Lessons

Everyone raves about the wonders of a well-gifted intellect, the marvels of the mind, the beauty of education and so on. As you climb the intellectual ladder, you add on to your repertoire of knowledge. They say. I love being in a class. I love learning. I love having meaningful conversations that are loaded with substance and not chaff. A great intellect is such a turn on, even. To me at least. Knowledge is something one can never really have enough of. Never.


I've always been the girl you'd find at the library than on a sports field. You'd find me lost in the pages of a book than in the minutes of a sprint. There is something about learning, about reading and about engaging with a topic that just bowls me over. It matters that much to me. Sports and the way my hair looked never really took precedence. Even today.


Similarly, I always imagined settling down with an intellectual. I spun a lovely dreamworld cushy with long conversations munched on over numerous cups of tea and durees. I dreamed of snug hours spent in silence as he and I would pore over books and mango tea. With a dog. And big french windows. With sheer curtains for just the right amount of light. There would be books of all sizes and on all topics right next to my bed, in neat but somewhat haphazard piles. My books would range from wild love stories to biographies to cooking to photography to comics to mind-blowing fiction. His pile would be books stolen from mine. And maybe a Calvin and Hobbes. Or Asterix, better. There would be coasters with stains of our favourite mugs. My house would smell of books, my life would smell of words and stories. 


I don't know about that anymore. I used to call myself an intellectual and with such pride. I'm not so sure about that anymore. Yes, I am all of the above and more, but today, for the first time in my life, I didn't imagine another intellectual to be by my side. Maybe it's because I've become so cynical about this entire concept of intellectualism thanks to the examples our country is flooded with. And given how my experiences with many of them have been, the last thing I really need is to be with another one. I realize that I shouldn't make such generalizations based on these past events, but one's got to be realistic and careful, more so.


As much as I love the intellect and it's sheer beauty, a part of me has slowly (and at a now faster pace) started to shirk it away. Or perhaps I've started pushing aside the people who have this nasty habit of glorifying it. 


We complicate things with words and rationales. We refine our experiences with so many theories and possibilities that we forget what it really felt like to be in that situation - in all its rawness and nudity. We walk so far away from what we're really going through because we ornate our life with so much that is unnecessary and fake, for most part of it. We bring it up a lot during counseling where one is asked to feel and not think/explain. And it's close to impossible because something that is otherwise so natural and effortless has now become something that is we struggle to even discover.


I look at the man who gives us flowers every day, playing with his son at this hour of the night. There's nothing else in the father and son's world than pinching each other's cheeks. They're not hustling over lost business or left over garlands or the fact that prices have risen which probably makes their meals harder to come by. Poo Selvan plays with his son, Poo Arasan (Flower King) and that's all that matters. It's him and his prince and his kingdom of flowers that spans his chair and cart. He will soon wrap up for the day, take his wobbly moped, eat his dinner, and keep the flowers ready for tomorrow's sale. He will come home tomorrow and deliver the jasmine mala. He will go about his day. And I will find them at their cart, lost in their kingdom of games and strings of flowers.


We will worry about the bill(s) we have to pay. We will worry about the work we have left for the day. We will ponder over when our salary would already just get here. We will think about why petrol prices are so high. We will think of home loans and insurance. We will think of another degree. We will think of human rights and animal rights and Dow Chemicals at the Olympics. We will conceal our acne, do our hair a million times and we will wonder how many unnecessary calories we've consumed. You can add to this list.


Somewhere in the night, there is a Flower King ready to retire in his kingdom. And all he thinks about is delivering those flowers fresh tomorrow without expecting that Parle G biscuit or Alphenlibe lollipop in return. He will not know. He will not expect. He will sleep a happy, fragrant sleep in his huge 1 room kingdom with his parents for walls.

328

I've raved, ranted, vented and left so much of my 25 year old baggage on this space. I still have a lot left. I hear it's something that never really ceases to exist. Baggage happens whether you like it or not. Whether you want to carry it and how is what perhaps differentiates you from me and us from the rest of the world. 


With every passing day comes a new challenge - a new confrontation. It could be about the freedom I have as an adult or the roles I'm supposed to play so effortlessly or the duties and responsibilities I'm supposed to take on or the career choices I need to make as my journey progresses. It can be about anything and everything, including stupid petty things. 


On deeper introspection, I find that I seem to be living my actual adolescent years now. I say this not because the adolescent in me ever died and went away (I don't think any part of our history dies and goes away. We just evolve from what we were. More on that later.) I just think that the steam seems to be setting itself quite free at a time when things should be settling in. But then again, no one really settles; especially not now. That's why I'm such a huge fan of Erik Erikson and his theory of Psychosocial Development. I keep going back to this not to show how much I love psychology and some of these theories (which I do very much, FYI) but because they make so much sense. Not that this is some weird knowledge/theory class camouflaged in this post but I brought this up to help map where the hell I am. It strikes me as obvious and oh-so-stupid-for-not-arriving-at-this-earlier that we're a sum of a series of parts that role out every single day. 


I learn that we're each a bloody awesome collectible of our own personal tissues/paper napkins sprawled with scribbles, thoughts, doodles and nothing sometimes. Each day, every person we interact with, contributes in not just making us who we are but also making us realize who we are. This is not a lecture and neither is it a preaching ceremony. This is my white board and here I am, penning my thoughts down on something that has struck me right in the middle of this existential vortex I'm submerged in.


There are certain events off-late that have brought about such weird and drastic changes I never thought I was even capable of feeling. When you're faced with a sense of not giving a rat's ass, not caring, being nonchalant, being abrasive and being everything you feel so shitty about being, because at 25, you're expected to be a certain way, you figure that your life is up to something - that perhaps you're bang in the middle of learning a lesson you need to learn. It's one of those impromptu things that life springs on you without you even knowing. And before you know it, you look at yourself in the mirror (and I, at this blog) and you wonder who the hell you're really looking at. The change seems drastic, the difference seems incorrigible. 


You never thought you'd become this way - stone cold and uncaring - just like your parents told you the big bad world would be. You think for yourself because at this age, there's nothing I want more than to be for me, to live for me, to look at only me; because you know what? I've got the rest of my life to think of everybody else. It makes me wonder when and how and why I got this way. Why 'me' became so important. I am a me girl. Strongly. And they call these Scorpio traits. Call it whatever you wish to, but this is what it is. For the moment at least.


And at the end of almost every day, I rewind and replay everything significant that passed by. I reassess, review and figure that there's so much I can do differently. A large part of me also chalks out plans for what I will do in my future when these same circumstances are to arise again. I think of various permutations and combinations on how to tackle this better. While that's so far ahead without even the remotest guarantee of surety, I learned something today.


I strive so hard to explain the concept of letting go, especially to ma. I have these million dreams and I'm bound in more ways than one - many out of choice as well. I realize that a vast component of growing up is the ability to let go. We keep talking about how important it is to stand by and let the person you love, walk on their own feet. We talk so much about letting go and standing by in the wings as the show unfolds. We talk so readily about catching someone when they fall. But damn is that difficult to do. 


And that seems to be the current exam I'm in the midst of. It has been the hardest thing to let go of people and watch them from the wings as they walk on. I know that the next time I vow to do something different from what ma did while bringing us up, I'll be back to square one. People we love don't hold us back because they don't want us to succeed. I just learnt that why they hold on is simply because letting go is the biggest test anyone can face, the biggest fear anyone can live with, the biggest risk anyone can take. 


Letting go just means that you don't get to be in control anymore. It amounts to letting the reins go. It summarizes everything we're so scared of - of being without control and of being alone.

327

I don't know what it takes for a man to just let a woman be.
I don't know if it really has anything to do with the way she dresses or what she chooses to dress herself in.
I don't know whether it's because he's generally unhappy in life or is always a pervert.
I don't know whether it's because that woman reminds him of someone or if she's just another piece of eye candy.
I don't know.


I despise sexist extremism, feminism and chauvinism. I despise it all. I don't believe in male/female bashing. I don't engage in any of it and neither do I entertain it.


But today's had me feeling so angry, upset and annoyed all in one because for the first time, I actually felt like my space as a woman was being trampled upon. I'm extremely territorial about my space and even though I'm patient with the occasional trespasser, I'm not so passive or unforgiving to those who know better and still push their way in. 


Today made me realize that it really doesn't have to do with the clothes you wear or how thin/fat, ugly/hot you look or feel. It goes beyond acne, bad hair days, bad presentation and whatever else it is that strikes a man's fancy in a woman. Stared, leched at, you anyway will. It's like it's already been decided by shit knows who that some men out there have no other business but to stick their sick eyeballs where they don't belong. 


It's one thing to look at someone and check them out. We all do it. It's another to stare, and evidently so. I figured that everyone makes such a huge deal about dress-codes for the 'safety' of women. I don't think it matters. Lechers will exist and will lech and will go about their business. The world will still go its way, we will still feel encroached upon.


We know what it feels like when a man stares at our chest or when we're stared at as we run or when all we get during a conversation is a man staring at our lips, or better still, our chest. Have someone leer in your face at your filthy crotch and you still probably won't get it. It's just a matter of time before someone punches you, in your face, or better still, kicks you right where it burns most. In your face.


We'll talk about safety then.

Growing Up

You don't grow up when you stop crying.
You probably stop crying when you're dying inside or are dead inside towards that particular thing, event or person. 
You probably cry your last when these realizations hit you or when you mourn the loss of feeling what that particular thing, event or person really makes you feel.


You don't grow up when you complicate communication with fancy words.
You probably veil your thoughts and feelings in fancy words so that the real you can't be seen. So that your vulnerabilities stay camouflaged in pretty, intellectual conversations and silences.


You grow up because you have no space to breathe. You grow up when your face is pushed against the wall. You grow up when you figure your ego's your best bet. You grow up when everything else stops making sense. You grow up because you have to walk on and move forward (or backwards).  You grow up because thinking gets you nowhere, neither do feelings. You grow up simply because you have to.

Today Morning

I don't really write or catalog every single day any more. But today is an exception. I just had to bore you with the details of today morning. And that's only because I hope you've had one as beautiful as mine.


Bangalore has this amazing knack (through all the effects of global warming and all) to bring a chill after the rains. It's not like Bangalore has seen its share of rainfall (or any other part of this country for that matter), but whatever little we got seems to have done its part. It's cool and cold. It's supremely windy and gusty. It's pretty. It's green (at least outside my balcony). And my feet have started aching which is a grandma syndrome I have  (or so I like to call it) that is indicative of the cold outside. It's all pretty and nice. And pretty.


My day started with bugging the pigs and un-fluffing their fluffed up selves. It moved on to some much needed exercise which I have been running away from like I run away from karela (bitter gourd). The morning involved a weird fling between sweating it out and shivering (and getting a foot ache). The jokes these things play on us! 


I got back home to an empty house with the mother traveling and the brother at football. It led me to doing this and having the brain cells in my world blossoming and thanking me for ever and more.

Poring over breakfast options makes me feel happy. Poring over food options makes me delirious. But then I decided I wanted to do a more Indian thing than anything American. I wanted something that would fit in with this weather. Something warm, comforting, spicy and of course, something that would complete my day.


I ended up making my favouritest of my favouritest of my favouritest breakfasts ever. Masala omelette and toast. My go to breakfast. My breakfast. I can eat this when I'm awake, asleep, drunk, sober and pretty much everything else in between. This is probably the ONLY thing I will ever eat from anywhere (again, that's relative - you know why). I've made friends with this baby on the train, on highways, on drives, on beaches(!!) and everywhere else. We share a romance of sorts. We have each other's backs!

And then I became greedy and inspired and gluttonous. I think we'll branch all these under the umbrella term - Inspired. I figured I needed some shine in my Saturday morning ( AS IF the weather, the workout, the tea, the yellow teapot and the omelette weren't enough!). I decided to go and test my "inspiration" and this is what it resulted in.

Baked Banana and Cinnamon Toast. Clearly I'd not had enough of bread. And I needed some TLC on this cold, feet-aching day. So I experimented with this. And I must say that even though banana and cinnamon don't really go under the food matrimonial column, they made a pretty darn good pair. The toast was just the way I like it - crisp and light like air. There was a burst of cinnamon and warm banana coupled with a bit of gooey and a bit of crunchy sugar on top. All in all, my mind was treated with much luxury and care. The heart, well, we'll leave the heart out of this :)


And I made


Baked Banana and Nutella Toast. The banana and nutella combo never existed till Gokarna. You'll have to go visit the place to figure what I'm talking about. And is it heavenly or is it heavenly! You don' question this combination. Ever. Anyhoo. So this was a burst of everything good. It's something you give yourself because you love you irrespective of the weight gain you may will incur. It's a treat. It has chocolate. And all I can tell you is that my mouth actually felt numb after this meal. It's like that was a defense mechanism just so you wouldn't commit the heinous crime of eating anything else after this one. It's like everything was complete. 

It was a morning well deserved. I'd forgotten about my hair. And my schizo work which visited me in my dreams last night. Also, the omelette and bananas thanked me for doing them justice. I know. I felt it.


Have yourselves a splendid Saturday! :)

BEING A GIRL FACET - I

It’s past 11pm. It’s a Friday. TGIF. Really. The week has been kind, work has been schizo and life seems to be the usual. I just got back from the station and all I could think of was jumping onto Sampark Kranti Express and hitting the streets of Dilli after eons or taking the train to Hubli and figuring out what next after I get there. I have a thing for trains. And travel. I think you’re well aware of this. I will write about this more and for ever more X 100. 

For the moment, I have more pressing issues on my mind – the mop on my head. Hair’s a big thing for us women. Really. It not being there is also a big thing. It’s something we fuss about and cry over and all that jazz. We women know enough of what hair means to us. And I think it’s safe to say that some, if not most of you guys out there, care about that mane too. So yeah. Hair.

Mine sucks. Bangalore is exponentially incapable of giving you a good mane. Or me at least. Bangalore is home. I love Bangalore. But Bangalore gives me mane woes. Huge ones. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s the city. I love how awesome, gorgeous, beautiful, blossoming (ummmm), rich, healthy and amazing my hair looks in Kerala or Kolkata or Dilli or Mumbai. I just got back from Goa and my otherwise mess of whatever you want to call it, was the best thing ever – in all its messiness.

I felt divine. Really. My head felt nice, my hair kinda blossomed and shone and all that. And the best thing is it needed no extra care. None at all. Just some regular sun and rain and sea spray, if I may. Sigh.

It makes me think that I should make Goa home. Yes, you got that right, I could just rearrange my entire life to focus on my hair. It means that much sometimes. Or at this moment at least. And a million other moments too. I could center my life on the way my hair feels and I know it’s got a direct connection with the way I will feel. I know. We all know they’re connected somehow. I will feel good if I move to Goa just to give my hair the lifelong spa it needs. I will pick up and move. But

Bangalore = home.

Goa = good hair.

What are the odds? The choices one has to make, the sacrifices. It scares me to wonder what challenges and choices lie ahead. I want both. I want both very greedily. But alas, when did one ever have both? One has to make difficult, life-changing choices sometimes. 

However, having said that, nothing changes that fact that a good mane can make you feel like a kazillion bucks! Touche. That’s life. And that’s being a girl. And writing about random (but important) stuff totally seals the deal. And if you didn’t get the gist of how important this is, then I feel bad for you. Just kiddin’. (Not) 


You can ignore me now. TYVM. Have a super, dapper weekend! :)

The Quarter Girl

Quarter Girl (QG) closes every night and reopens again every morning.
QG learns something new every day. Or relearns things gone old.
QG stays behind closed doors but has all her windows open. Throughout.
QG sponges on everything that is good around her - the gusts of wind, the rain, the smell of morning, the fatigue before settling in for the night, the words in her mind, the silence in her chaos. 
QG feels fickle, cornered and trapped. By what, remains elusive still.
QG admires, loves and lives.
QG fears her heart. She fears her mind more.
QG cares about her actions the least.
QG runs from bonds and commitments. Of any kind.
QG dreams of what she hopes will be a reality. In her dreams.
QG feels torn apart with nothing in between.

The Quarter Girl makes me want to stop, or pause. She makes me want to sit on a rocking chair and close my eyes. And perhaps sink into the pendulous stillness that lurks around the corner. She makes me want to live in that stillness, and stay in limbo till I'm ready to stop rocking back and forth and start thinking of moving again - whichever way I decide.


The Quarter Girl makes me believe that this is how the journey is going to be all my life. For a lover of travel, it makes me want to hold on, stay put and map my route out. Out of what, I don't know. The tunnel's a long one. And it's pretty darn noisy, resounding with so much God knows what. I'm speeding along but still in the same place.


Maybe sitting on the rocking chair was a bad idea in the 1st place.

Within

Clenched fists constrain, restrain, contain.
You can't come in. You can't go out.
You can't break through. You can't see through.
You can't breathe. You can't feel.
Clenched fists feel difficult to open again.

Reality Bites

It's important, I realize, to walk on the road that keeps your self in mind. Self preservation seems to have become a task, not a state of being. 


I thought I was OK, untouchable (for most part of it) and not so damageable. I pride myself of the walls I have around me. Many say that walls contain and don't really facilitate growth and freedom. To me it looks like these walls around me are here to shield me in order to get to where I want to. They are the means to many an end I've figured for myself. And with the growing number of people who only choose to put you down, one can't help but concretize these walls. Really. However, these walls aren't flawless. 


People still get to me. I think it would be impossible to not be gotten to. It would be unreal for me to not be affected by anything, any one, ever. That sort of thing doesn't exist. It never will. I hope it won't. These walls are porous. Things people say, matter. It's strange that people who don't mean much also manage to get away leaving me pricked, if not more. 


I guess it's because I have an image of myself that has been moulded by me over the years. I've gathered what I think of my self, what important people think of me and I've made my inferences. Carl Rogers calls that the 'Ideal Self' and 'Actual Self' concept. I can't always be certain of what I'm made up of. One can never be. We'd be astounded by the amount we're capable of doing, withstanding and tolerating. I can't figure that congruence between the two, but I know some bits of what and who I am.


I am a lot of things and I'm not a lot of things. I have some awareness of what all those are. What I need to figure is to get past all this and walk on. There are too many negatives in this world, as are there positives. I have to, at some point, figure what gets me and what doesn't and why. And as I walk along, I need to refocus and not give a shit about the irrelevant. 

I.just.have.to.stop.caring.


I.have.to.stop.caring.


Stop.caring.


I think that's one of the most peaceful and best ways to practice self-preservation. Not giving a rat's ass unless necessary, is the way to go. My walls will stand as are. The drone of not so relevant comments/information/remarks will always continue. We will always be porous. It's up to us to keep what we want and leave the rest where it deserves to be left - in the trash can. We're always going to be mediocre for some, awesome for some and one of a kind for the rest. We just need to shift the viewfinder and focus better.


Must stop caring, I will.
Refocus, I so sure will.

Those lines

Lines appear.
Crinkles, furrows, squares, zig-zags. And ridges.

Lines deepen. 
Brown, creased and characteristic.


Stories of holding on and letting go are told.
Stories of stories written are read.
Pens, people, paws and palms;
held silently through a steady grip. 


With you pulsating alive, underneath and within.

More shenanigans on 25

The more I face and experience every day, the more I believe in being as selfish as my conscience allows me to be. Every day makes me want to do something about/with it that makes ME feel worth my while. It could be about having that plate of cheese burger and fries from our new stall at work or it could be about walking those extra 5 minutes or it could be about doing nothing or it could be about lying spread-eagle, adrift in whatever takes me away momentarily.


I've been going through a serious existential overhaul as has been evident from my previous posts. This is one such chapter from the same book. When you're in a world that thinks about itself, you can't really be the only moron to stand by and watch the world go by doing its own thing. You've got to pick your self up, figure where to go and then actually go. 


And go I did.


Or rather, going I am.


This overhaul is precisely what it stands for - a phase in which everything you believe in or stand by, crumbles. Literally. And you're left wondering what the hell happened when you weren't really looking. People came, people went, relationships changed, values got questioned, as did a lot more. And it's baffling. Because not only are you astounded by the changes around you and within you, you also wonder whatever happened to everything you've held so dearly on to. 


We spend our life creating ideals of what should and should not be. We are certain of what love should be like, or what dating must be like, or marriage or parenting or whatever have you. Everything is so black and white sometimes. Or with me at least. It's an all or none principle. You're either in love or not, you're either dating or not, you're either friends or not, you're either married or not. There are no 2 ways, or so I thought.


And this is what I mean by the world moving on. Or you getting left behind. Because all of a sudden, there are greys. You can be best friends but break rules you'd sworn by. You can be single but still have the best sex ever. More than twice. You can have options while being in the matrimonial line - dreaming of commitment with one, setting your sex life on fire with the other. I'm astounded by the amount of grey we live in. And it has become so convenient. There are no questions asked, no rules or codes adhered to, no nothing. The world does what it thinks is right to do. Perhaps it's the way we're all wired to be. Me first. Survival of the fittest, he called it. 


So given that we've moved from concrete, stable and awesome blacks and whites to a world of weird, twisted and interesting greys, what more can one do than to literally get off one's ass and move on? 


I'm gonna grab that burger, munch on those fries, chew on my thoughts, lie around doing nothing sometimes, treat people as they deserve to be treated - I'm going to swivel my paintbrush around in these shades of greys, right in between the blacks and whites of my canvas. Because there's really no looking back to something that has ceased to exist. 

More on 25

I've never felt so angst ridden in my entire life than I've been feeling off late. Angst that's buried deep within the furrows of my every day. And I can't seem to pin point why I'm feeling the way I am. 


They say age plays a large role. But what is age without the meaning you give it? Isn't age supposed to just a number that rolls on by, faster than seems normal? Of course. But of course not. We're not sheets of paper or calendar squares, boxed and marked off with every passing day.


There is such a deep rooted introspection that keeps going on, almost as naturally as breathing goes on. Effortless, guiltless, seamless. Whom does one trust. who's been a friend who stood by, who cares, who doesn't care, how much, how little, till when, where till...the list of permutations and combinations is endless. Like I said, they're seamless.


I've been caught in the vortex, and all too suddenly, of what it actually feels like to be an adult. In the big, bad and crazy world. The games people play are astounding. The way life tests you almost shatters the ground you walk on. The way your entire worldview and belief systems sometimes come crashing down on you scar you.


And it just isn't easy. It's not something I ever thought would happen. But it's something we all have to deal with at some point or the other.