Digression Session

As usual, my utterly brilliant thoughts and philosophies drift through the windows of my mind in the five seconds before sleep or the five seconds before the red light changes to green.
It's not that I have become uncreative or suffer from lack of information. My academic pursuits stress on newspaper reading (even if, currently that is restricted to reading Klose's statement about Villa or the latest Sudhish Kamath movie review-always an addiction) and more. I suppose the inner rebel in me baulks at any compulsory reading right now. (this phase probably explains why I end up reading sodium content on the back of Hippo Chips packets and why EAT HIPPO, NO FIGHT. All this and I don't even eat or like chips.)

Bad, bad attitude since that's most certainly not gonna help me through the last and maybe final year of school. Ever.

In all seriousness, I did read a really really good book recently. Less of a book, more of a reliving. It was Wangari Maathai's 'Unbowed', and it has like a lot of other autobiographies, become an inspiration to me. Her immense strength of character and unyielding spirit that enabled her to take on the entire Kenyan government is amazing to read about. Makes me think about how insignificant my own inner ghosts are and how much easier to override. Such a long, long way to go.

Anyway, I digress (just read an email forward on age-related attention deficit disorder which sounded disturbingly familiar). The purpose of this post is to reminisce about my fruitful youth. Ah, the days of totally incomprehensible physics classes where I would sit in the backbench, sketching storyboards and scribbling 'movie' scripts, writing songs for 'musicals' starring my own imaginary star cast (this is the origin of Kingdom of Estarra. More on that later). This was the creative explosion. Years of guitar classes, nights of songwriting (my guitar, Dominic still bears the pen marks), 2 am story inspirations. (I actually miss school days where I could hate the subject and thus, rebel in my own geeky way. What I've been studying since have been purely my decisions and hence I have no choice but to like it. Aargh, the tragedy of getting what you want in life...)

In college, I got lazy. My friends and their lives were highly inspiring in terms of story fodder but I somehow couldn't translate that into fictitional material. What a waste. My only expression was when first-year-college-turbulence showed up in the form of poetry. And that remains my saving grace when it comes to writing even now. Scribbles on the back of my Entrepreneurial Development or Globalisation notebooks (but never EVER during Ethnicity, Culture and IR) . Poetic license abused to the nth point. Romantic, free-flowing verse inspired by the evening (usually cloudy) sky, the fluorescent green, erm, greenery outside. No John Mayer lyrics coming to mind, nothing interesting to sketch. Twenty boring minutes to the bell.

The point of this rambling (yes, there is one!) is an official declaration of my commitment to writerhood. No, not as a recreational activity on this blog during internship (blogging has always been a staple feature of all my internships since they have all been desk-bound) This is the statement: I'm going back to my creativity-fueled fourteen year old self (and only THAT aspect of my fourteen year old self) because creation is the only proof of existence. Truly. And thought-generation doesn't really count. What's the use of these great, fabulous ( I'm assuming) thoughts if they're withering away in the recesses of my mind?

And by writing, I mean consistency. Not this two voluble blog posts in one night thing. Steadfastedness. Regimenal. Creative cardio.

Talk to me!

I recently learnt that I have absolutely SO MUCH to say. My dear friend Jhinks tells me "Talk to me. I want to know about YOU" (and this is saying something. We've been really really close friends for the past 12 years). But by the time I get to the phone, it's silence on my end. I simply recycle old conversations, old pre-concluded ideas. What am I afraid of? Not making sense? Improper sentence construction? Bombing on the punch line?
So that's when I started to realise. That I'm most comfortable with a pen in my hand, a keypad beneath my fingers or a keyboard staring invitingly up at me. But that's not good. I love people. I love the energy that is diffused in the process of human conversation. Hands waving, eyes lighting up, sharing of ideas, using words, words, words. I love words. I know words. The written word is my weapon and unfortunately also my crutch.
During my internship, I met the most fabulous people. People who truly communicate, both with soul and word. My work guide (the coolest mentor in the world, I absolutely adore her) is one person who astounds me with her sheer gift of communicating exactly what I've been feeling for ages. When she talks about world music ('music of the world' as she says, is a better term), I can't help but simply bob my head up and down, eyes round with excitement because I'm in absolute agreement with what she says. The people here are honest and spontaneous. I've never felt so refreshed in a conversation.

I wondered what made me switch to listener mode. Is it my role as love counsellor? Is it my fear of appearing ignorant? The only person who I am the biggest chatterbox is with my mother. And with her, I'm exactly whom I find it difficult to be with: a self-absorbed, non-listening, dominating monologuist (is there a word?) But even then, I am not completely honest. The mental screening still takes place. The opaque bubble is soundproof.Fear of judgement, fear of appearing weak or flawed. Fear of trusting? Fear of revelation, of being exposed to reveal less than I believe I am composed of.

Ah, the futility of fear.

Enough! Conclusion: I'm going to practise the art of conversation. And that means not keeping my phone on silent, not shutting up when group members exceed beyond 2 and basically.....

being myself. The most cliched and yet the most fundamental aspect of being human.

Baby, farewell

If I'm less than sunny, don't mind me. That's just how it is in Estarra. I'm only happy when it rains, etc.
A diary is a diary for a reason. Don't worry. And on a happier note, I am practising to not expect and to live entirely in the moment and not hyperventilate about not getting printouts on time or submission at 1 pm. (Breeeaaathe eaaassy.)

Anyway, now I'm okay. Thoroughly thrilled myself at the stationery shop. I guess what shoes is to normal chicks, I get slack-jawed when I stand before shelves of envelopes, Cello ballpoints, folders, sharpeners, blank CDs and the rest. I probably wanted one measly stick file before I reached the venue. But when I get there, I'm like "Gimmmmmmmmeeeeee!"

Putting the final touches on my final project. The one that has undergone a million changes, a million opinions. The one that has made me cry. The one that has made me a zombie. The one whose umbilical cord I cut tomorrow when I hand it over to the department. It's a magazine and trust me, it is not as easy or as frivolous as the word sounds. It sums up my childhood fantasy (wherein 'Triple Moon', a weekly read was well, unread) and my obsession and collection of Vogue, Femina Girl, The Record, Elle, etc. Yes, it sounds shallow and materialistic. But I have had a lifelong affair with magazines and tomorrow I submit MY VERY OWN magazine.

Wish wish wish wish me luck. But at the end of the day, I'm sending it off into the universe on its own. Not gonna care about opinions anymore. NO SIREE.

Writer's Block Talk

I am now getting some allergy to all kinds of paper. Seriously, this is probably just a manifestation of my laziness but it's happening and I can't seem to shake it off.

I mean, I just can't write anything worthwhile in some notebooks. I end up doodling abstract aliens or sketching cartoonified girls or writing song lyrics all over the pages. So I end up, taking a fresh page each time...only to fill it with more doodles. So not helping the environment.

There are some books I CAN write in. Unfortunately, those happen to be my journals. Which I cannot use for any other purpose.

So I wind up with stacks of half-used notebooks, which ultimately get used as scribbling paper for exam study sessions (I HAVE to write down the points as I 'study') There is no tragedy for a notebook greater than being used as a study scribble pad. I mean, class notes is good. But study scribbles? My deepest apologies to all the notebooks that have ended up thus. It was not intentional.

Well, I can't blame myself either. Maybe the vibe wasn't right. Maybe we just didn't gel. (Oh I feel a bad joke about ball points and gels coming along. SHUT UP. NOW.)

So the actual work I'm supposed to be doing? Not happening, seeing as I'm getting too accustomed to typing. (Maybe that's another excuse for not working because I don't get the computer often enough)

This is not good. I used to be the kid who loved the actual process of writing. I was addicted to it. I used to even fill up fee forms for classmates.

I don't think that's something that can die out so easily.

Have yourself a Merry Christmas

I wanted to talk about something. It was brilliant and enlightening and I conceived of it in those few nano seconds right before you drift off to sleep.

And of course that's where it went.

It's called something, right? That state of mind right before you sleep. Supposedly your creative channel opens up then and you welcome the universe's ideas.

Tricky thing, the channel. It willingly supplies you all those ideas, knowing that you won't remember all that stuff in the morning, try as you might. Or even if you happen to foresee its intentions and lay a notebook and pen by your pillow, you end up scrawling some unintelligible rubbish which you can't decipher or it just sounds way too ridiculous in the daylight.

Well, it's Christmas time. The cubicle which I mostly inhabit (when not wandering about to get circulation in my legs) has been decorated in red and green. Which brings to mind my childhood memories of Christmas, right from the tree to the presents under it and of course the stockings me and my best friend back then, Sandeep used to hang at the foot of the bed. Back then G.I Joes and Relish chocolates were topmost priority on our list.

Of course, the tree got planted outside my window and I think I caught my Mum wrapping the presents. I wasn't as disappointed for myself than for Sandeep. He believed my house was an urban legend for Santa Claus happen to land up only there. (My household has always celebrated the best of all religions)

As time went by, Sandeep drifted away. And my school girl friends and I began having Christmas parties (when we were going through our Disney Princess stage) replete with Bollywood-Kollywood dancing. (Now, that's something that hasn't really changed. The inability to resist a dhinchak song). We exchanged presents and cards and I'm sure we gobbled Mum's lovely cake. (For which I am still in repentance)

Somewhere before that, Christmas used to be visits to St.Thomas Mount (wayyy back when I wasn't the family driver and when my aunt and cousin used to visit). Now that's a beautiful place, as far as I can remember. I'll never be able to shake off the feeling when I gazed at the whole of Madras from the top of the mount. Madras was certainly the most beautiful place on earth.

In the last years of school, I sang along with a youth choir (Soprano, can you believe it? I only croak bass now). Carols by candlelight, choir uniforms, the whole works. Truly Christmasy. I loved being part of it.

Let me get back to trying to recall what it was that was swept away in the current of the Creative Channel (someone put a dam on it) and you have yourself a Merry Christmas!

Time for some whining

No fair.

I want to be Meg Cabot.

I mean, look at her! She churns out a book a month? And I'm sitting here scribbling some ratty confusing nonsense which I get tired of when it turns too autobiographical. She's so glamorous. The closest I get to being glamorous is leafing through Vogue, walking over to my closet and pulling out the same floppy yellow T-shirt (the one which has a picture of a baby chick followed by a picture of a magnet. Yup.) She gets to write stories about princesses and teenage girls and pop culture for a LIVING. She travels all over the place and people CRAVE for her books. A total of 4 people read my blog.

Like I said, no fair. I wanna be THAT.

Okayyy, maybe she was somewhere close to where I am when she was my age. Sigh. Maybe I'll get there someday. Till then, it's quite a relief to lose myself in Mia world . Waaaah, I miss my teens.

I really must quit whining.

Ooh, all you girls (and boys, if you happen to be interested), check out her blog. http://www.megcabot.com/

Oh and another one of my favourite authors. http://www.annbrashares.net/ I really want to create characters the way she does.

Oh wait, a total of THREE people read this blog.

I'm shutting up. Go read.

Growing is a Pain

Something is seriously, very wrong with me.

Puer Aeternus is Latin for eternal boy, used in mythology to designate a child-god who is forever young; psychologically it refers to an older man whose emotional life has remained at an adolescent level, usually coupled with too great a dependence on the mother. The puer typically leads a provisional life, due to the fear of being caught in a situation from which it might not be possible to escape. He covets independence and freedom, chafes at boundaries and limits, and tends to find any restriction intolerable.

The "positive" side of the puer appears as the Divine Child who symbolizes newness, potential for growth, hope for the future. He also foreshadows the hero that he sometimes becomes (e.g. Heracles). The "negative" side is the child-man who refuses to grow up and meet the challenges of life face on, waiting instead for his ship to come in and solve all his problems.
"For the time being one is doing this or that, but whether it is a woman or a job, it is not yet what is really wanted, and there is always the fantasy that sometime in the future the real thing will come about.... The one thing dreaded throughout by such a type of man is to be bound to anything whatsoever."
"Common symptoms of puer psychology are dreams of imprisonment and similar imagery: chains, bars, cages, entrapment, bondage. Life itself...is experienced as a prison."

Okay, is my imagination over active as usual or do I detect a familiarity in the above paragraphs? Am I, the ruler of Estarra, in reality a Peter (or Patricia?) Pan???

Oh no, I don't want to think about it.

But wait! Isn't that a typical tendency? Oh no, oh no!

Should I be psychoanalysed? Am I stuck at some stage that hasn't been resolved yet? Is this why I am the way I am? How come no one's ever realised? How come no one's worried???? I seem to have a problem growing up!!

Let's make a list and see:
Adult tendencies
1. I drive. (okay, okay! But that clearly indicates that I have the ability to be responsible for something that is bigger than myself. Though I still don't know how to check the water coolant and stuff. Sigh. My father's gonna kill me.)

2. I do all my homework and assignments and presentations on time. I submit them first (or I'll panic from paranoia!)

3. I am very bossy when it comes to group projects that I HAVE to do. (Otherwise, I couldn't care less. Hmmm.)

4. I have managed to earn money, much to my surprise-twice as an anchor on Doordarshan. Once as an actor in a educational film. One as an MC's assistant at a friend's event. That's it. That's my job history. So I can survive.

5. I hate partying and get a thrill out of organising and arranging and filing all my belongings. (That is not adult-like. That is just plain WEIRD!)

6. Barack Obama is my idol and 'Dreams from my Father' has been way inspiring. I want to bring positive change to this world somehow. I don't know what I have to offer, I don't know how or what I'm going to do. But I figure the first step should be to sort myself out first!)

7. I think and think and think before spending on myself. (Check me out, digging for reasonably priced files and debating to buy Vogue magazine for a month- I ended up missing the anniversary issue and the next one too. Finally, went crazy and bought the one with Katrina Kaif on it.)

Kid-like tendencies
1. I watch Hannah Montana. I want me and Numbi Jim to be Miley and Lily. (Oh the shame)

2. The maximum I can cook is make Top Ramen. Okay, not even Top Ramen. CUP O NOODLES. (Are you happy??? I am embarrassed!! But I do have a big file of internet downloaded recipes that I plan to make someday...someday...)

3.I fall in love with celebrities and fictional characters. Alright, that's got nothing to do with age (I KNOW that my mum had crushes on Zidane and Dhoni.) But I know something's wrong when most of my friends have decided baby's names and wedding venues (okay, not in that order) while I declare my passionate adoration for Enrique,Hrithik, Darius, Arjun Rampal, Edward Norton, Johnny Depp, Jude Law, and characters like Michael Moscovitz and David (Meg Cabot), Kostos Dounas (Ann Brashares- Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants) and right now downright scintillating vampire boy Edward Cullen (Stephanie Myer) etc (WAIT A MINUTE. They're ALL taken. Waaaaaaaaah!)

4. My favourite movies include 'The Little Mermaid' , 'Anastasia' and 'The Road to El Dorado' and my dream is to buy myself an 'Aladdin' DVD. (Even though I have enjoyed films such as 'Impromptu', 'Blow' and other legends that I cannot recall right now. But I must confess I still cannot bring myself to watch Akira Kurosowa. Sorry, Bunny. Your cultured cinematographer's taste has not rubbed off on me.)

5. I sneak into the library, head for the kids section, grab a 'Princess Diaries' and run before anyone (particularly a kid) sees me. I head for the librarian's counter to issue it and pretend to scan through a copy of Business Today to avoid catching his eye.

6.I begin to fall asleep standing at the discussion or perusal of gold/diamond/silver/platinum jewellery or sari shopping. (Or could this be a sign of tomboyish tendencies? But that doesn't explain my fascination for Vogue magazine spreads? Then again, I just stare at the clothes and photos and don't do anything about it. I guess it's like colour and gloss therapy for me) I tune off and you can bring me back to consciousness only at the mention of hilarious headlines on 'The Tonight Show with Jay Leno'. Or just Jay Leno for that matter. Comedy wins over dress-up anytime.

7. I have no clue what I want to be doing for the rest of my life.

Sigh. Sigmund Freud, leave me be. I'll take a while and you can't do anything about it.

Statement of Purpose

Yeah, so, basically, there was this girl. A girl who didn't like to really refer to herself as a girl. Not because she was a tomboy or gay or a feminist. But because she felt itchy under restrictive terms. And also, because she struggled with the realisation that she was an actual living, breathing individual.

Okay, so there was this female person who wanted to write. And she did write, in her poems, her journal, the margins of her college notebooks, ramblings in her blog incomprehensible and insane to most. She did write. She had written since the age of six, mock publishing stories and series. But she wanted to WRITE write. She wanted to spin the story that lived inside her soul. The narrative of her conscious existence. The urban adolescent story. The life within her life. The story of the decade that she had lived, the story of the decade that she wished to document!

But, somehow, around seven years of that decade that already passed.

I am therefore I think...I hope!

This is intended to be an intellectual blog post, intended for the advancement of my own intellect, which has increasingly been neglected. Except, perhaps for those 5 hours of each day. But drama in college life has become so much larger than the actual purpose! Who can concentrate on media democracy or Marxism when SHE actually SAID THAT and then HE said WHAT and then THEY ALL went WHERE and SAW WHOM.
Omg. Lol lol.
But seriously, I am an intellectual person. With sober thoughts on mankind and society and with....knowledge.
Waaah.
What happened to me?
I used to be the twelve year old kid who could spout info on the entire Mughal Dynasty on our trip to Fatehpur Sikri. Honest. The guide was astounded when I asked him questions about Gauharara. (She was the last daughter of Shah Jahan and her mother Mumtaz Mahal who died while giving birth to her.)
Well, I've been starting to analyse my intellectual deterioration and see if it's really something to worry about. Lemme think. I listen in class. I read the paper. I read..books..when I can. I must admit a fixation with my iTunes. And well, Zoom TV.
Okay, I don't know anything about stock markets. And my knowledge of psychology is pretty much limited to Visual Analysis and Aesthetics class. Which I pay full attention to, by the way.
Sir: See, if you agree with these theories, you're a Freudian philosopher. If you don't agree to these theories....
Class (in unison): ...You're a fraud philosopher!
As you can see, I learn a lot from my classmates. Such as Aeroplane.
Me: What was that stuff sir said about Freud?
Aeroplane: Freud? Who? Pink Freud?

So you can't really blame me for questioning my state of brain. I used to be the quiz-girl, me and Ess used to ace all the quizzes when we got together. Of course he was and always is the encyclopaedia (not dusty and a little more colourful though. He he.) but I wasn't so bad. I think. I hope.

What should I do to change this state of affairs?
-Read the Economic Times? (I left behind commerce in school, which is another century of life. No, no numbers please.)
-Ask Ess to fill my brain with facts. (No, I like talking to Ess about self issues. He puts things in perspective. When his blues and my blah moods collide, they just fade away!)
-Read Leo Tolstoy and Doy-shtov-sky. (Give me Ann Brashares' teenage yet delicate, non soppy prose. Give me Paolo Coelho's simplicity. Mario Puzo, even.)
-Write.

Hmm, that I don't mind. When I write, I feel like I'm capable of thinking. Like I'm alive. It's like when the pen touches paper (Or when my fingertips hit the keyboard), it's like a pinprick or a splash of cold water, waking me up.
Till I can attempt to finish 'Atlas Shrugged', I think this should do.

Lemme think

There's thinking. And then there's thinking. And then there's really thinking. And then there's not thinking. And that's when you strike gold.
Trust me. I have observed the creative process (atleast for a writer) and have discovered that it's not so much thinking as waiting for the lightning strike. But it doesn't involve conscious waiting. You have to trick your mind into preparing its landing site and then let it wander around. pretending as if it has everything else to do but wait.
So here's how it goes.
You attempt a sort of reading up or research. You find all that there is to know, or all that you want to know. You do a google search, a wiki search, whatever.
All hyper activity ends here.
Then you get up, feeling busy and as if you've accomplished something. You take a coffee break, you go talk to someone who is in the same boat and if not, distract them into chatter.
You go back to your chair and your computer. You open a blank Word document. You type a word-precisely, slowly, momentously. Maybe a whole sentence. You smile at your accomplishment.
You put your feet up and gaze thoughtfully at your screen. You delete the whole sentence.
You stare at your notebook and hastily turn back the pages (filled with drawings from the Pictionary game last evening). You scribble whatever comes to your head about the topic at hand.
That's when the doodling starts. And it doesn't stop. It is addictive. Triangles, flowers, stars, girls,but mostly abstract designs spill out of the tip of your pen. They meander past the margins of the page, flee the borders and occupy certain stage. Somehow, drawing a triangle-based. upward-bound, chaotic design becomes your purpose of existence for that moment. Then it hits you that it's not. That's when you put down your pen and look guiltily around you. No one saw that. And no one cares. (doodling is a ubiquitous crime) As if to compensate, you scribble two lines of your favourite song diagonally across the top of your page.
This is when you close your notebook with a flourish, you toss it aside and stride out of there. You go play Pictionary (which I've developed an addiction for in the past few days. Not so much for the drawing, but for the guessing.) And then you eat!
Then you come back. sleepy and lethargic. You stare at the screen. You pick up your pen.
And then it happens.
And you can't stop.
And nothing else matters-not the song that you particularly hate playing in the background, not the clamour of numerous voices colliding around you, not the fact that you're thirsty or have to go to the bathroom.
And then it ends.
You smile. The endorphins, the satiation you feel is incomparable.
And then you go play.
Before it all begins again.

To all you writers out there

I apologise for the delay (No, no it's not "too late to apologise!")..have had a lot to think about but not enough to write down I suppose.
I wonder about my writing. Do I write when the cup is full and on the verge of overflowing? But there have been cases when either I have been a depressing phase and have not wanted to record it. There have also been times of extreme hectic happiness and 'busy-ness' that I have not had time to write it all down, so it has merely been retained in the journal of my memory.
All you bloggers out there, tell me!! What causes you to write? What is that one spark, that one push that drives you to spill? What is that one thing that causes you to make a permanent record of a private thought?