"The World's My Stage"

Perhaps the gravity of the situation has not hit me yet. Here I am, poised in front of this wide white screen with rows of words forming its centrepiece. Words of pressing importance, words that must be ingested and later regurgitated upon less white sheets of paper. This night is like any other night. But this night involves studying for possibly the last college-level, instutionalised exam I might ever write.

I was always inclined to place exams and academics as top priority. Whether it was because of the rigorous competitive education I had in school, or my parents' emphasis on excellence in whatever you do, especially studies. Or maybe it's just because I live in India and especially Madras. It's just that I've gotten used to studying for so long (12 school years + 5 years of college) that I can't imagine putting anything else on top of that list. Health and fitness takes a backseat during exams (as my recent rapid consumption of fiery, poky tapioca chips confirms). I've taken a break from my beloved gym for almost three weeks, provoking admonishing messages from my gym-mate and self-proclaimed trainer/health advisor. I've cut off from friends for the longest time, becoming invisible and unreachable to them even in moments of crisis. Bad friend, me, bad.

And now I'm on the brink of the literally unknown. I faced this moment before, before I commenced to study again. But now there's not much left I want to study in this city, in terms of college enrollment and hitting books, writing tests-that kind of study. I've experienced the best of Chennai academic life. And I'm pretty sure I want to break free for a while. Not be tied down by schedules (oh, but I do want to work), not have to quit extracurriculars or health priorities because I find something else more all-important and stress-inducing.

I have enjoyed studying. I would like to do it again. But I'd like to see what it's like to have new priorities and even let the older ones, pushed to the backburner, take centrestage again.

(Title courtesy: K)

This room's too small for me

I am thrashing, twisting, stretching but thoroughly immersing myself into North Africa. My research is about the conflict in Western Sahara, so it's mostly Morocco but I'm pretty much soaking up the region-text, music, pictures, videos are not enough.

My back aches as I sit, chained and glued to the computer, my eyes glazing over as I attempt to sift through thirty-six years of a dispute that involves so many people and so much politics. I attempt to make sense of the words that seem so simple on paper but translate to so much complexity when it comes to peoples and nations.

This is a region I am drawn to for reasons so many that I don't bother to enumerate them. People find it intriguing that being in India, I am so obsessed with Raï music and why I would choose a topic like this, so irrelevant in this part of the world and so much less contributive to South Asian International Relations, which desperately needs theorisation as it is. With the recent Jasmine Revolution, Tunisia, Egypt and now Libya, the relevance of North Africa cannot be overrated. Authoritarianism in the region that straddles the Middle East and Africa was a ticking bomb.

How can I explain what I feel when I see a black and white patterned wall motif that instantly transports me to some Moroccan monument? Or how even the names of controversial personalities and tortured places sound so lyrical- Houari Boumedienne, El Ouali Mustapha Sayed, Marrakech, Smara, Saguia el-Hamra, Rabat, and of course, Ma' al-'Aynayn, the almost mythical leader of the "Blue Men" (PLEASE read 'Desert by J.M.G. Clézio) And how can I even BEGIN to explain how I feel nestled within the notes of a Rachid Taha song, how I can surround myself with the dreamy notes of 'Valencia' and put myself to sleep, the language clashing with the city, state, subcontinent I am from and yet feeling so at home, nurtured and loved?

I look away from the computer, step outside my swirling thoughts of rising desert sands, of midnight bonfires with flames swaying to the sound of Mariem Hassan's voice and accompanying guitar, of The Alchemist shrouded in black astride his horse as he gallops up to the seeking Santiago, mystery in his apperance and pure wisdom in his eyes, of Moroccan palaces with ornate details ceiling to floor, speaking of grace and beauty made by mortal humans with divine art in their hands, of Cheb Khaled singing the Maoual to 'Hada Raykoum' and enchanting with his soaring voice, of Rachid Taha's rampaging 'Barra Barra' beats and Cheb Mami's wistful 'Khalouni'. I look down at the tiny room, the papers strewn around, the books and feel my soul resize itself. But sometimes, I let it transcend the physical and let myself live the dream. I get up on my bed, grab my invisible mic and sing, to the minarets and to the desert, to the sea and to the palace, to crowds of adoring fans, in a language I cannot speak.

...And then life gives you a break

So after a long, therapeutic, post-midnight conversation with my positive conscience (A.K.A. Jhinks) I regained a fresh perspective on what this studying process actually means to me. She gave me pointers on what I'd forgotten-doing something for the love of it. And she's the right person to do so because the real reason I'm doing this course and enjoying a second chance at collegehood and knowledge-acquisition is the fact that she told me to accompany her to admissions last year and then overslept, thus making me go on my own and buying an application I didn't intend to. The story is longer and funnier but does not really belong here at this moment. Let's catalogue that under LIFE'S SECRET SMILES or GOING WITH THE FLOW. Or maybe just DESTINY.

Anyway, so Jhinks told me that it was absaaloootellyyyy (that sounds more like me) okayyyy to spend three hours on a page..just as long as I committed myself to every word on that page. Sai Baba, my Mum and others have all extolled on putting your best into what you're supposed to do at that moment. And also, God helps those who help themselves. I've always been all for that (as it distracts me from the looming questions) But I guess I needed a reminder. And last night, in that semi-conscious, giggly state that comes from sleep deprivation and a long rollercoaster conversation with your best friend since you were ten, I was coached into no more stress, no more million distractions (How I Met Your Mother, iTunes, or Diwali get togethers) only steely, slow, steady, studious state of mindedness (AhAA!)

And then I wake up, all set to delve into neutrality and the laws of warfare (after being distracted by Obama's rather fulfilling session with St. Xavier's students in Mumbai. "India has risen"-that should bury yesterday's disappointment. Whatever it is, I felt redeemed watching the interaction) and hello, Cyclone Jal (a creative name or what?) is heading our way. I go check my abandoned phone and find a barrage of missed calls and expectant messages. Holiday or not? Exam postponed or what? An hour later, we were sure. It's kinda like a damp, chilly Diwali present.

So I'm taking a few hours off to myself. Gotta clear out the week's worth of empty water bottles from this room, wipe the smudgy spectactles with my special lint-free blue cloth, burn a CD of funny songs (Action Replayy! Stupid and hilarious! Just the way I love it. Akshay Kumar is classically comical and it's nice to see Aishwarya Rai-Bachchan act goofy) and then get back to focusedness.

Aaaaaaaaah!

No, I'm not at the dentist's. That is just mine and Numbi Jim's (and probably a lot of you out there) way of expressing outmost internal chaos/excitement/adrenalineness. I will be using the emotion a lot in the following text so those prone to incurable irritability and other disorders, reading is not recommended:

So much has been happening, so please excuse me for not writing. While most of it must be academic/freelance work-related/a consequence of October birthdays, I think my reluctance or laziness to write has been primarily because of much too much self-analysis, life lessons and policy formulation. I've been wondering how much of all these fragmented thoughts are worth documenting and how much of it is embarrassing/silly/unoriginal but hey, this blog's seen worse. And I am just post-recovery of 'Eat Pray Love' (Aaaaaah! the book! the book! ONLY the book!) and I feel like giving Elizabeth Gilbert a huge hug for being who she is and talking the way she does. (These days I seem to be finding a lot of female role models and sources of inspiration) So let me freewheel here.

K is gonna be here! Here! Aaaaaaaah! Okay, in two months and for barely ten days but still! I am so proud of that crazy smart savvy loony who's ruling London city while being so true to himself. I can't believe it's going to be almost one and a half years since I saw him, kicked him and laughed till I cried with him last. I am a bit worried that things could have changed. But like someone said, (I think it was Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan in 'You Are Here'), if everyone changes at the same time then somehow everything will stay the same. You know? We do our little turns simultaneously and end up at 360. Hopefully. We all love that old friend who knows us so scarily well-the shiny, the beige and the hideously fluorescent yellow. We crave their company for understanding without explanations. And yet, we want to show them our newness, to comment on our new wardrobe additions, our new analyses of life and growing up, our new crushes (which are ohhhh-so-different from our old ones. Note: Being sarcastic here). We want them to say those same old phrases in these completely new situations. Maybe we should just ditch the cardboard cutout we've been carrying around in their absence and welcome a new friend whom you have the privilege of not needing to impress.

So, that's been on my mind for quite some time. Sometimes it's easier to deal with the cardboard cutouts. They say what you want them to say. And they're always by your side on the long lonely drives.

Aaaaaaaah! Scratch that! I want the real thing!

But have I changed a lot in the past year? I've gone back to my childhood self-dependency. I've unexpectedly found a group of seriously talented, intelligent and unabashedly childlike funny girls at school. I've become more participatory (that's the best way I can describe it). I've learnt old lessons in a more permanent form. And I think I'm finally learning that trying to achieve a daily state of jubilation is not as helpful as a good dose of calmness.

Anyway, back to reality: let's talk about 'Ugly Betty'. (see how real I can get?). The series finale just aired here today. And I am finding it so hard to let go of Betty, Marc, Amanda, Hilda, etc. Even though it ended so hurriedly and unjustifiably. Aaaaaaaa(rg)h.

As my dear friend V said, I tend to blog during my exams. Unfortunately that's the case. I guess I have a persecution complex. I don't mean in the real sense. I just tend to get down to things when I'm pursued. In this case, the looming reality of exams beginning on Wednesday. Yes, this sem is almost done (and then I have only one more! Aaaaaaaah!) and I will have to bid farewell to two of my most favourite subjects in this course: American Foreign Policy (Sniff. Nixon) and Ethnicity, Culture and International Relations (Identity crises. Just what I love) My postponement from the real world is ending and a draft notice has been sent. But somehow, I'm less paranoid than last time. Despite my favourite stationery store's owner questioning me about lack of commitment to advertising (or anything in particular) while I indulged myself in some Reynold's 045 pens (they are seriously awesome. Especially the purple one). I hope none of my teachers, friends' parents, future spouses (spice?) and employers (I think it should be in reverse order) are reading this. In my defense, I need more time. I am quite a Jill of a Few Trades now. I know that I can be quite a workaholic but the problem is, I can be a workaholic in something I'm not even passionate about. So I don't want to cheat myself. Nevertheless, let us wait till April till we open this particular can of worms. Allow me my second teenagehood-where TV shows ending are the biggest tragedies.

Ahh.

And a sigh of relief can be breathed

Exams are done. For the moment. Okay, they were hardly exams but considering the last minute chaotic cramming that took place, their presence is not missed. Hence for that reason they have been accorded exam status. It's sad because thanks to the little studying I did, I learnt that the subjects this sem are pretty interesting and deserve more attention. Oh except for three out of six. Nevertheless, I shall study a little everyday and read up and become more worldy-wise. Let's see.
And life begins again. Not that it was much interrupted. I worked out more during exams than I do normally. I watched a movie in the theatre (review to follow shortly) after a surprisingly long gap of three weeks. I emailed a lot. I worked quite a bit. And I didn't sleep.
Which brings me back to my suddenly hectic life. I'm thoroughly enjoying the smoothly chaotic flow and the prospects of productivity it's bringing. For the first time, I'm saying yes more and postponing thinking-in the best possible sense of the term. And my recent quest for a cause seems to be fulfilled as I'm attending a social-political awareness workshop this weekend. Trepidation is normally my characteristic feeling before commiting to any single thing but this time I'm practising to STOP STRESSING ABOUT THE POSSIBILITY OF STRESS.
Flow and not resist.

Timothy where you been

I had a very profound and revolutionary insight into the concept of nationalism last night. I visualised myself being the only person to go into my HOD's office and finally 'do more than just attend class and beg to be let off early...take initiative!" I would passionately deplore the current state of international relations. Countries falling apart for want of nations, Indian states breaking down further for communities. There should be a cry to the creation of more multi-ethnic, multi-religious societies, with me as a poster girl. And I knew exactly what the solution was. I would save the world.
Of course, all this happened during REM. So, naturally, I remember nothing today.
I am hovering mid air, in the midst of a lot of words such as 'collective defense' and 'national interest'. A lot of other peoples' opinions on things I am just hearing about. The first step is to know what happened before digesting someone's articulate (read: unintelligible) take on the possibility of mutually assured destruction. Somehow, that's not the order in which we're doing this. And I'm feeling a little over-informed while at the same time clueless. Way to save the world.
So, the song of the moment is Timbaland's 'Timothy where you been'. For its pace. For Timbaland's rhythmic vocals. For its nonchalant vibe. For floating over me like everything else.

Heroes, hope and an education

As one of my dear friends (Ess it was) said, I tend to write most of my blog posts during exam season.

I can't help it. When I'm studying Development Communication, I want to be Bono or president. When I'm studying Visual Analysis and Aesthetics, I'm Freud or Saussure. (Definitely NOT Althusser!) Problem is, it's like being age ten all over again... I want a different career each day of the week! I thought twenty was when you made up your mind.

Hmmm. So that's the plan for now. Let multiple pursuits replace indecision. But the general aim is to contribute to the world. I want to do some good.

Oh, did I mention the newest idol on Estarra's pedestal? It's Obama. He has certainly changed the face of international politics and to use his own phrase (or atleast one that's attributed to him), he has given us the chance to believe in the "audacity of hope". Seriously. I'm not so familiar with his policies and stuff, but generally as a human being, he comes across as dignified and focused. He's come up without being heir to vast fortunes, being half-Black and using brain over fake talk. (Man, my blood boiled when Arnold Schwarzenegger passed such pathetic comments about Obama's lack of muscle.)

I don't want to make a fool out of myself by attempting to talk global politics ( ha, ha, ha) but all I can say is that I really want him to win!

That's one problem with looking up to someone. You're hoping against hope that they're as perfect as they appear to be, hoping for that hero who stands for believing in your dreams to rise up and restore light to life. Anyway, let's look up to him while it lasts. Let me have a symbol of the light at the end of some kind of tunnel. Let me have my reason to climb out of adolescent messes and general confusion. There's so much more to life and it's good to be reminded by a man whose name is one letter away from that of an international terrorist, yet might just become the leader of the free world.

So, that's the general situation for now. Oh and I'm studying about defence mechanisms. I think sublimation (the transformation of negative and unpleasant feelings into something positive as a way to control instincts, to protect the ego and to release tension) might just be my favourite type of defence mechanism. I may not always get it spot on. But I try.

See you on the other side of Election Day!

Channelising happy thoughts while plunging into Marxism

When things get me Grrr Aaargh Sheesh Ughh , I try to concentrate on the things that make me go mmmm.
Let's see. Right now, in the midst of Althusser's Ideology (he murdered his wife and spent the rest of his life in asylum. And we're studying him. Right.) and gathering knowledge on the Marxist media theory, I'm trying to enjoy the pure education process. It's nice to learn stuff. Even though you're dreaming of pizza while watching VH1.
FOCUS!
So...where was I? Yes, what's getting me all flustered. I don't know. General snappiness and irritation with all those around. Except Butterfly, whom I'm sending Low Millions songs to and generally cracking up on how our mock-pronunciations are turning into actual pronunciations. It's karma paying back for mimicking the hilariously adorable Tamil accent.
Yeah, Butterfly. I really have missed her. She was the muse behind the whole post about girlfriends being the best in the not soooo distant past. Whatever happened in between happened. All that matters between me and her IS me and her. And how can you not be friends with someone whom you have watched 'Cries and Whispers' with? I tell you, that movie is PURE AGONY. And we survived it. TWICE.
So, back to snappiness. Let's deviate from it...
Let's think of Amelie and living in her world.
Let's think of gorgeous Vogue magazine and Elle also.
Let's think of autumn leaves, red and gold (like Imp describes Sweden right now. Okay. I'm NOT going to talk about that lucky idiot genius fellow.) But let's think of the leaves, drifting in that perfect chilly breeze as you hug your jacket close to yourself and shiver in pure enjoyment.
Let's think of cities of blinding lights. Ah, Paris.
Adam Cohen's voice. Sigh!
Gregorian chants. Deep. Spiritual. Relaxation.
Numbi Jim's birthday day after. I can't believe that brat is going to be 20.
My real life idol and his coolness!

Will add more. Too destressed to write right now. Moreover, Althusser beckons. (Oh no.)

Lazy Don't Save Me

It's all cloudy. I'm picturing a desolate beach(the white sand variety) under green palms( do those exist?) swaying under a tempestuous breeze to the sound of the waves.
According to K, I shall find this in Kerala. In all probability, yes. But I'm highly sceptical owing to my memory of the place my Mum dragged me to 3 years ago. It was hot and we spent all the time temple-hopping (which was not as bad as I thought it would be. Except for the time I stepped into fresh cowdung and had to wipe it off with newspapers and grass. Repeat after finicky-me, EW.)
So, well, basically I never got to experience desolate beaches of any kind, kathakali dances, boathouses (though we did get to boat on the Vembanad Lake) or those other 'God's own country' things which I drool over in travel advertising features. It was a learning experience, though and made me realise how much of a city slicker I am. It didn't manage to make me to feel any connection with my so-called Malayali blood (does it exist if you don't believe its existence?) But it was good. Remind me to tell you about it, some other, more proactive time.
Well, I hope I encounter some of those dreamy imageries when we go on our class excursion at the end of this month. (It aches to think Naveen won't be there with us. It's so strange how life has to move on. Sigh.)
Back to my dreamy state of existence. It's a lazy Saturday afternoon, almost Sunday-like, but only with a vague expectation of activity. I wonder if I will ever get up to it. Have been dreaming of long TV hours with a mug of cold coffee (No one makes the way I LOVE it like Mum does)
Have an exam on Monday-Mass Communication Theories. (Honestly, it's more interesting than it sounds). Got a pile of notes to rifle through. But all I want to do is dream of picture-postcard beach and listen to the alt songs under the playlist I titled 'Moments' in my iTunes. Listening to Rabbi's new album now. Nowhere as great as his debut album, but appropriate for my current mood.
Oh, did I tell you about the Strings concert I went for last Saturday? It was absolutely beautiful. Sure, Parikrama was great ( I especially loved their own comp 'Am I Dreaming?'. Man I wish I could get my hands on that song) but when Strings came on, they brought such a precious, positive energy to the atmosphere. I totally lost myself there. The music, the lyrics, the melody and the sweetness in their performance. Just thinking about it makes me smile. I've always been in love with their songs 'Sirkiye yeh pahar' and 'Anjaane' (have mentioned the lyrics in my previous blog post of favourite lyrics) but their new one 'Koi Aaney Wala Hai' is adorable as well. I love the lyrics. It's about expecting an angel. And they depict that in the video too, with John Abraham as an angel. Ha ha ha. But I prefer imagining it in my own way. Bilal (oh he's so cute!) and Faisal(oh he's so sweet!) are angels enough.
Well, I'm going off for now before I ramble any further. This has been a long, aimless one-sided conversation (oh God!! That reminds me of the criticisms of the dominant paradigm of Development Communication. Don't. Even. Go. There. My exam's over today and I don't wanna think about it all over again. Though it is highly interesting...google it if you're interested. I taught 4 different people about it, including myself and my mandatory student, J.)
OK. BYE FOR NOW. (Someone gag me!)

Father and Baby Penguin

Mothers possess a natural instinct to hold or hover over their children, while fathers are relegated or relegate themselves to the background, confused about baby’s needs but more unconvinced of their capabilities to care. They surrender to the ‘superior’ parent.
On working on a poster for Father’s Day, I ruminated and scribbled down the endless possibilities of salutation to fatherhood. “The man whom you will always look up to no matter how tall you are” or “The person who taught you to be a man but to whom you’ll always be a baby” (Hallmark, hire me!) That is there, but in general, fathers are expected to be sought for intellectual and financial advice, but for the hugs and the whining-go to Mum!
Not always true. I’ll never forget the time when my 10th Board results were out. I’d done well but I hadn’t gotten the marks I deserved in Social Studies. I had been topping that subject the entire year and it was my favourite. I had worked hard and I knew I deserved much more. Of course, I told myself it was no big deal and I had to be mature about it. But I sank down on a chair beside my father while he was getting ready for work and it was on his shoulder that I lay my head, letting the tears spill. He may or may not have known that I was crying and neither would he have known what exactly for but he patted my head all the same. And with neither of us exchanging a word, all my disappointment melted away.
Recently, I have developed a keen interest in watching fathers from all walks of life interact with their children, particularly babies. The way they lean them across their shoulder or carry them on their chest catches me as one of the tenderest sights. Big men rendered vulnerable because of the small weight in their arms that is breathing into their shoulder, utterly dependent upon them.
The cutest thing that I saw recently was on the Pondicherry beach. The beach there is a narrow strip of sand between the pavement and the rocks. This father, dressed in formals was walking with his chubby toddler, fully clad in his pajamas. The little wanderer set forth on the sand, waddling like a midget penguin. The father hovered protectively overhead, encouraging the tiny steps. Whenever the toddler recognized he was about to fall, he stretched his short little arms out and placed them on the sand, attempting a rather perfect mountain pose. His father stepped in front of him and awaited the resurrection patiently. Our little man got back to his feet and resumed his march, Dad reveling in his offspring’s achievement as if it were his own.
Finally after about twenty minutes of trotting back and forth, the father picked up his little treasure and hoisted him up to the sky. And then they jogged a bit, the baby’s hands outstretched to the wind, together celebrating their glorious little world.
I’ll never know the name of the father or his little boy but I feel so privileged to have been witness to their tender moment. The boy will grow up; the father may not have as much energy to run after him. They might forget about their adventure on the beach. But I most definitely won’t.