That's what they call serendipity

I normally give my car to the valet guy to park at the gym but it was night and it was raining and I didn't see him so I parked it myself. After finishing my workout, he offered to bring it around to the front of the gym but I declined because in truth, I didn't have any money to tip him. So running off sheepishly, I got into my car on the other side of the road and slowly, cautiously began reversing into that chaotic street with whatever vision I could possess inside a rain splattered car on a dark street with blitzing lights.

For some reason I looked to my right and spotted a small, white-clad man with spectacles and a much-cuter-than-but-a-lot-like Woody Allen face. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe it!

It was my maths tuition teacher from twelfth standard. The only maths tuition teacher I had who counted. For those of you who don't know, especially in Chennai, all kids are expected to go to tuition classes in the all important tenth and twelfth public exam years, irrespective of their capabilities. It's a rite of passage. The top students go to learn exam skills (which questions are bound to come in the paper and other tricks) and the others go to get what the school which moves at such a fast pace can't give them. My maths teacher, an endearing, limerick-making soul did try. But I was beyond help. I was really good but some irrational fear kept me back in only this subject. It was weird that something I really loved didn't love me back. Especially when it was a thing, not a person.

So this maths teacher was the one who transformed a paranoid, maths-loving but morbidly maths-phobic person into a smiling, peaceful 87% scoring, peace-with-demons-making school graduate. The one who made studying so easy with the help of practice papers. The adorable 90 + teacher who walked and walked and walked all around my part of town, tuition to tuition just because he didn't want to "stay at home watching TV". The one whose number I had lost, whom I feared had been long gone and whom I never really got to thank properly.

Now this may not be really relevant this but my father's a bit older. Living with him has endowed me with a fondness, a soft corner for older gentlemen beyond a particular age in the sense that I feel protective about them. I'm not really the type who feels children need fighting for. They do but they have enough people battling for the preservation of their innocence. My heart goes out to the older men and women, mostly men (because women are quite strong in this sense) who don't really have the energy that they used to have and who have to face a faster, glitzier world that wants to drop everything and move on.

So, meeting my teacher. I wanted to tell him so much. Thank him for helping me through a difficult period? Thank him for bringing sweetness and goodness into my life? Thank him for being a great teacher? But the words didn't really come out right. They overflowed and he nodded, he remembered me only after a while but he did. He asked about my former classmate and friend who had introduced me to him. He asked about my parents. Our conversation was less than sparkling and soul-searching but it was essential. It was special. God gave me my chance at gratitude and at filling the small hole in my heart that was incomplete. Nothing much was said but so much was expressed. I held his hand with both of mine and simply repeated "I'm so happy to see you"

Familiar Stranger

There is something to be said about learning to tolerate your own company. I'm one of those not sooo social people (oft called self-absorbed by PEOPLE WHO DON'T KNOW WHAT THE TERM MEANS. You know who you are, K). I guess you could say being an only child I'm not so influenced or dependent on other people for entertainment. Of course, as with everything else I've learnt in 22 years, life makes you contradict yourself. Repeatedly. Case in point: I tend to avoid clubs/pubs/excessive smoke-filled and claustrophobic spaces. My idea of socialising involves a long drive, conversation and excessive laughter. But 3 days after my birthday? I found myself totally sober, dancing like a maniac (I LOVE to dance) with my undergrad buddies in a packed disco. My eyes closed, an imaginary spotlight on my head and a sense of absolute abandonment. Innocent, spontaneous fun. Of course, Sean Kingston helped.

So, when I used to say I love being alone and self-sufficient, it was ironic because secretly I envied huge families especially those with many siblings ( I always always wanted a big brother and my dream came true in the form of this amaaaazzziiing human being whom I call Bunny. The fact that he now has a girlfriend, Sunshine whom I absolutely adore makes my own constructed family picture complete) I basically came to the conclusion that you shouldn't say you hate something or someone because you will end up doing exactly that with exactly them. Life is unpredictable and beautifully so.

Well, anyway, recently I was put to the test. I have become addicted to human company thanks to my delightfully demanding friends. I felt as if I would drown in my own thoughts if left alone for a second. But I was put in a situation where my friends all went home and I was supposed to wait for my Mum at a certain shop. Sleep-deprived and wandering mind, it was just me and my car in a parking lot.

The thoughts came, like arrows from different directions but I stayed put. My music was in my ears, soothing me into the semi-conscious delirium that I know so well. But my mind was still awake, valiant against the onslaught of self-doubt, unfulfilled yesterdays and uncertain tomorrows. The window was down, I was alone ( a girl!) in an unknown place. But I didn't care.

Khaled's voice soared like the only way Khaled's ('Hada Raykoum') voice can. I listened. I focused on the outlines of an olive green plant reaching toward the bland, colourless sky. I focused on that sky, so unyielding, impenetrable, that mute witness. I fell asleep, arms folded, seat kicked back, regardless of the world.

In between the contradictions, in betweent the extremities, I meet myself, an ever-changing familiar stranger. Someone I don't know very well and I don't think I'll ever know. Someone I can fall in love with intensely and immensely and someone I could completely abandon if I found someone else.

And after years of pushing and pulling, struggles beneath the skin, I have finally encountered someone I can tolerate. Someone I can live with.

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.

Amarte es igual que jugar ruleta rusa (Irrelevant. Just words from the song I'm listening to)

I miss Spanish. I know I can study on my own, seek out Spanish books, learn a word a day, revise my verbs and hello, read my Spanish copy of Paulo Coelho's 'Brida'. BUT I miss Spanish as the Spanish that is easier to FEEL in. I miss Spanish as the language that I wrote my first ever full-fledged song in. I miss Spanish and alongwith my discovery of the Latino explosion, not as limited English popsters but as genuine pop-rock phenomenons back in Spain and Colombia (I don't have to mention who I am talking about, EI and S). I miss Spanish as I miss ninth standard. I miss ticklingly chilly Madras winter on long drives to Kotturpuram as the same album played on repeat for months. I miss 'Quizas' by Enrique Iglesias. It's on my iTunes now. But I miss the context I first listened to it in. I miss the freshness of discovery, the thrill of learning, so much unlike the relative monotony of revision. I miss my Peruvian Spanish teacher, our initial limited conversations as he helped negotiate my first steps into the language that I was already so in love with and the language that would become so close to my heart.

I am not brilliant at Spanish. I don't even know what level I am at. And months of non use have probably rendered my tenses rusty. But when Juanes, Enrique, Shakira, Antonio Banderas, Alejandro Sanz and Marc Antony speak to me, something happens. I am at once familiar and immediately far away. A fourteen year old whose world changed just because she had a language to speak to herself in, to communicate those feelings that English so restricted.

Siempre digo que ingles es la lengua en que yo puedo pensar y hablar pero es español que es la lengua en que yo puedo sentir, la lengua de mi corazón.

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.

Happy Birthday

Today is a special person's birthday, one of the few people left at my age (like me) who do get excited about 'trivial' things like birthdays. One of the few special people who made sure to make mine extra special even though:
they ended up making themselves sick for hyping over my 21st birthday dress,
they ensured my 19th birthday went cake-free by clubbing it with an emotional someone else's, and they helped me organise my 20th with A, B and C lists of guests and eventually leaving out a lot of nice people I feel ashamed to mention my 2oth party to.

Sigh, good times.

Well, here's to that special person, more a princess than a prince because he is pampered and loved as much as one. Here's to the birthday boy who's living it up all the way across the world and still living life as large as can be. Winning hearts the world over (ha ha I can actually say that now) and stressing about party organisation the same old way. The same way he still thinks that a crisp white shirt is the key to instant glam (true) and the same way he thinks he's Blair Waldorf (false).

Always invoking the same hilarity in me, whether he's face to face or an image on a computer screen. Making me believe in 'absence makes the heart grow fonder'. Being aware of my life's little events and mentally jotting them down so as to tell him later. Taking photos of my wardrobe selections to prove that I'm not as nerdy as he thinks. Mentally arguing with him in my head when I can hear him berating me for not being more adventurous in life. Mentally slapping him for calling my love life a Thar Desert. Making me understand the meaning of 'I'll be there for you' where 'there' is metaphysical and yet as vital.

Calling me a hundred times to discuss the Oscars and being the only one I know who gets as excited as I do about the glam parade and the debate over deserving actors versus eye candy. Calling me at 4 am from London and telling others I'm his 4 am friend, whether I'm awake or not. Calling again the next day at 2 am, hoping I'm awake and us then having a two hour conversation, officially anointing me The 4 Am Friend. Being such wholesome best friend (momentarily erase the ego clashes), the perfect best friend-one that you can show off as aesthetically appealing and at the same time surprisingly possessing durability and top quality. Making me jealous of all the numerous people he'll charm all over the world despite him being ever so desi and fussy and regimented, what with his daily routines that are so so so secretive. Adding spice to my life, whether actually or vicariously.

Getting my heart to get a taste of world travel because right now an important part of it is residing in London.

Haha! Gotcha! You can't get cornier than that. Have an awesome birthday.

The way he made us feel

There are some things in life that you take for granted: oxygen, the Pyramids of Egypt and Michael Jackson.

Symbols of culture are meant to last forever, irrespective of the fact whether they are made of marble, stone or flesh and blood. They are compasses around which we function. A comfort to us through jokes and references. It's enough to know that they are there. It’s taken for granted that they’ll live forever, larger than life.
I remember the 4 year old me watching my older friends handling a precious copy of the 'Dangerous' album. I stared back at those famous eyes on the cover, wanting to be let into this seemingly prohibited adult world of pop music, wanting to be released from nursery rhymes. And soon enough, I was.

For 8 year old me, Michael Jackson was MTV and MTV was Michael Jackson. Sure, there was Mariah Carey, Celine Dion, Puff Daddy (way before he changed into P.Diddy) etc. But there was no one BIGGER than the soft-spoken, twirling dervish with the fascinating music videos. He was not only the best dancer I had ever seen, or the singer of the relentlessly catchy songs but he was also THE definition of the music video.

It was not just the combination of phenomenal talent and charming personality. He was an assurance of the fact that something extraordinary existed beyond the uncomplicated beauty of movie stars or the pure and simple talent of other musicians. Michael Jackson pushed the boundaries of our senses, leaving us awestruck. That was true entertainment-where our questions were silenced and our senses surrendered.

We borrowed our icons from generations past. Elvis was far too gone for us to call him our own. Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain and Freddie Mercury far too ghost-like to be missed. Our idols were young and full of life, Michael Jackson being the embodiment of energy.

Our generation is one that took things for granted. We were convinced of our immortality-the generation of living in the moment, of Eminem's offensive lyrics and Paris Hilton's frivolity.

Now, we come face to face with our fragile humanness. The person who seemed to live forever, who seemed to live it all, has moved beyond his physical state.

His extraordinary life and aura make his existence seem almost mythical. The controversies and stories that surrounded him earned him reactions from ridicule and disgust to sympathy for the child-man who was most probably just misunderstood.

As the music channels flood us with images of the energetic young Michael dancing like there was no tomorrow or urging us to make a change, as fans across the globe shed tears and make shrines for the King of Pop, as music legends grieve and as music lovers vow to not mourn him but celebrate the existence of such an icon amongst us, one wishes that MJ would see the love that we have for him and know how much he meant to us, the generation whom he shaped.

Was he a child prodigy teaching us 'ABC', a teen dance icon who warned us against 'Billie Jean' or the King of Pop who was one of the few who successfully used music to 'Heal the world'? Whatever hat he donned, all we now have is the burning memory of a mythical legend who rocked our world in more ways than he ever imagined.

Reaching backwards

I think the reason why people have kids is to relive their childhood.

I don't think that's such a good idea.

I'm at that stage where I miss my childhood (though I hated a lot of it-I was late every day of the year in 5th standard. The uniforms, tests, sometimes scary teachers, etc) but I miss the organised protective atmosphere, the living day to day.

Actually, even high school was good. The fact that you were let loose at 2:30. The shelteredness of the neatly arranged chairs and benches. Your dependence on the fact that you could pull the plait of your best friend in front of you whenever you were bored. The fact that you could exchange looks with the person behind you when Maths sir began limits and continuity. The looks of 50% self-amusement and 50% frustration that cannot be replicated in any other situation but twelfth standard maths.

Yeah, so well. Imagine me, and then imagine those who are further away from childhood. They start to want to live it all over again-discovering the world all over again. Unlearning the rules and the shapes and colours and assembling them at a much slower pace. Who wouldn't want that!

There must be a solution to this feeling. An alternative rather than adding to the population or ending up with a kid when you're not fully grown yourself.

Childhood is so short that later you wonder if it was all a dream, whether it was real or not. So you spend the rest of your life, trying to reach at it from bits of your memory, like stuffing your hand through a jar, trying to pull out bits of confetti which flash, revealing colours and patterns that feel so familiar.

The Year that Was?

What was 2008?

20th anniversary of my existence...

History was rewritten as a real leader was elected as president of the USA causing an interest in politics as part of popular culture..

So much drama in the friends circle that I would never have seen coming...

Three out of station trips after a hiatus of three years...

New perspectives on age old feelings...

Bollywood attempting to come out of the closet...

A dead actor leaves behind a legendary performance...

Some growing up and a lot of teenage nonsense...

Shifted my Windows Live blog into this! One whole year of blog writing...

And the best part? The fact that so many people visit Estarra (tourism is booming!) and I've gotten so many friends, thanks to this little island of my mind. It's so funny, I never really expected this to happen. And Vimal, you can call me HRH of Estarra. President would be great too. (Kidding. Actually, not)

Happy new year everyone!

I Got Therapy

So, I survived.
It was a fabulous Christmas, most unChristmasy in terms of no cake, no tree, no presents (sniff!) but it was a family time. And friends are family.
Christmas eve night: Me in my Chick Magnet T shirt, wrapped up under the quilt, laughing my head off at Ryan and Colin in 'Whose Line is it Anyway?'. Show's over and I prepare to spend my Christmas night glamorously NOT.
K messages and we decide to attend Midnight Mass for the first time in my life. It's been AN AGE since K and I met. After a sudden bout of hysterics for no reason- or maybe too many reasons. (Not been feeling so top notch of late. Guess it all came crashing out. Must vent more and not keep things so compressed) , we finally left. It was late but we got to listen to K's favourite carol ('Mary's boy child') and my second favourite ('Jingle bell rock'. 'Oh come all ye faithful''s my absolute favourite). Then we headed to Barista where I got sick and tried to avoid looking at them while they shared some gooey chocolate cake. Is it possible to be physicaly sick and emotionally rejuvenated at the same time?
Christmas Day! Woke up and put 'I want to break free' on full blast..ah, there's nothing like having Freddie Mercury's voice bring in the celebration. I absorbed the therapy and then dressed up for a girl's day out.
Ah, it was so nice. The four of us had a giggle-fest (seriously. I'd forgotten I was capable of those) and hogged some sandwiches (and i had a choco tart. GUILTY AS CHARGED!But it's CHRISTMAS!) and then we traipsed around till my fuel tank pointed to empty and then we ran home to check a few priceless scenes of OUR movie ('Kaho Na Pyaar Hai'. This cinematic gem redefined our 11 year old lives and gave us all our first crush in the form of Hrithik Roshan). Then we wandered over to Numbi Jim's house and did some more nonsense. I think these three mad girls contribute to my Peter Pan behaviour, seeing as how they're pretty much the same.
Well, so I'm feeling much much better now. Socialising helps... and so does church!

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!

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.

Expectations...

I found this really really cool quote. Actually, it was a headline for a print ad for Vimal Suitings or something.
"My life. It's what happens between yesterday and tomorrow"
Not extraordinarly original or earth-shattering, but increasingly relevant for me. I salute the copywriter, whoever came up with it.
Another one, "Map out your dreams, but do it in pencil" - Bon Jovi (not word for word, I must admit)
So, I was doing some thinking (not thaaat much, don't worry). Here's the plan: TO NOT HAVE PLANS!
Yes, yes, before you say 'caution to the winds' and all that, hear me out. If you want something really badly, just let it go. If it's meant to happen, if it's meant to be yours- IT WILL and NOTHING and NO ONE can come in between!
Final year of school: Me sitting at the last desk, the one by the window, which looked out into this big pretty pastel-coloured house in front and to the side was the koovum river surrounded by greenery of some kind. (yes I know, I don't know why the koovum creeps up into this blog so often) Anyway, I'd be sitting there, half jotting down stuff about shares and debentures (I don't remember more than these two words in my two years of commerce education. And I got 95% both in Accounts and Business Studies. GO figure.) But my mind was really somewhere else, probably here in Estarra, clueless about the present, clueless about the future. I had no idea whatsoever what I wanted to do after school. What I did know was that I didn't want to talk about it.
Well, I did always did vaguely, detachedly dream of a certain college. And then, I applied. I wanted it. But the interview time came...and I talked and talked...and forgot to show them my certificates!
Needless to say, I was devastated for 2 days. But I guess whatever was meant to be, happened...and I got in anyway!
So, I'm following Santiago in 'The Alchemist'. He believed in his dream but he didn't obsess about it. He worked for it, but he didn't spend night and day fretting about it. He believed he was worthy to deserve it. And that was enough for him till his dream became reality.
So...if you love somebody, let them go... (you can fill in the rest)
If you want to be somebody, let it go...do all you can to be the best YOU can be...and see what happens...
If you want something really bad, let it go...if it's meant to be, it shall.
But then they say that if you don't fight for what you believe in, you won't get it. I think that your heart will tell you what to do then. Listen to it. It's your best guide. If there's nothing you can do about a situation, let it be. But if there's something you can, let your heart be your fire and fight for that good cause of yours!
I would say the disappointments come in life from expecting. But I just caught a scene from 'Something's Gotta Give' where Diane Keaton tells her daughter (Amanda Peet) that she's in love. She's crying. Amanda tells her that she should be like herself and not be so attached that she gets broken-hearted. She should not let go of herself so much that she forgets herself. Diane Keaton looks at her and shakes her head. She expected and wanted and she's in too deep. "Do you really believe that?", she asks her daughter. She tells her that that's not a way to live.
Theoretically, Amanda Peet's view sorta contributes to my philosophy at this point. But let's see if we really can keep Diane Keaton's at bay. :)

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.

The end of the yellow brick road

Well it's my favourite time of the year. Waking up enthusiastically to the first few weeks of school/college. A brand new year with fresh pages, newly refilled pens and new bags/stationery (now clothes/shoes). A clean slate. The summer gave you a chance to be someone new. And in a way, I am. Because this is when my birthday falls.
But somehow this year I don't really want to be anyone new. I've been a teenager for 35% of my life and I'm clinging to its safety harness.
I don't know what I'd miss exactly. I was miserable most of the time-
1) whining and trying to get over some crush or the other
2) studying and struggling to pass Maths (and eventually getting more marks in it than the subject I used to top in-Economics)
3) yelling and fighting with my mum for unbelievably ridiculous reasons (I doubt turning twenty is going to change that. Case in point: last night.)
4) scribbling pages after pages in my diary about my lack of importance in this world...or how I am on the verge of conquering it.
The list could never end.
However, I could act mature and think of all the things I've learnt ( A LOT) , all the people I've met (numerous amazing ones, people who've changed my life), all the people I've retained in my life (people who've rocked my world since before I can remember), all the places I've been (not too many, but enough to count for experience) and all the amount I've grown.
As I come to the end of the bridge between childhood and adulthood, I realise that I can't say that I'm not a teenager anymore. I'll always be a teenager inside. I'll always feel fourteen somewhere.

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.

Things that make my day

Well here's something that intrigued me and since I write in this space so sporadically (no offense, but my journal's way closer than my computer and hence my thoughts tend to pour into that vessel). My friend suggested I talk about the things that amuse me in a normal day for a casual speech assignment. I'd rather write about it and take it one step further to include all the random things that make me happy/amused/blessed in any ordinary day...

Waking up and realising there's a looooot more time for coll (the fact that I'm in evening college kinda helps :P)...
Listening to my latest favourite song first thing in the morning, even before I get out of bed and getting high out of my mind....
Whenever there's something unusual about the day-the sky is extraordinarily blue, the clouds sparkingly white, the breeze so refreshing..these things just make me so thrilled for some reason...
Seeing atleast 5 new messages in my phone...
Lounging and reading the paper in my night clothes...
Singing along to Rachid Taha songs in Arabic even if I have no clue what the words are but no one knows or cares anyway...:)
Having a good hair day..:D
Friends asking me for advice and me giving good advice...:)
Attending all 5 hrs of college and suppressing all urges to bunk...
Having fulfilling classes...
Expressing my views about those things I've never thought about before...
Laughing my head off to the mad antics of my friends in class (without hurting the teacher of course)...
The veg rolls in the college canteen...mmm...
The sunshine that streams in through the trees during the break and warms me up cause these days it's still chilly..
Free hours when I don't know where the time flies off to because I'm having so much fun with my friends...
Making someone laugh....
Driving my car safely home through an insane rush hour...
Coming home ravenous and eating a yummmy dinner courtesy Mum first thing...
Coming online and having a long soul searching, cathartic, satisfactory chat...:)
Opening a book and finding a sentence or paragraph that hits me so hard because it has expressed my thoughts exactly...
Writing a piece of poetry or just writing anything at all...
Having someone there who is just so curious to know about my day...
Crossing off all the items on my to do list...
Hugging my friends/parents...
Having a hot water bottle for my back...:D sooo relaaaxiiing
Free messaging hours at night...:)
Sleeping off while reading Paulo Coelho/Kahlil Gibran/Rumi and listening to Gregorian/Benedictine chants...
Dreaming about something I want to come true...
Waking up to start all over again... cause today might be the day, and even if it isn't, it sure feels like it...:D