." I started in my sweetest voice (My mom's always told me that I know which 'voice' to put on if I want to get him to do something- something which, naturally, I'm accused of using only to meet selfish interests- a trait which, again, typifies my 'evil didi' image)

"No didi", he said firmly (and I kinda chuckled. This would be a great case in point for my next argument with mum. But of course she wasn't there when she was most needed!). He continued, a little more desperate this time, switching to wails, "But all my friends are gonna burst crackers!"

"But Shashu, if we abstain this time, it might cause less pollution no!" I persisted.

"No!" And he started looking to my father- who had been silently enjoying our tussle so far- for support.

Being put under the limelight, he chose to go the diplomatic way. "We can think of doing something different this time na?" he said, looking at his son who obviously seemed not to agree.

"Think of it Shashwat" I said, trying to not lose my nerve, and also realising that the conversation had to end coz we'd come to the end of the stairs and had to head our separate ways for the morning.

He pretended not to hear and strutted off.

Eventually, all was forgotten until the afternoon. In the middle of another conversation he was having with dad about when to head out to buy the fireworks, my (in)famous butt landed right in.

"But Shashwat, you still wanna buy them?!" I was genuinely disappointed. I'd recently started thinking of my brother as an equal, trusting him to understand what I was saying. And nine times out of ten, he lived up to it.

This obviously wasn't among those nine though, as I was beginning to realise.

Yet, not one to be outdone, I continued, "Look, we all talk about pollution and global warming and stuff. And how each of us has a role to play in the deterioration of the Earth and it's climate. And then if you go ahead and consciously buy crackers, knowing what it'll do to the environment, knowing what harm you're causing, isn't that being hypocritical?" I ended with a flair- feeling proud of myself. I mean, Al Gore's got an Oscar for that kinda stuff.

I was just about preparing my Oscar-winning speech when I realised the words had sunk in as much into my brother as water would into a duck that's been rubbed with candles all night. Nil. Zilch. Zero.

And the famous Sulk was back again. You know how paranoid Gujju's shut their doors during the Gujarat riots so that not a mosquito could find its way inside their homes? Well, Shashwat has implemented the model on a smaller scale- his body. The senses just shut- so that nothing goes in, and none can come out.

And suddenly, I felt like an injured soldier in an endless desert, all too easy for the vultures to spot. And they were on the attack right away.

"Just leave him alone!" My mother said in an angry whisper.

"Abba! She's really cornering him ya!" My aunt joked.

I turned to the last vulture with a yes-now-what-do-you-have-left-to-say look. "I didn't say anything. It was purely the observation of the onlookers!" My dad said with a smirk. Translated, it meant, I told you- everyone agrees you're too full of yourself!

The Sulk had worked again. Great. Just great.

So I walked out (like there was anything left to do!). Slamming the door on my way into the room and burying myself in my pillows. Where did you think the Sulk actually originated?!

A number of thoughts raced through my mind as my whole "I'm out to save the world" theme had found zilch supporters.

How can I change the world if I can't even convince my family to do something so miniscule? How can the world be saved if a bunch of educated individuals can't be rational and see sense? my emotions went into overdrive, as my eyes started welling up.

And the theme smoothly shifted to another This is what happens when anyone my age tries to do anything- we're brushed away as pretentious teenagers who don't know what they're talking about! How can people underestimate the power of youth? How can they underestimate our intellect or even our concern for our world? the flood of questions continued as did the tears, self-pity taking over me.

Its been an hour since it all happened. And I realised I kinda ignored one small fact. Shashwat is a fourteen-year-old. And I don't think a fourteen-year-old me was too different.

Oh well, another day then for them Oscar winning speeches! ;)

PS: This is the reason I think The creator of Calvin is absolutely brilliant:

14th of April 2007

2008-10-22T17:40:00.000+05:30

It was just one of those days that you come to recognise for its value only as the years that roll by. One of those days when you are completely unaware of the fact that you're being a part of something that you'll quote for the rest of your life. Just one of those days.
Barack Obama. It was a name that had come to be associated with a guy who had the audacity to hope. The audacity to hope that people would ignore the colour of his skin, the missing pages in his resume and the sheer audacity of his dream. The audacity to hope that people could look straight into his heart and see a guy who wanted to change the world for the better- and share his belief that he could.

But it ended at that. At least that's what it seemed at that time to a bunch of teenagers who trooped off to hear him speak at a pep rally in Atlanta. To us, he was just one of those flashes of brilliance and daring that one sees every once in a while- only to vanish into oblivion as fast as they emerge.

However, as we stood in that crowd, we too- for a moment- fell under the 'Obama spell'. For that hour and a half- as he talked about the solutions to the problems we face, the Iraq war, the middle east crisis and everything else that made the road ahead seem gloomy and impossible- he made us all believe that this world was wonderful, and that it would be even more wonderful if there were more of his kind out there. He drew us into his speech in such a way that every one of those three-thousand odd people probably felt he was talking directly to them. And what can be more of a testimony to the effectiveness of this spell than that an Indian exchange student, with no interest in politics whatsoever- and with minimum concern for who'd rule an alien country, fell victim to it?

As I came back to India and a few months passed, I realised I wasn't the only one without immunity to this spell. The world was smitten. Obama had emerged nearly a demi-God, getting rock-star like welcomes wherever he set foot domestically and internationally. He had almost become a phenomenon- and his speeches more than lived upto his image. And I increasingly realised that I'd had an opportunity to soak into this phenomena just as it started- to listen to the voice that had revived hope in an increasingly pessimistic world.

Now, as the US Presidential Race moves towards its final lap before the elections in November, the eyes of the entire world are on Washington D.C. As we increasingly realize the significance of this particular election in the way the whole world will be affected, it is obvious that there is more at stake than we would wish on the choice of a population that kept George Bush in office for eight straight years.

On the outside, the two candidates- John McCain and Barack Obama- are as different as they can be. John McCain- the Republican candidate- is the old warhorse, the Vietnam war veteran who has seen it all, done it all- the heavyweight in affairs of foreign policy and economy. Barack Obama- the Democratic candidate- is considered a total outsider to the White House, a charismatic face that has risen from the crowds to capture their imagination- the man whose campaign has singularly run on two words- hope and change. The two, therefore, present a very obvious choice for the voters- tradition versus change, experience versus fresh optimism, age versus youth, age-old beliefs versus hope.

But that is not what the real questions are. The real question is- and will remain, “Who is the right man for the job of running the world’s most powerful- but also, arguably, the world’s most hated- country today?”

And Barack Hussein Obama, in my opinion, is the man for the moment. Not just because he has endeared himself to America despite his middle and last names having undeniable resemblances to two of the country’s biggest enemies. Not just because in a country still bound by the shackles of racism-- he has forced people to look beyond his colour. Not just because, as he goes around the world, the overwhelming love and support he gets has made him the unofficial candidate of the world. Not just because his leadership is probably the only way the US can mend its broken image around the world. Not just because he has enthused a significant percentage of the youth to come out and vote- to come out and show that they care. Not just because he is a melting pot of various cultures- African, Hawaiian, Filipino, Mexican- a symbol of the very thing the USA prides itself on. Not just because he is one of the greatest orators I have had the opportunity to hear. Not just because his popularity is comparable to one of America’s ultimate sweethearts- J. F. Kennedy. Not just because- in a world plunged in despair- he arouses a near-forgotten optimism.

Not just because of all that. But because he is- and will remain- the correct answer.

:D

2008-07-13T17:08:00.000+05:30

This is a year and 10 days late. Only. ;)

http://usinfo.state.gov/xarchives/display.html?p=washfile-english&y=2007&m=July&x=20070702131828berehellek0.4676325

PS: An attempt to keep my blog from dying a slow death.

PPS: A new blog entry is under construction. I promise!

An Unexpected Romance...

2008-04-04T18:08:00.000+05:30

Had written this one a long long while ago. More than a year has passed infact. It surprises me how the way you feel about some things never changes...

When I first walked into my speech/forensics class, a week into my introduction to Grady High School, my first instinct was to walk right back out! Everyone in the class seemed to be so sure of themselves- so confident, so self-assured, and knowing exactly what they were doing. And to someone who was so new to the country and school- and had no idea what was going on, it was extremely intimidating. I felt like a total misfit right away… And though I thought the teacher- Mr. Herrera- was extremely nice and helpful (he even knew how to say my name- thanks to a famous Indian author I share my name with!), I had no idea what the expectations of a competitive speech and debate class were- and frankly, I was too intimidated to even want to know!

And to add to my misery, I learnt that as a part of the class, we were required to compete in a minimum of three speech/debate tournaments per semester. To the others- who had been doing this since middle school, or at least since their freshmen year in high school, this was common place- but for an exchange student, it was just terrifying- and regardless to say, I completely freaked out! As I hesitantly approached Mr. Herrera to ask about what I really needed to do, and what was expected of me- he smiled and handed me a list of all the events I could do. As I started down the long list of big names and confusing rules that made no sense whatsoever, I realized this had done nothing to soothe my nerves, and if anything, had just added to the confusion.

Noticing the horrified look on my face, Mr. Herrera came up to me and asked if I needed to talk about it- and I gladly accepted. At the end of the two-hour long “talk”, I was actually feeling a lot better. He had suggested I do an event called ‘Original Oratory’- a basic 10min speech on a topic of my choice. Simple as it sounded though, I had no idea where or how to start! I had been told to think about what I could speak very passionately- and the only thing I could think of was ‘the unfairness of forcing an exchange student into doing something they really don’t want’!

As I was still clueless about what I was doing, and was running around trying to avoid the thoughts of helplessness and clueless ness everyday, I started dreading the days I had the debate class, knowing fully well that I wasn’t ready for what needed to be done- since all we did in the class was to prepare for competition. However, I soon realized that shirking my work wasn’t doing me any good, and I was just putting off the inevitable- and that my best bet would be to get on the act as soon as possible- after all, I told myself, I had nothing to lose!

So I did get on the act- I did what Mr. Herrera told me to- and started writing a speech on a topic I decided I felt very strongly about- altruism. It took me a couple of weeks to hand in my first draft, and I was very nervous doing so- not knowing how people would react to it. But as I walked down the hall that day, a senior on the team- Ramika (who also does the same event)- came up to me and said had chanced upon my draft when she was in Mr. Herrera’s room, and she loved it! It was just one of those moments you wish you could hold on to forever…. 

But soon enough, it was time for my first tournament. As it had only been a day since I finished writing the complete speech, I was told I could read off my script. As we started for the tournament, I realized this was what I had been avoiding for the past three months- and somehow- it just didn’t seem all that bad anymore. As I went from round to round, I felt myself feeling more and more at ease- until finally- I decided I was actually enjoying myself! By the end of the next day, I was feeling so much a part of the team already- and although I didn’t do very well (and didn’t ‘break’ to the final round)- cheering for my team members at the awards ceremony gave me a high of unimaginable proportions. And I realized, that for the first time in the last three months, I had been ‘myself’ both days- and had enjoyed every moment of it!

Little was I to know, that this was the beginning of a great romance- with competitive speech and debate, and more importantly, my debate team. As I went to my next two required tournaments for the semester- both in remote Georgia districts- I found myself falling in love with the very feeling of being a part of a team- staying back after school for practice, sharing inside jokes, pepping each other up before rounds, hogging food like nobody’s business, spending hours on end talking about our one common passion- speech and debate; and, most importantly, having real ‘friends’ for the first time since I landed in Atlanta.

And all along, without even realizing it, I started gaining more and more success with each tournament, and by the end of the semester, I had even managed a first place at a tournament!

One of the peaks of this relationship was when I got to travel to the University of New Mexico on my birthday in early January this year. By now, all my best friends were on the debate team, and spending my special day with all my favorite people- including my wonderful coach- was just the most wonderful thing I could have hoped for! And the beautiful snow, the delicious Mexican dinner and the extra special hugs were just an icing on the cake (quite literally)!

But the best moment yet, is still fresh in my mind like it was just yesterday- just a few weeks ago, I qualified for NFL (National Forensics League) Nationals in Original Oratory- an extremely prestigious honor. And just when I thought the feeling couldn’t be topped, just a couple of weekends ago- I placed first at the state tournament- and the feeling of being state champion for Georgia is still something that I’m coming to terms with… But amongst it all, I think the moment that really stands out for me, is when all my competitors came up to me later, gave me hugs, and told me that if there was someone who really deserved everything- it was me. Regardless to say, I was overwhelmed by the love and belief everyone seemed to have in me. I decided one couldn’t get any luckier- and that is a moment that’ll stay with me forever. And ever.

And now, as I sit here and think, I realize the debate team has given me much more than those numerous certificates and trophies. It has given me much more than colleagues, teammates and competitors. It has given me much more than a coach for speech and debate…

In the trophies and certificates- its given me the ability to believe in myself- to believe I can do the seemingly impossible, to believe I can be the best- Its helped my self-worth go up several notches. In the teammates and competitors- its given me friends for life- people who genuinely know me, understand me, accept me and love me for who I really am- people who are genuinely happy for my success, because they’re the ones who’ve helped shape it. In my debate coach- Its given me my friend, philosopher, guide- my confidante and my harshest critic- A person who takes fatherly pride in each of my achievements, and who wants me to be the best I can be, and more importantly, the happiest I can be. Someone who’s seen me evolve from day one on the exchange program, and probably the one who knows and understands me best of all.

But above all, being a part of the team has given me my own niche- my own unique identity. In the world of blurring faces and images- it’s given me my own world- a world where I’m accepted, respected and loved. A world where I do not have to conform to feel a part of the crowd, a world where I can be me.

Now, my world is the long unending after school practices, the wonderful feeling of letting my guard down and being myself, of assuring smiles and warm hugs, of protective glances and heart-to-heart talks, of loud music and crazy dancing, of giggling until the jaws hurt, of giving and feeling the love, but most of all, of being a part of a family- my debate family…

A few weeks ago, as I talked to my coach and told him how many wonderful things the debate team means to me, he said, “It was just one of those strange things that happened- you being put into that class- its not common for exchange students to be put into any kind of such advanced competitive classes. But I guess, it was all for the better…” And I couldn’t agree more.

And to think, the first thing I wanted to do was run away from it!

A Round-Up of S(p)orts

2008-02-29T12:31:00.000+05:30

In the history of world sport, the start of year 2008 will go down as a phase where youth, aggression, controversy, confidence, power, money and raw talent took center-stage as age-old champions were dethroned, gentlemanliness was thrown out of the dictionary, sledging became an 'art', heroes emerged from the most unlikely corners, and experience was bid farewell. And all the action seemed to be happening in the sport-loving country of Australia...

India's Cricket Tour Down Under will probably go down as one of the most talked and written about events in sporting history. For youngsters and next-generation champions like Ishant Sharma, Gautam Gambhir, Rohit Sharma and Robin Uthappa- it was a coming-of-age series. They will go back as battle-hardy men, having come as untested boys. But, unfortunately, the series is one that the cricket world will want to set aside as a dark memory that is best forgotten- despite there having been some truly memorable and riveting cricket that was played. Because what happened before and after got more attention than when a batsman took guard. The lines between agression and ugliness blurred considerably, as players hurled abuses at each other faster than Lee's most stinging deliveries. As a result, the cricketing world and the two countries were divided over twenty-two men, as the insults got even uglier and more personal. I run out of adjectives trying to explain just how disappointing it is to see seemingly mature men using phrases like 'monkey'(arguably!), and 'obnoxious little weed' for each other. Are these the same men we have grown to god-worship?! At the end of the day, it was the so-called 'gentlemen's game' that lost. Rather poorly.

On the other hand, Sourav Ganguly was bid an unceremonious farewell from the ODI team- after enjoying one of the best form-runs of his life. Dhoni's insistance for youth makes sense, but does a senior who has served the country so long and well not deserve even a warning before being dropped like a hot potato?

On the tennis front too, there were no dearth of controversies. Sania Mirza whipped up a storm when she opted out of the Bangalore Open- rather ironically, "to stay out of controversies", while Leander Paes' captaincy of the Davis Cup team wasn't taken too well by the youngsters- and turned into an ugly, immature public spat- lapped up with relish by the gossip-loving media. The Australian Open saw eventual-champion Maria Sharapova's infamous father, Yuri, making a throat-cutting gesture after his daughter's convincing upset win over world no. 1, Justin Henin. And one wondered where the profesionalism was gone...

But there were the truly memorable and feel-good moments as well...

The rise of the young Ishant 'Lambu' Sharma from a first-chance rookie to the lynchpin of the new-face Indian pace attack.

Indian getting the better of Australia in their own home fort- Perth- beating them at their own game on a bouncy, pacey wicket with a bowling attack that was younger than their youngest bowler- and that was without their two spearheads- Zaheer Khan and R.P. Singh.

The rise of Jo-Wilfred Tsonga- the unseeded Frenchman who notched up several upsets to reach the finals of the Australian Open- leap-frogging over everyone else on the popularity charts with his Mohammad Ali-looks, infectiously ready smile, calm temerament and booming serves.

The little master- Sachin Tendulkar- getting a standing ovation from Aussie crowds wherever he went, everytime he walked on or off the ground- whether he was on a duck or a century- a heartwarming display of affection and respect for a true gentleman who has enthralled the entire world with his willow for 18 long years- and who still steps onto the field with the enthusiasm of a sixteen-year-old.

The emergence of the Serbian tennis players- Ivanovic, Jankovic, Djokovic, and Tipsarvic- from politially turbulant childhoods with scanty resources, to come out to challenge and be some of the best and most loved players the game has known.

The farewell to Adam Gilchrist- a man who will be missed by cricketers the world over for being a truly delightful batsman and wicket-keeper, but- more importantly- for being one of the few who was left in the dying breed of perfect gentlemen.

The fact that the Australian Open finals this year had neither a Nadal or a Federer- for the first time in a record ten major fianls! Yet another story of the champions' throne being threatened by determined, fearless young blood.

When Novak Djokovic got up on the podium to give his 'thank you' speech though, the 21-year-old spoke with the kind of maturity, grace and sense of humor you thought all sportsmen had lost in this era of aggressiveness. "Even if Tsonga was standing up here, it wouldn't be undeserved. He was amazing all though the tournament" He said, mincing no words in praising his opponent, "I know you guys (the crowd) wanted him to win. No, no, its okay. I still love you all!" He added with his charming smile- winning over all the hearts he hadn't already. And restoring hope that there still was high value placed on 'nice'ness :)

But undoubtedly, the most radical event in the recent scheme of world sport was the forming of the Indian Premier League. The auctioning of the international players was given phenomenal media coverage, and it threw up more surprises than one could digest. To think that an Uthappa or a Raina or even a Yusuf Pathan would fetch way more that a Hayden, McGrath, or a Ponting tells a story of a hug turn-around. As cricket is moving into the big-money league with soccer, and American basketball, one wonders if the average Indian fan will be able to digest the concept of supporting a team, and not individual players. Will we be able to pray for a Symonds to hit a Bhajji out of the park? Or for a Lee to rattle Tendulkar's stumps first up? For an Indian cricket fan to whom cricket is more of a religion, and cricketers more of demi-Gods, how hard will it be to look beyond the names and enjoy the game? It will certainly take a while. But one hopes that the big money and the fame are by-products of some good, solid cricket, instead of the other way round.

After all, at the end of the day- as cliched as it sounds- we want the sport to win, don't we? :)

Taare Shining In Vain?

2008-02-06T00:02:00.000+05:30

Recently, as I finished watching a movie, I experienced a somewhat unfamiliar situation: everyone was quiet- almost an eerie, uncomfortable silence- as if reflecting on something deeper, more profound. Something that went beyond a mere movie. Now, the last time I probably witnessed a similar reaction by the audience was while on my way out after watching ‘Rang De Basanti’. But this went a step beyond- each of the parents or elders had a protective, loving hand over the unusual number of young ones ranging from toddlers to teenagers- almost as if they had rediscovered them after a lifetime, as if that gap between them just got a lot smaller. Probably because it had.

You guessed it. The movie was Aamir Khan’s brilliant directorial debut Taare Zameen Par. I, very predictably, fell in love with the movie. Not just because of the amazing work by the little Darsheel Safrey, or the touchingly sensitive directorial treatment, or even the absolutely loveable and equally hummable music tracks. But also because somehow, sometime while watching it, I felt redeemed. I felt like someone finally understood. I might not be suffering from a learning disorder like young Ishaan, but like him, I too am a victim of this education system. And perhaps, you are too.

The drawing teacher who reckons real ‘art’ lies in copying inanimate objects lying on the table to the T, the hindi teacher who won’t accept an answer to a question other than the one he’s dictated, the English teacher who puts higher value on knowing the parts of speech than creating a grammatically correct sentence, those raps on the knuckles, those punishments to stand outside the classroom, the intolerance for a curiousness for things beyond the classroom- these certainly aren’t caricatures formulated in the mind of the scriptwriter. They are an everyday reality for- let’s admit- most of us who are still in school. Aren’t we all, in one way or the other, casualties of the narrow-mindedness of the system?

And so, when a film like this comes along once in a lifetime, it is bound to create a stir. But, unfortunately, we seem to have this uncanny ability to let it all run off our backs. It was a movie, and this is life after all! Well, sometimes, just sometimes, you need a wake-up call from life- an opportunity to re-examine all that’s being done, to ask questions about why some things are being done certain ways- and just how right or wrong they are. TZP is our wake-up call.

Why are math and science made compulsory until class tenth but not art and music? Why does a child have to narrow down his options to either Science, Humanities or Commerce at the mere age of 15? How can a child’s learning and knowledge accumulated over 12 years be judged in the matter of three hours- that can make or break the rest of his career? How can we ever account for the amount of innocent lives our attitudes have claimed? Or how many talents have been buried in this shameless quest for academic achievement? When will we have classrooms that become the centers of sharing the joy of learning, rather than machines that train you for a test? When will we be able to produce responsible citizens that are ready for life- rather than IIT? In a system where learning by rote has its proven advantages, when will we ever produce free-thinking individuals- people with opinions of their own, who have the courage to voice them? When will students need to stop going to ‘tuitions’ to substitute their school education? When will life stop being one vicious cycle of school, studies, tutions, homework, and tests?

These, and many more, are questions that will have to be asked over and over if we really want to see a change. It is up to us to wake up and get on with the new day that has dawned, to shake off our past- and to face the new times with a fresh perspective, a renewed vigor. Or we can choose to just hit the snooze button, like we’ve been doing for a while- and stay in our own little dreamland, oblivious to the rest of the world.

I only wonder how long it is going to be before our redemption comes not from a movie, but from real life…

Tickle Test Results...

2008-01-08T00:41:00.000+05:30

Here're some of my recent results. These tests do really fascinate me, but I don't always agree with 'em! :)

1. Arundhati, your holiday theme song is White Christmas

Looks like you might be the sentimentalist in the crowd. You, more than others, revel in the nostalgia of the season. Some may think it's a little bit sappy, but you can't help it if you feel all gushy at the first sight of snow, the scent of evergreens, or the first airing of It's a Wonderful Life.

You're one who picks up on traditions, and you probably like to pass them on, as well. That ornament over there, we bet it has a good story attached to it. Truth is, Santa himself probably couldn't spread as much Christmas spirit as you're capable of. While others are mired in materialism, you keep the holiday's true meaning closer to your heart. So keep on dreaming of a white Christmas with every Christmas card you write. May your days be merry and bright. And may all your Christmases be white.

(I love how I don't even know what It's a Wonderful Life is- and that I've never sent a Christmas card as of yet in the past eighteen years!)

2. Arundhati, your holiday wish is to Enjoy Time With Family and Friends

You'll be home for Christmas — that much is true. And while you love getting gifts and attending parties, the true meaning of the season for you is spending time with the people you love the most. While you may not be a total homebody, a caring soul like you can't wait to revel in the little details the season offers.

Whether you get a kick out of baking cookies with your favorite cousin or picking out a tree with the folks, you enjoy taking part in traditions and carrying them on. And whether you see it as sentimental or maybe a little sappy, it's as sweet as you are. So don't change a thing!

(haha. my parents would definitely have a big ROFL session if they saw that someone called me a 'homebody'!!)

3. Arundhati, your strongest sense is Right and Wrong

Doing things by the book. That's your style. Not one to rock the boat, you know that there is a time and a place for everything like how much to tip a server or when to keep your opinions to yourself. It's that keen awareness of right and wrong that helps you make a decision quickly and efficiently so you can move on to the next issue of the day.

Friends probably admire your ability to think on your feet and have confidence in your choices. And that's what makes you a good leader. So keep moving smoothly down the road of life. You're sure to go places!

(...And I took Science! 'nuf said.)

4. Arundhati, you'll make a difference when it comes to Dedication to Change

While other people sit around and wait for life to come to them, you put yourself out there and make it happen. After all, if you don't like the way things are, how do you expect anything to be different unless you do something about it?

Determined and dedicated, you're not afraid to go out on a limb and do what you can to make an impact. You realize change doesn't happen overnight, and you don't give up easily even when the going gets tough. That's what makes you such an inspiration. And it's also sure to make the world a better place. Bravo!

(Is it just a coincidence that my failing grades are the only things I can never manage to change?!)

5. Arundhati, your trademark tune is Kelly Clarkson's "Miss Independent"

Wild and crazy may not always be the way you go, but it's usually how you have the most fun. You don't have to follow the paved road since you'd probably rather forge your own trail anyway. Whether or not anyone can follow in your adventurous shoes is another matter.Miss independent, miss self-sufficient.

A free spirit like you goes your own way. We doubt you waste much time worrying what anyone else thinks. So whether you'll be happiest skydiving, joining the Peace Corps, or just shaking things up at home, we know you'll inspire others along the way. Now that's wild!

(Lol. Again, is it just a coincidence that the last few months of my life have been spent in dealing with petty high-school drama?!!)

7. Arundhati, you should splurge on A Romantic Date

A penny for your thoughts? Sounds about right. Whether or not you're flushed with the green stuff, you're always a romantic at heart. Some say love doesn't pay the bills, but you'd choose love over money any day. For you, it's the thought that counts, and spending time with your sweetie is what means most to you.

You tend to think about others before yourself and enjoy showering loved ones with gifts. From a sweet note gently tucked in their coat pocket to an extravagant weekend trip, you'd rather save your pennies to enjoy time with someone special. How romantic!

(Now now, if only that "someone" came along soon enough!)

8. Arundhati, your values help make you a Responsible Friend

Your giving and honest nature makes you the kind of person almost anyone would be proud to call a friend. As one who places a high value on your personal integrity, you seem to try to live by the ol' Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Because of this inclination, you're the type to insist on taking responsibility for your actions, even in difficult circumstances. You also appear to take conscious steps to honor your commitments to others.

(hmmmm....)

9. Arundhati, you're looking for a Best Friend

There are many different ways to look at relationships, but for you, finding a best friend, the one person you share everything with, is the most important. Some people focus more on the romantic image of a soul mate to last the span of time, but you probably prefer the reality of making the most of every moment of every day. And who better to live those moments with than someone who's true blue through and through?

The ideal match for you is probably someone who can anticipate the next word out of your mouth and who laughs at the punch line before you even tell it. Chances are it's important to you that they'd expand your circle of friends, introduce you to new places, faces, and experiences, too. Whether this relationship is here for the short- or the long- term, you're a take-it-as-it-comes kind of person, with few expectations or fairytales to live up to. You'd take your constant companion and trusted secret-keeper over a fairy princess or Prince Charming, any day. Whether you realize it or not, there's someone out there who feels the same way about you!

(This is just perfectly true! But what I want and what I end up with are often two different things...!)

10. Arundhati, your gift for gab is Laying On The Laughter!

Laughter really is the best medicine. For a friendly and funny soul like you, nothing opens up communication lines and lowers people's defenses like a hearty chuckle, sidesplitting guffaw, or shared snicker. Whether you're trying to defuse tense situations or liven up dull ones, humor always seems to lighten the mood and get people talking.

Whether your wit is revealed through goofy jokes, dark humor, edgy sarcasm, or sophisticated satire, your true gifts are showcased when you're making wisecracks. So bring on the slapstick, the irony, and the jests — eventually we'll all be laughing with you.

(Sarcasm is about the only thing I can really lay on! :P)

11. Arundhati, your IQ score is 125

The way you think about things makes you a Creative Theorist. This means you are a highly intelligent, complex person. You are able to process information of nearly every kind with ease, using both creativity and analysis to make sense of the world. Compared to others you also have a very rich imagination.

(Okaaay! Now will you explain why I just don't get Physics... and Chem... AND Math?!!)

In the Bunk Bed...

2007-12-10T18:51:00.000+05:30

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...

Haunting Questions

2007-12-06T19:35:00.000+05:30

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!

Language- a Reflection of our Attitudes

2007-12-05T20:13:00.000+05:30

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!

A Myopic Epidemic!

2007-12-05T20:07:00.000+05:30

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.

Happy and... Gay?

2007-10-30T07:15:00.000+05:30

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?

A Letter To The (So Called) 'Purists'

2007-09-29T17:38:00.000+05:30

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 :)

My 'flashbulb' moment!

2007-09-27T16:46:00.000+05:30

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? :)

Thinking out-of-the-box? What's that?

2007-09-03T23:54:00.000+05:30

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?

The True Youth Icon...

2007-08-30T22:17:00.000+05:30

[Disclaimer: I'm probably one of the most loyal supporter of the Indian team you can find. However, 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!")

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!

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!!

The bitterness of truth...

2007-08-15T13:59:00.000+05:30

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....

Lessons abound...

2007-08-08T22:13:00.000+05:30

"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.

If only...

2007-07-31T17:34:00.000+05:30

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 looming 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..."

"Like a silk blanket..."

2007-06-04T00:39:00.000+05:30

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 friendship 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...