"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.

It's that time of the year again

Transition phase. That's what I've come to label it. Though it shouldn't be labelled. Itchy feet, wandering mind. Shouldn't be labelled.


The trees are shedding. Walking from the gym one night, I chanced upon my parked car to find it sprinkled in the fairy magic of showering lilac/white flowers. It was magical, beautiful. I felt chosen.


The sun's getting stronger, brighter, assertive, grabbing at me through windows, doors, whenever, wherever. Making its presence felt.


Most of all, the college. Any college. Or school. The place instinctively knows that times are a-changing. People are a-changing. Trees shedding their leaves, people shedding their skins. Their distracted gazes stare straight through the distracted gazes of others and at places beyond, people who they are going to be or not. They have things to do (dissertations in this case) but they Stop and Stare, as if momentarily frozen in the searing sun. Conversations slow down, the mind's whirrings slow down to a squeaky rotation and afternoon naps are the most prized possessions of the day.

For me, this is the season Enrique becomes prominent on my playlist, despite friends' (those jealous boys) shrieking protests of his "popness" (among other things). It's a summer ritual since I was 13 and a very important half, since I first fell in love with the Spanish singer and Spanish in general and those happy songs made me Escape (excluding 'Hero' which I never really liked) and have eased me into the path of transition. From middle school to high school and the hugest, most painful crush ever. From high school ending to joining my gym and then the most transformative of places, college where I learnt what it is like to fall in love with a place. And now, from my possibly finalmost time at college to life and for the first time, Free Fallin' into the unknown, for the first time unafraid.

The adulation for Obama's nation (Sorry, Kanye)

The three-syllable proper noun is being chanted every couple of nano seconds on consecutive news channels as part of a flurry of commentary in English and every single Indian language. And in my father's room, there is a lot of channel flipping. So it's 'bamobamaobamaobama' 24/7 with opinions on the shaky airplane ladder to his 'महत्त्वपूर्ण' (important) words signed at the 26/11 memorial to a literal memorisation of his itinerary for today.

Not that I would really mind. I was a fan, still am and am reluctant to give it up. But being a student of IR, I am supposed to be objective and reasoning. Not non-commital on the aid to Pakistan deal. Being a citizen of India, I am supposed to be patriotic. Furious at "insourcing". He is the president of the USA after all. We aren't supposed to expect him to shine his benevolent, leader-of-the-free-world grace upon us. We know the NSS drill-geostrategic, geoeconomic, geopolitical that are consistent of US foreign policy. We know he's been wary of the surge of India and China and our impact on US jobs. My homeland's just started seeing economic success and we don't really want to give that up. Yet we are all fans. We want this hero to be universal, unconstrained by national jurisdiction and commitments and a house divided. Why does he feel like "our guy"? Cause he quotes Nehru and the Mahatma? Cause he spent some time in Indonesia as a kid and his sister's half-Indonesian? Cause he's brown? Cause he's a realisation of the American dream? Wait a second, why do we have an American dream? Let's skip that. We all still measure success in dollars and we can't really help it. We like the American political system, we followed Obama's election more closely than Dr. Singh's. We know Joe Biden better than our own vice-president, what's his name? Her name? (Shri M. Hamid Ansari, thank you, Google) Let's face it. Indian politics is a mess and it's uncool. Why, even American politics wasn't as glam when Bush was around. Obama brought his charm, his oratorical skills, his ideals and wife and made us dream in red, white and blue again. Can we help it? We're only human.

I'm still a fan, still want a hero and am still not about to let go of the voice that enriched my thought process through 'Dreams From My Father', the opinions that aided my answer papers in college. So let me have my illusions a little while longer. Let me imagine this American leader belongs to all of us and we can all catch a bit of stardust.

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.

Inspired!

I have a new addiction. No, don't be misled by the above picture (that's a weakness, not an addiction) And unlike my last year's fix (*cough cough* people.com), this one doesn't make me ashamed to declare it.

It's Garance Doré!


Maybe I'm one of the last people to catch up on this deliciously delightful photoblogger but over the past few days, I've been hooked to her stunning pictures of amazing people, bright as sunshine writing and generally fabulous vibe.


Forget that I am in the throes of wrestling with my dissertation proposal, a couple of tons of freelance work, myriad college stuff and haven't seen the gym in three days (I need my cardio fix!) Forget that the girls Garance captures through her covetable lenseye are uniformly lithe and of the sparkling skin, vivid hair variety. Forget that I need a midnight bath. Forget that she's in Australia, Paris, London, Corsica (Corsica! New place on destination wishlist). Forget that I am in my minuscle computer room, listening to the mind-numbing 'Stop' by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and struggling with the adorable paperclip that Belle got me from the U.S. It's shaped like a thumbs-up but it doesn't exactly hold together my Yahia H.Zoubir's article on the stalemate in Western Sahara.


I just mentioned Middle East Policy Journal and Garance Doré in the same paragraph. That's probably a first.


So, what I'm trying to say is that as of this week I have learnt that even if you think you're drowning, laugh like a maniac and admire the pretty scales of fish. Chances are you'll stay afloat, swimming slowly but surely to the shore. And you would have contributed one less negative vibe to the Universe.


Too new-agey? Sorry, I'm reading 'The Power'.


So, thanks to Garance, I am going to resume proper picture taking and living life outside the little boxes of my to do list. There's no bigger thrill right now than drawing thick black tick marks next to each item but the weeks are just flying by and I should be giving out more hugs, bursting forth with more laughs and indulging in some good TV.

Which is why I took a break and watched what I could of the VMA's.

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.

Even small fish in small ponds have to swim fast

The past few days (and next few more) have been a flurry of activities and also thoughts about activities. I love my life like this. No time to breathe or think. But I think it's time I put sleep back on the priority list. The lack of it does me no good in Entrepreneurial Development class.

One sigh of relief can be breathed: the 'Fresher's Party' is over and successful (my definition: people participated, got entertained and were fed. Oh we were within budget! I'm not such a hopeless accountant after all). The song went fine and in the video, I don't look as clowny as I thought I did and don't sound toooo terribly awful, if I say so myself. My first duty as Class Rep is done and all thanks to improvisations and makeshift arrangements by my fellow, er, fellows. A big shout out to all 26 of you. I really love you all.

Next. Very enthusiastically, my hand shot up in the air last week for more assignments than I remember. So, tomorrow I will be doing a presentation on US dominance and Revolution in Military Affairs. And though I'm having to sort through a MOUNTAIN of information, I'm actually enjoying it. I always did like talk of power. Word of the day: psychotechnology.
As if that weren't enough, my thirst for movies doesn't abate during times of hecticness. Watched 'A Serious Man' last night. At first, my reaction was of extreme discomfort (I loved the beginning bit with the Polish couple and the dybukk) because I dislike watching central characters have their lives fall apart as they watch on helpless (personal fears about lack of assertiveness, maybe?) I began to appreciate the story's progression, the dark humour (especially the Rabbis) and just when I got hooked back into the film, the end completely repulsed me. I guess I'm still looking for the next 'Inception' (it's been less than a week; must be patient) to blow me away.
Yeah, so I'm going to see 'Udaan' today. An Anurag Kashyap production, it's earning rave reviews. Bunny wants to see it bad. And well, it's a coming of age story. But hello! All coming of age stories are about boys. The only one that I've seen featuring a female lead was 'Thirteen'. And I didn't come of age that way so erm, not so relateable. Guess I'm going to have to make my own ode to the girls of Generation X. Before we grow so old that I forget.

And also! It's Jhinker's birthday tomorrow (we're one month apart) and I have to do something special. Instead, I was highly crabby (had a sore throat and sleep deprivation) with her on the phone last night and I feel horrible about it. God, please make me a better human being. Atleast for tomorrow.

And lastly, the picture above is dedicated to all the illustrious members of the Therapy playlist on my iTunes. In particular, Bif Naked ('Rich and Filthy'), Scissor Sisters ('Take Your Mama Out'), Coldplay ('Life in Technicolour II'), The Belle Stars ('Iko Iko' from 'The Hangover' soundtrack), good old JT ('LoveStoned/I Think She Knows') and of course, Beck ('Loser' and for just being Beck).

Because you get me through. Because you make me happy.

Take me, I'm your leader

Mass conspiracies are doomed to backfire. Why? The masses seldom cooperate so uniformly that the master plan comes into effect. Case in point: my unexpected election as class representative of what could be my final year in school.
The plan was thus: force the two least school spirited candidates into authority, a role that no one else wanted. This is where collaboration worked. We cheered and with a show of hands deemed our two saviours the class rep and assistant class rep. I was part of this spectacle, I must admit. I even suggested an unofficial swearing-in ceremony. This event did not take place but had it taken place, things might have been different.
Little did I realise that a reverse coup was in the formative stage. The official Union reps came around to conduct the election and our candidate for assistant class rep quietly backed out. I had ready objections in place but they were drowned out by the former regime's insistence in my capabilities. Silenced by the former president (whom I respect immensely), I prepared to engineer a little revolt. I encouraged vote manipulation around me. But nevertheless, it failed. I am thus, the new class rep.

Perhaps in my heart I still felt loyal to my old college. Protective of my identity as a graduate of the supposed # 1 college in India, protective of the seemingly less restrictive student life I enjoyed then, possessive of the 'coolest' course I could find in Madras city. I don't know. I had been feeling reluctant to let go, despite it being a year since graduation.

Today was the investiture ceremony. My new college takes these things seriously. Class reps get a badge (at my previous college, all you got was a million responsibilities such as organising major media events, loss of sleep and perhaps some clout with the heavyweight that is the Union). My co-rep and I chuckled to ourselves about our own cluelessness (we had missed the class rep orientation and quite a few other announcements) but were kindly guided to our seats and roles by the responsible others. It's going okay.

I'm not a bad class rep. I love running up and down the stairs to pass on messages. It's a welcome distraction. I always did stand up on the chair to fix the projector screen (seeing as I'm the tallest in class). I cart around equipment. I get photocopies. My own notes get photocopied. And it's not like I have to do all that much. The previous rep is incredibly helpful and so is my assistant. The profs are great. The class is supportive and I'm growing to love each one of these girls. They are so my type. Girls but so ungirly, which was one thing I'd dreaded leaving a mostly all-boys college. Most of all, this is the first time I've encountered such a large bunch of class clowns in one year.

I may not learn the words to the college song (sung every Tuesday) but I can pretend to mouth them. I still resolutely refuse to wear sari (which most proud students do at any given occasion) but I can oblige with a dupatta over my kurta and jeans. (Oh wait, scratch that. It's way too hot).I think the point of this whole unexpected duty was to create a bond between the college and I.

Aïcha

Here's to a song that has not changed my life. A song that has not opened my eyes. A song that has not been an inspiration.

But a song that speaks to me because it is so much part of me.

I was probably in school when I heard it for the first time. This was much after its original recording. The singer's vocal adeptness and the passion in his voice captivated me (as it still does). I had no idea what he was singing about. I did not know French at the time. The song to me then was a getting-over-a-crush song, a moving-on-in-life song, an empowering yet understated musical experience in its compactness.
By coincidence, I saw a video by a Danish cross-cultural band named Outlandish (I love this band, more on that later). The same song, similar feeling. Isam Bachiri (I love this gentleman) sang in my language but that was not what hit me. Outlandish seemed to absorb the very same thing I did from the song.
First year of college. Naive and eccentric, I auditioned for my department's rock band. I didn't listen to the Red Hot Chilli Peppers. I listened to Algerian-French rai and other things no one had heard of or cared about. I was eighteen years old and yet to understand the relationship I share with music (a scale of upliftment, therapy and catharsis) but I knew honesty to myself even then. So I sang this song. I got in.

'Ragging' in the 'Fresher's Party'. My punishment was not all that humiliating. I was called to sing in front of 200-odd unfamiliar faces, unfriendly acquaintances, semi-friendly freshers, teachers and rowdy seniors. Same song. The noisy crowd grew silent and began to clap in time to the beat. People and later close friends would call me by the name of the song.

The song didn't change my life. It didn't bring my great tidings. I didn't enjoy the experience with the band, despite the fact that at the concert we sang a song with words I wrote. I didn't win a multi-million dollar singing deal with Barclay Records. I didn't go on some cross-cultural, multi-linguistic talent show and win fame and glory. But it brought me friends. It brought me a warm, fuzzy feeling. Of feeling that I could do something I loved and do it right. If only for once. If only forever.

The song is within me. It represents my...not love, love's too weak a word. My respectful adoration for music and one of the few times music rewarded me back. Music allowed me to sing this song, perfectly or imperfectly, but with all my heart and soul. As my best friend K says about me, "She sings the song as if she created it". But I sing it more as if it were created for me. And this, without knowing what a word of it meant. Now, with a deeper knowledge of French and a fresher, wisened but no less romantic perspective of life, my relationship with the song is renewed and yet remains ever alive, ever sweet. And my heart smiles ever the same way. When I hear those chords. When I hear the first two words. When I hear Khaled's voice soar.

Comme si j'n'existais pas/As if I don't exist
Elle est passee a côte de moi/She was passing by me
Sans un regard, Reine de Sabbat/With no regard, the Queen of Sheeba
J'ai dit, Aïcha, prends, tout est pour toi/I said, Aicha, take this, all of it is for you

Voici, les perles, les bijoux/Here, the pearls, the jewels,
Aussi, l'or autour de ton cou/Also the gold around your neck
Les fruits, bien murs au gout de miel/The fruits, well ripe with the taste of honey
Ma vie, Aïcha si tu m'aimes/And my life, Aïcha if you love me!

J'irai a ton souffle nous mene/I will go where your breath leads me,
Dans les pays d'ivoire et d'ebene/In the countries of ivory and ebony
J'effacerai tes larmes, tes peines/I will erase your tears, your sorrows
Rien n'est trop beau pour une si belle/Nothing is too beautifull for a girl so beautiful

Oooh ! Aïcha, Aïcha, ecoute-moi/Aïcha, Aïcha listen to me
Aïcha, Aïcha, t'en vas pas/Aïsha, Aïsha don't go
Aïcha, Aïcha, regarde-moi/Aïcha, Aïcha, look at me
Aïcha, Aïcha, reponds-moi/Aïcha, Aïcha, answer me

Je dirai les mots des poemes/I would say the words, the poems
Je jouerai les musiques du ciel/I would play the music of the sky
Je prendrai les rayons du soleil/I would take the rays of the sun
Pour eclairer tes yeux de reine/to light up your dreamy eyes

Oooh ! Aïcha, Aïcha, ecoute-moi/Aïcha, Aïcha, listen to me
Aïcha, Aïcha, t'en vas pas/Aïcha, Aïcha, don't go
Elle a dit, garde tes tresors/She said, "Keep your treasures.
Moi, je vaux mieux que tout ca/Me, I'm worth more than that.
Des barreaux forts, des barreaux meme en or/Bars are still bars even if made of gold.
Je veux les memes droits que toi/I want the same rights as you
Et du respect pour chaque jour/and respect for each day,
Moi je ne veux que de l'amour/Me, I want only love."

Nbrik Aïcha ou nmout allik/I want you, Aïcha and I love you to death
'Hhadi kisat hayaty oua habbi/You are master of my life and my love
Inti omri oua inti hayati/You are my years and my life
Tmanit niich maake ghir inti/I hope to live with you, only you

[Lyrics and Translation Courtesy: http://www.arabicmusictranslation.com/2007/05/cheb-khaled-aisha-aicha.html]

Soundtracking

Everything is better with a song playing in the background.
When you're driving with your shades on (in Chennai, we call it 'coolers', machi) and listening to Moby, it's a heist movie.
When it's 'Bad' by U2, your life is changing. This is the plot point before the climax, the moment when epiphany arrives, when you, the protagonist set forth on the path that opens up in tune to this song.
When it's 'Agatha' by Rachid Taha, you see cherry blossoms and late winter smells and sights befitting a hilltop town (even when you're on Nungambakkam High Road on a desert-hot Tuesday forenoon.)
When it's 'Summer Moon' by Bob Sinclair, it's the most magical nightclub, neon pinks and purples amidst tropical flowers and all the glamour in the world even if you're dancing in the privacy of your room. Sure, it helps if you're eyes are closed. 'Forever' by Chris Brown takes that moment to the next level.
When it's 'Bittersweet Symphony' (OH when it's 'Bittersweet Symphony') by The Verve, you are the coolest dude(ette) on the planet, your walk a rockstar's, the world succumbing to your nonchalant magnetism as you stride through traffic.
When an A.R Rahman song plays, it's raining in Chennai and you're back in your first year of college when college love was something you knew would happen because the trees, the flowers, the breeze were all rooting for your heart (even though history proved otherwise).
When it's 'Don't Cha' by the Pussycat Dolls, you and your best friend are panthers, marching down the sidewalk and the whole world wants us or wants to be us.

A song on my 'Therapy' playlist (Beck's 'Timebomb' is guaranteed to pump me up. I'm a rockstar screaming into an imaginary microphone. I'm a superstar (Michael's 'The Way You Make Me Feel'-oh this one is an instant-feel good factor). I'm the star of an action flick ('Alice' by Moby or 'Deep' by Nine Inch Nails). I'm a head bopping, hip hop devotee ('Jump Around' by House of Pain). I'm a clown, belting out 'Don't Stop Me Now' by Queen at the top of my lungs.
For those of us (me?) who think life is a movie, the movie is incomplete without and made to order, perfectly fitting song playing in our heads, if not in the background. A crush becomes a love song that when listened to years later, will evoke exactly the same wave of feelings and the same smell of that season when it happened. Any song or album for that matter. 'Made in Medina' will remind me of my drawing room where I walked around while learning chemical equations during my tenth standard board exams. 'La Valse' and other Faudel songs will take my back to the stories and characters I spun from my imagination during a pure, precious time in my adolescence which I wish I could relive, when I lived my creations, allowing myself to be wrapped in a surreal world that was so real to me.
Well, I guess things haven't changed that much. Reality still deserves a background score, according to me. Thank you, Ipod. Thank you, musicians and artistes all over the world, for giving me music for moments.

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.

Pardon the pause

I finally learnt to stop saying I was a fourteen year old at heart (because that tended to actually transport me not to the carefree spirit of a fourteen year old but instead to my actual state of mind at fourteen year , which needless to say, was not altogether too pleasant). I learnt to be 21, but at a slower pace. Something like the reverse of dog years.
Now now, there's no need to bring out the shrink's card. Here's the deal: Some people just take longer to grow up. And they need to stop scrabbling for reasons to prove that it's okay. Word of advice: If no one is giving you grief about not having a map, it is okay!
It's not about worrying about passing the deadline to wear orange-pink nailpolish and barrettes or watching Hannah Montana reruns. Or wrinkles, taxes and looming questions (c a r e e r , m a r r i a g e , l i f e) in ghostly block letters ( like those characters you have to retype to verify your access to some site) I'm talking about slowing down the ageing process by asserting my right to MORE TIME. (Ah, how beautiful those two words sound) Let's say it once more: MOOOORRRE TIIIMME.
I think I've been really lucky to have been granted this plea, this gap year (or years?) from plotting a course. Of course, it's not easy. I am wracked by restlessness and self-questioning. But that's only when I don't have to pack my bag for college the next day.
I revel in the little pleasures that time offers me, like those extra Gems that you find when you thought the packet was over. I absolutely delight in making my bed, serving ice cream to my father, managing to attend a full day of college and having my notes in order. My biggest thrill is my daily workout. And the icing on the cake is primetime TV (Conan! Desperate Housewives! The Big Bang Theory! Friends- yes, forever!)
The point is, I wouldn't have been able to appreciate these little things when I was actually in school. And undergraduation. It's taken me my whole teenagehood to get to this stage where I can value my teenagehood. So, I believe I do deserve the time to get it right. As hard as it is to do so.
Talents have been explored and then abandoned, perhaps to be picked up again. Plans formulated and then crumpled up, perhaps to be drawn up again over fresh paper. All the mistakes made, all the angst fading away, replaced by pure awakeness.
I'm too old to be a child prodigy or be an adolescent superstar. I'm too old to even be living the high school life. But, maybe, just for me, teenagehood is allowed to extend to 21.
22.
23?
If there's one thing drawing class and age has taught me, it's that I can't draw straight lines

Kids

Kids are highly interesting.

They suddenly appear at your elbow, staring at your computer while you scratching your head while squinting at a 91 page pdf about Communist hardliners in the early 80s and what they said to Gorbachev and why can't they say it in English oh it is English man I need a dictionary.

You look down at them, peering up at you, the small and warm things. They are so..comfortable with their bodies. It wasn't that long ago. How can you have forgotten? They lean on your shoulder and breathe down your forearm, totally indifferent to norms of social distance.

You need to entertain them. But somehow you don't know what normal kids like. Especially these days. You were always entertaining yourself with imaginary celebrity cartoons and horse rides in the Mexican desert as a kid. Oh, and alone.

So you look through your C and D drive. Um, no not those photos of your class trip. Or that folder with all the collections from 'Marc by Marc Jacobs'. So the older one takes over your computer (after politely asking) and plays something called Pinball which you didn't even know existed in your computer.

You attempt to educate the younger one (ah, the only thing you seem to know). So you take out that ginormous atlas you have and begin by pointing out where India is. But he seems more interested in the animal illustrations that accompany it and calls out all their names. Not bad. Even though that's not a donkey with a pouch hopping over Australia...

The atlas somehow is shut and now you two are racing small cars over its surface. He crashes into your car over the flag of Ghana. "License!" demands our young enforcer of the law. "I don't have one", I mutter sheepishly (ah that's me, always adding the twist like a good obedient student of scriptwriting that I am). "Okay, five rupees" says he. And you fork an imaginary amount over. Yikes! Five years old and he knows about corruption.

The game continues, with innumerable car crashes and somersaults and red lights and eventually you move over to pay some attention to the ten year old who has achieved impressive scores on Pinball. You show her pictures of your social awareness trip and then of your former college, rather wistfully. So many pictures. Why are you showing her this anyway? She comments about the make-up you've worn in one photo and that is why you, bespectacled, ponytailed and home clothes-clad look um, different right now. Observant children these days.

You politely excuse yourself and the dignified ten year old apologises for having interrupted the collapse of the Soviet Union. You turn to your computer screen, black and white words and things that happened long ago. But the police officer demands another car crash and you succumb.

Fun's got a new name

We were taken to a village yesterday as part of a social awareness component in our course. I don't know about the social aspect, but I'm certainly more aware. Of the fact that clear blue skies exist at least.

And that there are people who offer you something out of the nothing they have. And so you end up with two roses.

And that there are people who drop all that they're doing and take you around the village in a whirl of enthusiastic banter and no sign of weariness.

And that there are people who appear so peaceful and laidback that you never would've guessed that they are responsible for transforming hundreds of lives through sheer persistence.

And that bus rides are mad fun, anywhere, anytime, especially when accompanied with a bunch of unselfconscious mental teenagers singing and dancing in their seats.

Forget the scorching Tamil Nadu sun, the lack of a shower in twelve sweltering hours and my obstacles in interaction thanks to halting Tamil. I want to go again!

The geek strikes back

Just when I thought I was out to take on the world and be a grown up, life laughed me right in the face and made its own decision for me. And well, I'm not complaining.
It's back to college and back to academics in a long-forgotten way (my three years of UG in an art field was academic all right, only rather sporadically. Being a nerd was a bad thing. Something you had to play down.). And ooh, it's a girls college. That took a while to get used to after being an ostensibly boys college. The madness was missed for a few weeks (I'd never seen so many girls in one place in my entire life) but now I'm realising that girl madness is equally enjoyable.
And aha, the library is delightful. I'm foreseeing a lot of adventures to be had. (I can see K somewhere, rolling his eyes and groaning at my inability to be anything remotely fun. According to modern teenage adolescent standards he means)
My recent addiction (beside sticking my nose in musty shelves of books) is writing with an ink pen. Unfortunately, I have not yet been presented with the opportunity to pen dynamic love letters by candlelight or eloquent and much sought after opinions to heads of state. So far, I write history notes with it, when they are dictated slowly and still, my mother refuses to embrace my gorgeous (once even pronounced 'sexy') scrawl. She thinks handwriting should be curly and big like an 80's hairdo. I prefer a chignon. Of course, everyone can see the 80's hairdo clearer and she thinks that's the point.
Anyway, back to fountain pens. Ah the fragrance! The fragrance of ink is intoxicating. The ink pen's results have to be earned. A ballpoint pen is easy, sometimes a floozy but an ink pen is a lady. Whether she's Oliver or Cartier (or whatever those fancy pens are that are not found in my corner stationery shop).
So, I'm back to square one. More like fifth standard (considering the use of aforementioned writing instrument). Education isn't all that bad after all. Especially when you nearly give it up. That's when it actually becomes attractive. The real process of education begins and 'getting an education' ends.

POA

First Sunday of being unemployed. Ahahahaha.
Life stretches out like a blank slate-it's oppressing and it's actually starting to be exciting. The unknown is thrilling.
Here's my agenda for life (er, today):
1. Upload photos on Facebook (Guilty as charged. Sunday is time for confession)
2. Upload allllll the songs my friend has generously bestowed upon me from a cute red Easter egg pen drive.
3. Attempt to dust and sort out all the gazillion books that are stacked ominously under the drawing room sofas that have STILL not been restored to their rightful place after the termites were exterminated (Terminate the Termites! Ooh...that's a slogan)
4. Attempt to decide to run up and down the stairs with the determined intention of burning off all that I have chewed.
5. Stop biting nails. And fingers.
6. Read all the lovely books I've borrowed ('Love in the time of cholera', 'Animal farm', 'Beirut Blues', 'Oliver's story' etc)

Unemployment. It doesn't sink in. It still feels like there is another round of exams around the corner. Or the next semester. I keep slapping myself and saying : "Helloooo! There's nothing more. College is over. O-V-U-R ! (:p For Star World viewers)"
I'm trying to compare it to how I felt after school. But at least then, I knew I had to get into college. It's different now. The set agenda that everyone has to follow has run its last level. Now it's adaptable.

At least I'm not one of the confused ones. See, I already made my agenda.

For today.

A lot to say, more to do

Don't even ask! These past two weeks have been unbelievably hectic. Back to college and it's been one endless flow of powerpoints, stick files and furtive messages to rant or to re check submission timings and protocol. And it's not about to end anytime soon.

Why am I up so late? Well, I was suddenly hit by a creative bolt as I lay awake, tossing and turning. With a bunch of leftover print paper (I use the unused side to be environmentally thoughtful) in my hand, I began making lists-first for my final project, then for what I want in life and then to K's birthday plans. I realised that with a blank sheet of paper to mind map and with a computer, you can actually take over the world. (something Ra's been trying to tell me for the longest time. That girl can make a calendar with MS Word!)

Movies. 'Dilli 6'. I was really disappointed. Perhaps my expectations were too high, considering I've been waiting to see this film for the past three months or so. But it was really not what I expected. The songs were cut short(A.R.R-THIS deserves an Oscar! Honestly, 'Arziyan' is one of the most beautiful songs I've heard in recent times. And 'Dil Gira Dafatan' feels like MY song.) But what I really felt was missing was a solid, strong storyline. The cinematography was beautiful, the cast perfect and the intention felt pure. But seriously, the story seemed to meander all about the place and was frustrating to watch. It felt like there were three separate stories being combined.

The Oscars. Ah. I cannot say more. This time, I was not the only around here watching (I never miss the greatest show on earth). The theme seemed to be India and I think everyone's said all that can be said and more about A.R.Rahman (Seriously, we Chennaiites deserve a holiday in commemoration of this) and 'Slumdog'. What was really cute was the way Dev Patel was taking care of the little kids.

Oh my God. The most beautiful part was the way they brought out 5 previous winners to felicitate a nominee each. Sheer goosebumps! Robert DeNiro describing Sean Penn, Shirley MacLaine offering praise for Anne Hathaway and Marion Cotillard's heartfelt salute to Kate Winslet. Anthony Hopkins for Brad Pitt, Sophia Loren (!!!!) for Meryl Streep. Wow wow wow. Of course, I was thrilled to see Kate take home that statuette. Who doesn't love her?

Anyway, now I'm slowly falling asleep (why couldn't this happen back in bed?) but I'm going to hold on to the creative connection that I'm feeling right now. Take advantage of it, absorb it, create, create, create....

Memorieeeeeeeeeees (to be read with Barbra Streisand's quavering soprano in mind)

Ohhh wooohhh hoooooohhhh it is my last weekend of being empty-headed till I get to work on Monday and begin a two-month internship...So adieu to college for a while (don't worry, I spared you the senti-ness by sniffing melodramatically at random desks and blackboards and all the profs in my department).
I want to say a word I hate but which accurately sums up my state of mind:
DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUDE.
College is almost over!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
This cannot beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, oh no, no, no.
So much has happened, so much has been learned.
Six semesters, 16 major subjects, five actual crushes, tons of salwar-kameezes, one id card, three five-subject notebooks, a hundred million games of Hangman, ten million lists of hot guys, top TV series and others (me and Butterfly, that was), one best friend, one bestest friend and eight adorable close ones, a zillion messages back and forth, a billion IMing sessions, four major fights and possibly one final goodbye, a hundred veg rolls and 200 cup o noodles, inconsolable tears which dried, hysterical laughter that caused tears, and not to forgot atleast 500, 000 pages in XEROX ..... the list cannot even begin to end.
Three years.
Whaaaaaaat mannnn.
This can't be it. There should've been a warning.
I'm going to stop listening to my father's old songs now and go watch Miss World to lighten my mood.

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!