Quaint Murmur

Womanhood And Steel

2012-01-13T17:13:00.000Z

All these women. Seated side by side, colour against colour, texture against texture.

Each heart beating with life and longing.

Some stinging with hate, some broken by fate, some softer for the years they have witnessed, some harder for all of life's lessons.

Some smile with their toes, some with their hands. Some sing to distant memories, some to the shadows of yesterday.

And some women, they smile to their secret selves. To the spark that will light tomorrow's fire.

Mothers, sisters, daughters, wives and lovers. They sit together, their dreams and thoughts rising upwards, floating mists of wanting, coloured wisps of love, hate and everything in between intertwining invisibly inside the confining compartment of steel.

How far apart we all are and yet how very close.

Tejaswee Rao

2012-01-13T17:02:00.002Z

I didn't know Tejaswee Rao. I stumbled across her blog as I browsed through the Internet, looking for my next blogger fix.

As I read the very first post,I felt an overwhelming sense of loss wash over me. I had stumbled across somebody who shared so much of my world vision, a kindred spirit, perhaps even a faceless friend.

And as I read a post about her take on Growing Old and Dying Early, I felt a lump in my throat. For the girl who said she wanted to be immortal. For the girl who felt one lifetime wasn't enough to experience the world in all its glory, it was suddenly over too soon.

I thought a part of me had become numb to the idea of death. Perhaps more accepting. Somehow a complete stranger slit the wound open.

And I mourned again. For the girl who wanted it all. For the beautiful being that was. For all the maybes and the ought-to-bes. For the unborn daughter she wrote a letter to. For all the women of substance who would have lost a sister. For the world, because a light had been put out.

I don't know what it is about death, but it breeds a sense of familiarity with complete strangers.

I feel Tejaswee's loss like she was part of my life. Like I feel little Shraddha's. When their loved ones write to them and about them, I grieve along.

We are all so strange to believe we are very separate beings when we are connected so closely by threads deeper than we know or realise.

Tejaswee, you are an inspiration. I know that we've never met, and perhaps on this plane we never will, but you must know that your life will not go unappreciated, your words will never go unread and you will never be forgotten.

Even by a complete stranger.

The Stuff Of Life

2012-01-01T16:50:00.000Z

This, this is the stuff of life.

We sing, we laugh and we tiptoe across fragile lines together, onto horizons we cannot see with our eyes but with our hearts.

We join hands and we pray for tomorrows that dance around corners and behind curtained windows, their shadows rising and falling to remind us to breathe as we swirl around in our own private whirlwinds.

We share stories and we look together through the same skylight at stars we know we have wished upon before, stars we know have not deserted us on the days when our bonds seemed so weak they could turn to dust at any moment.

And we turn our faces to the sun and drink in the light as we give thanks. For friends, for family, for laughter and love and song and hope. For the faith that carries us unto tomorrow, for forgiveness, for the power of being human.

We give thanks, because this, this is the stuff of life.

Colour, Chaos

2011-11-22T13:46:00.001Z

There is something about catching the train again after a gap of two years.

I still hate the distance, but I find myself constantly captured by the sounds and the sights in the confines of the bogie. They're not new. They're not even remotely beyond the mundane. And yet I find them fascinating.

After two years of travelling on the tube in London, I know all about personal space. It's amazing to be able to actually have a seat with hand-rests (even if you only manage to squeeze either one elbow on there, never both at once). It's also great to be able to walk into a compartment and not be yelled at, shoved or pushed into it. It's also entertaining to overhear exceptionally drunk people make conversation. Once, an entire side of the bogie was dragged into an introduction session by a drunk man pretending to hold a mike to everybody, one at a time. By the end of the spectacular commentary he had put up for us, we were all laughing so hard, we couldn't sit up straight.

But as much as I loved being on the tube, I hated it. I felt closed-in. Cloistered. Stifled. I felt like I was coming up for air every time I exited a station, and I never once felt inspired to write on the tube. Perhaps the shortcoming is in me. After all, who in their right mind wishes for the Mumbai Local over the London Underground?

And here I am, in the heart of the mess, in the eye of the Mumbaikar's everyday storm, sitting on a crooked seat, having my toes stepped on, screaming back at the rude women, and yet feeling a mixture of weariness and wonder all at once.

Because as much as I loved convenience and the sanity on the tube, I have never felt the sense of wonder I feel when on the local. This madness, this colour and this infinite chaos is what keeps me going every day. This raw, unyielding, unbending city is what gave me my first real understanding of life and the way the world works.

This is where my heart will always lie.

On the trains. In the rickshaws. Under the cool stone archways of a beautiful old building. In a ground floor flat filled with memories. Over multi-coloured buildings and sinking bridges. In the window seat of the BEST buses. Inside cars with raindrops trickling down windows. In the muck and the dirt of my shoes. In the love and the laughter on the streets. On the leaves of the dusty trees. On the crooked signboards and in the neon lights. In the shadows in the sun. In the heat and the grime. In the asymmetry. In the madness.

In the colour and the chaos.

Dream

2011-11-12T18:14:00.001Z

What is it you dream of when your eyelids glide gently over your eyes...

Do you dream of the mornings you spent nestled in your mother's cotton sari, or of the taste of the sour pickles your grandmother fed you as a child?

Do you dream of cold hearts and warm sheets, or of singing in the sun, your face turned upward to bathe in the yellow?

Do you dream of loss and heartbreak, do you dream the bittersweet scent of the past? Or the colours of your future, the twists of the snaking lines on the inside of your palm?

Do you dream of laughter and children's eyes as they grow wide with wonder, or of the breeze that courses through the reeds as they dance in the summer breeze?

Do you dream of song?
Do you dream of stillness, in heart and mind? Or of quiet spells when the raindrops come around for company?

Do you dream of death? Or of crescendos? Of birds in flight, of orchestras in symphony? Do you dream of the violin as it stirs your memories and sweeps them into dance?

Do you dream of worlds that dangle in galaxies far away or of the taste of longing? Do you dream of the feel of chiffon and lace?

Do you dream melancholy or do you dream sunshine? Do you dream with your heart bursting at the seams, or with your soul tightly shut?

Do you murmur to the stars or speak softly to the shadows? Do your eyelids shiver as you see, memories of white, flashes of red?

Do you dream of clouds swimming in clear skies, or rivers of blood meandering along the banks of war? Do you dream of screams and scars?

Do you dream of freedom and light? Do you dream of passion and victory?

Do you dream a dream?

Do you dream?

Three

2011-11-11T18:36:00.001Z

Backdated to November 8, 2011

For the first time since your passing, we sat down together and laughed (mostly at me, as always). We were always close but losing you brought us closer.

It's always going to be a piece of the puzzle missing. And now, when we have so much to look forward to, you aren't going to be around to see it come together. I bet Nikhit went crazy when we went looking for a suit for him. He would have liked a brother's opinion. He would have liked it very much.

And I don't know how we're going to do it. I don't know how we'll make it through those two weeks without you to lighten us and everybody else up. I'll lose my mind and nobody will be able to make me laugh like you could. We'll probably all end up killing each other. I'm looking forward to it, but it's never going to be all it could have been. And that is the heartbreaking bit.

I know you will be there, and I know you'll be watching and laughing and making awful jokes about me being so young and all ;)

Three years on, I hope you have found your space, and I hope you've got the dates for next year properly sorted where you are. You can't miss it for the world.

Creative Writing, SYBMM Style

2011-11-11T04:43:00.001Z

Yesterday, I sat down to mark some of my students' projects, one that I had asked them to give in for my Creative Writing class.

The basic idea was to get them to develop a means of self-expression. One that started with writing about their lives, their experiences and memories, their stories. As part of the project, they were to write:

a) a character sketch of somebody who inspired them (could be anyone, a best friend, a family member...)
b) a letter to their past
c) a poem
d) a song or a photo essay
e) a story: either of them in first person (as a superhero) or in third person as the protagonist

Needless to say there was much moaning and groaning as I gave them the guidelines.

But yesterday as I looked through them, I was absolutely amazed at the work I'd been given. Almost everyone managed to touch a chord somewhere. And that can only come from really inspired writing.

As I sat poring over intimate details of their lives, I was moved by the sheer honesty in the writing. Here were a bunch of raucous teens, pouring their hearts out to somebody who was in most respects a complete stranger. It defied all the logic in the universe.

And the reason this is an open blog again now is this; if my students could open up their lives and hearts to me, and if they could take a giant leap of faith and express themselves without fear of judgement and censure, and if they could share their strongest and most personal memories with me, surely I couldn't be the one to hold back mine.

Surely I had to learn a thing or two from them.

Hollaback Mumbai

2011-11-11T04:40:00.001Z

Hi all,

Hollaback Mumbai chose to publish my article about Keenan and Reuben, so please do check it out.

http://mumbai.ihollaback.org/2011/11/04/to-keenan-and-reuben-the-boys-who-did-not-look-away/

The site is a great place to read about their story and is also part of an international campaign against street harassment. It's an excellent place to discuss our eve-teasing issues and comment on other people's views of the same. Remember, discourse is everything!

I Wonder...

2011-10-30T14:00:00.001Z

Where love goes when it disappears

What the inside of my mother’s mind looks like

If my fingers talk to each other while they work

What turning one hundred must feel like

Who nightingales really sing for

Why the weeping willow looks so sad

How people can resist the urge to smile back at someone

How books feel when they’re given away

Where the star hides that abused children wish upon

What do you wonder?

The Mushroom Cloud

2011-10-30T13:51:00.001Z

When the wind is put out

And the sun dries up,

When we have discovered

All there is to discover

When we have fixed

All there is to fix

When every mystery has been unearthed,

And every story has been told,

What then.

When we have walked through every door of change

And staffed the factories of our fate,

When the might of the strong

Has triumphed over the will of the weak,

After we have praised our warlords

And buried our dead,

What then.

When we have shown the world our guns

And stilled the hearts of our young

When the sky is heavy with fear

When all our grace lies diseased

What then.

When every star has lost its luster

And when the morning brings the dark

And when our hearts stop singing

Because we have forgotten the words,

What then?

The Fabric of the Being

2011-10-30T13:50:00.000Z

When we see- with our eyes and our minds, the fabric withwhich a person is made, sometimes the texture deceives us. We don’t believe itcould be possible not to like the texture before us. The familiar feel of thatpiece of cloth that we think we know so well; that we understand combinations andrecognize the finer embroidery of.

Nothing can sweeten the bitter taste in our minds, when we realizewe are so utterly and irreversibly wrong.

For this is how we all are. We are of a certain weave. How strong or how weak the threads depend onthe creation of the cloth. Sometimes the weave is so transparent, so verysimple, and other times, it is thick and opaque. Some look fine, but weareasily. Others look shabby and rough, but are full of strength.

And no matter what size, shape or colour we are, we have ourholes. Sooner or later, we are all left threadbare. Painstakingly, we begin to sewourselves back together. We weave our own thread. And when we look back, these seemlike the most colourful patches.

What is the fabric of your being?

Sanchi

2011-10-30T12:55:00.000Z

Flashes of red,
Slivers of mustard yellow,
An eyelid shivering in prayer.
Quiet stone
Soaking in fervent words,
The heart's steady beat,
Echoing in the silence.

The Festival of Lights

2011-10-30T12:54:00.000Z

Every year for the past three years, we have lost loved ones. As a result, every festival has been approached with trepidation. Or with real dread. Sometimes days blend into each other and before we know it, the festivals have come and gone.

When we did celebrate, Diwali was always a fun affair. Lights, sweets, flowers- the works. When I was in the UK, I'd yearn to walk the streets of Bombay, taking in the lights- soaking in all the diyas that graced the most unassuming doorways, all the cheer that emanated from the houses of people who seemed to have the least. Diwali was and has always been a perspective-maker.

Last year too, though I was away, I had a lovely Diwali. This Diwali, out of respect for another two loved ones lost, we put up lights inside our home, rather than outside. We bought some flowers, and floated some candles. And we had a quiet Diwali.

I thought to myself how awfully sad it was that so many people wouldn't be around to see the lights. And then I thought how sad it would be if we, who lived on, forgot to live life, forgot how to celebrate, until our time came- until all our chances were over.

We must mourn our losses. And grieve for them. But this Diwali, as I lit a diya and thought of all the people we have lost, I also realized that and we must learn to move on.

A light-filled Diwali to you all.

A Toast

2011-09-14T17:41:00.002+01:00

One moment.

One moment in between all the manic, chaotic, frenzied flower-throwing, and mantra-chanting. In between the giggles and grins, the sharp intakes of breath and the slow sighs. In between the teary eyes and watery smiles, and a jumble of hopes and dreams and flashes of eternity.

In a sliver of time just a split second after the tali was tied, the bride and the groom exchanged a smile.

And in that one moment was an entire lifetime. Of a future that would be built together. (Perhaps it also held a sense of relief that the intense ceremony was nearing the end.)

Finally having the fortune to attend the marriage of two close friends (after missing countless others before), I was poised with my camera, waiting to snap every emotion and store it within my little black box. But that moment did me in. I watched them, my friends, two strong, independent, headstrong individuals as they took on a new role in each other's lives. It was a moment I will always remember.

Vidhu and Rohit entered my life in the way that most good friends do. Out of the darkest, deepest, densest blue. I wandered into their house in Glasgow one cold evening and the events that followed have changed the direction of my life. More importantly, I was suddenly introduced to two people who had such a zest for life that it was almost like being around a live wire most of the time. I cannot remember a single dull moment spent with either of them.

Being part of their wedding was like being initiated into a new family. In spite of the North-South divide, it was a pleasure watching both families adjust to the peculiar ways of the other. Sometimes with raised eyebrows, sometimes with stifled grins and sometimes with strangled screams. In the end, however, the warmth and goodwill of both wonderful families triumphed, with all four parents setting the dance floor on fire (this was the highlight of the wedding for a lot of us. Who knew the fathers had such amazing moves in them?)

Needless to say, I had the time of my life. For one, there is nothing like knowing both the bride and groom. It gives you a special place at the wedding, even if you are momentarily befuddled when someone asks you the million dollar which-side-are-you-from question.

So to Vidhu and Rohit. Here's the toast I couldn't raise because I was too busy dancing.

To a couple that is now part of a unit that is older than time itself. To two people who embody the spirit of life in all its cheer. To two people who have the humour, the laughter and the chemistry to make it through every dark cloud. To togetherness. And companionship. To love, and hope. To the power of promises made and kept. To all the beautiful memories coming your way. To days when you will be each other's saving grace. To that one moment in time that you looked each other in the eye and said a silent prayer.

I hope you have a lifetime of such moments ahead.

Grace

2011-09-01T05:43:00.004+01:00

The world needs saving. From the wicked, from the waste, fromus all.

The world needs saving because it is hurting. Every day welook from behind shiny glass windows at it- mocking it, ignoring it, turningaway from everything good because we have shut ourselves so tightly into prettyglass jars, thinking we can survive with little fairy lights to keep us warm.

I want to save the world because I cannot see it burn anddie and be transformed into a barren wasteland where the stars don't burn atnight and the rain doesn't wash down to cleanse the soul.

Grace. I want to save the world with grace. I want to openup the one glass jar that has fireflies with hearts filled with goodness, withgrace that shines through every fibre of their little beings, fluttering,humming, settling over streets that have forgotten what it means to be human.

I want to save the world from me. And you.

Because we watch silently from the sidelines as hate creepsup our spines and turns stardust into sawdust and the water into wind. We laughand taunt the breeze until it stills and dies a slow death. We eat up all thetrees, greedy for more, swallowing, gobbling, grabbing every leaf until all weare left with is soulless earth. We live with our eyes stitched shut, undoingevery act of faith, blind to what needs seeing, deaf to what needs hearing.

I want to save the world before we snuff out all the magic.Of the unknown and the unseen. Before we discover all there is to discover,before we reach a page where we stop making history. Before we forget how awemakes our eyes widen and wonder makes our hearts sing.

I want to save the world. I want to bend down, feel my kneessink into golden sand, and pray. Feel the burning slits on my back as my wingscome alive and I take flight.

I want to save the world.

And you should want to save the world too.

Expectation Or The Lack Of It

2011-08-29T15:04:00.002+01:00

Some days I wonder what it is that inspired me to teach.

I love the job. I love going in and thinking that today will be different from yesterday. And I learn something new with every class I take.

I don't know it all. It would be boring to know it all. I apologize when I am wrong and I try as hard as I can to come back with the right answers. And even on the bad days, I know I made a good decision.

But the only thing that truly disappoints me is how we have robbed entire generations of the need to appreciate an education as opposed to a syllabus. I love all my classes equally. I share a rapport with all three batches because I am not much older than they are. But the need to pass an exam, to be given a set of notes, the need to appease an archaic and draconian system is all that some students want.

I don't blame them. At all. We have conditioned our students to believe that SSC, HSC and University examinations shape lives. We teach them irrelevant textbook style information, never once wondering what their opinions are on life and the blindsiding questions in it. We worry that they will not ace exams, and don't seem to think it necessary to have them initiate or take part in any kind of discourse. That we are allowing more apathy to set in is our fault, and ours only.

We have many crosses to bear as individuals. But as a society, the biggest, and the heaviest one is our utter disregard for knowledge as a realistic learning tool. We think we are teaching them what they need to know. And yet after thirteen years of education, we have students who have studied History but have no knowledge of the Holocaust. We have students who have been taught rigorous Mathematics for ten years and can only do minimal calculations (me included). And we have students who have no idea what eve-teasing means, or what capital punishment is.

Somebody explain to me how we can be mentoring human beings to be ignorant about genocide and sexual harassment (and this is the tip of the iceberg).

I am appalled sometimes that we allow this. As a society, we send our kids to school, then to class, then to college and tuition, and onward to other such brain-drain factories.

I've been a student before, and I've had both good, efficient and awful, inefficient teachers like everybody else. But if I was back there again, I would ask more of my teachers. I would expect them to open up different worlds to me. I would ask them to listen to my opinion and debate with me. I would have demanded to learn what I needed to know on the job, like the fact that integrity and dignity and attention-to-detail are so much more than just words on paper. And I would expect them to ask the kind of questions that got me thinking. I would expect more inspiration.

I get asked a lot if I didn't expect notes as a student. I get asked if I didn't feel panic before exams. Yes, I felt panic. And yes, I worried that our teachers didn't teach us enough. But I still believe that making my own notes, drawing my own references, answering my own questions is what helped me remember and understand the subject. We weren't spoon-fed and we managed fine. In the end, even those of us who didn't do well in the papers have found their calling, and are excelling at what they do. Unfortunately, you only learn this in hindsight. And giving 20-year-olds advice doesn't help much.

So no, I don't blame my students when they ask me for notes to pass an exam. I do, however, have a massive bone to pick with the education system.

Blank

2011-08-29T14:24:00.003+01:00

Blank
Like unadorned paper
And empty eyes.
Like mined souls
And cloudless skies.
Like the minds of the dead
Like waves without rhythm
And hearts without songs.

The Sea, The Sea

2011-08-29T14:22:00.003+01:00

The smell of the sea
Haunts me
Like a chipped fragment of my mind.
Broken.
Bitten.
Burnt.
I scratch my name
Into grainy sand
And wait for the wave
To erase regret.
But longing
Has deeper roots in the soul.
I rise
And look to the horizon
Where my sins meet their ghosts
Where my stars greet their death
I sing
Loudly and coarsely
To the salty, flighty wind that
Slaps
Stings
Steals
My tears.
The smell of the sea
Haunts me.

Awake

2011-08-23T16:19:00.000+01:00

As the dragonfly dances,
A ray of yellow sun,
Filters through its gauzy wings.
Onward it sails,
To gently land in the first ripple of the wave,
To shine into the eyes of a sleeping swallow.
And to thread through the dark shadow
Between the still leaves of the fir.
The sunflower stirs,
The galaxy is cloaked
In warm yellow hope.
The hummingbird takes flight,
The sky kisses the clouds purple,
Dawn has broken,
The Universe has come to life.

65

2011-08-15T15:59:00.001+01:00

Twenty- odd years after I learned to sing it, I still feel my hair stand on end when I sing the National Anthem.

I don't remember who taught it to me. I don't even remember learning it. It is something that I was born into. A legacy, a history, a tune that wrought a new beginning and 65 years on, continues to bind a billion people.

While I don't condone singing it in theaters, and while I don't believe patriotism should be worn on your sleeve, AND while I don't believe that there is a right way to stand to show respect to the anthem, I can always lose myself in a sea of emotion when I hear it.

Today, as I listened to the original version by Tagore, I felt my heart lift as it always does when I hear it play. It is such a hopeful tune, with so much longing and so much heart. I imagine what it must have been like for everyone who was alive when Nehru gave his speech and I wish with all my heart that I could have been part of a moment like that. One that was born of so much toil and determination. When a country had one cause, and worked together to move towards it.

I also wonder what they would think of India today. I don't know if this is the India they envisioned. Also, do our countrymen and women in Kashmir and the North-East sing the anthem with any fervour? If the answer is no, I wouldn't really blame them. Sometimes we are far more aware of false prejudices than differing realities.

All said and done, I do believe that Rabindranath Tagore's India still lives on in his words. That I feel myself choke up when I listen to it even today is testament to the fact. I still believe in the good India, the India that we can become, the India our forefathers envisioned, every single time I listen to it.

Driving Him Insane

2011-07-30T15:20:00.001+01:00

Reasons why you shouldn't learn to drive when your own father is teaching you:

You are expected to be omniscient. Therefore, at all times you will know who will come swerving around which road and at exactly what point the cyclist in front of you will choose to turn right or left. You will also be able to telepathically communicate with every passerby on the road and tell them to veer out of your way.
Even if you are gracing the driving seat years after you did your driving course, you will be expected to remember what all the funny little pictures, spokes on the dials and other strange-looking devices in a car are expected to do, without ever having your memory refreshed.
Every time the engine decides to die, you are subject to threats of disownment and 50 reasons why you could not possibly be the spawn of your co-passenger.
You are expected to have the memory of a computer chip, along with its speed and processing capabilities.
You are expected to possess ninja-like swiftness where using the break and accelerator are concerned, because you could kill someone even if where you train is an empty ground full of muck.
You are only allowed to train on this ground of muck, and have strong reasons to believe that you may never go beyond its four corners. Not to mention the dried muck and dirt on the wheels is always solely your fault and your fault alone.
You wonder from time-to-time why you ever decided to learn driving in the first place
Your love and belief of the public transport system is renewed because you know that is what you will probably use all your life.

Reasons why you should learn to drive when your father is teaching you:

You learn the basics in a way that you remember them in your sleep.
You know that you're in good hands. He's still the only person whose car you can fall asleep in without a single niggling thought.
He's the best driver you know, and given the choice, you'd pick him to teach you every single time.

The Importance Of Stuff

2011-07-06T18:19:00.001+01:00

I miss my stuff.

You know, all those tiny odds and ends one collects to make a home away from home.

Cheerful little ceramic cows and sheep bought to grace the window sills and windows that opened to dreary winters. The blues and greens of glass bottles turned flower vases and the pretty lanterns that hung from ceilings and curtain rods. The paintings and photographs that adorned the lonely peeling landscapes of my walls.

And most of all, the books.

Books that I found in quaint little shops, hiding in nooks and crannies that would only appear to oddball-bookworms. Books that were once loved and then carelessly discarded, only to be adopted by a greedy and insatiable reader. Books that spoke, called and sang to me as I passed by them, some stretching out to tap me on the shoulder to say hello, or pick me! Books that bid their time, watching haughtily down from their high shelves, knowing all along that I would succumb to their wiles. Books that I fell in love with at sight. Books that I spent my savings on, time after time, month after month, just so I could inhale their souls and make them part of my own.

They stood by me, letting me breathe in their comfort on cold, dark days. And everywhere I went, they came with me. Through University and tube journeys, through cross-country travels and six rented apartments, through sunny park-days and cold snowy days, they were there. Now they lie in some dark warehouse, waiting to make the long journey home.

Ah, stuff.

Through all my moves within England, my books and my pretties were all I had to hold on to. I have packed and unpacked them six times (friends will tell you that this was not a small amount). Every time I lay them out in the various rooms I made my own, I felt like I belonged. They were familiar to me. They knew me. I came home to them every day. I am attached to them because they made me a home away from home.

Fingers crossed for the final leg.

I should probably get therapy.

The Other Side Of The Fence

2011-06-27T12:35:00.001+01:00

I never realized before how much students depend on teachers.

I know I depended on mine to teach me a lot of what I know, but I never realized how much power we collectively gave one individual to feed us knowledge.

When you stand in front of a class of sixty, it's scary to think that everybody in front of you looks to you for an answer. I think that is a worrying thing.

Not because they mustn't look to us for answers. No, I think that's important; if you've taken on the role, you ought to be able to give answers. No, what is worrying is that students never ask any questions. They assume you know it all.

And this is the problem. No human being, however knowledgeable, knows it all. We assume that what our teachers teach us is what we need to know. Learning in a classroom environment is so very limited, and there is a whole world of information out there.

Teachers in generations past were revered because students didn't have very many avenues to access information. Today, with all the media that assails us, I'm surprised that students don't feel they know it all. I'm constantly surprised that they have no questions. And I worry, because in spite of everything that happens around us, only a handful have an opinion. Perhaps ten out of a class of forty will take a stand. What monsters are we creating in these classrooms?

Today I look back and I know which of my teachers really made an effort and which ones didn't. I recognize them because I spend the better part of my evenings planning classes out for the next day. Even when I know more than the students, I don't know it all. And yet, I could tell them anything and they would not ask questions. I worry for our system and I worry for our future.

On the other hand, it does feel good to be on the other side of the fence.

Rebirth

2011-06-15T13:13:00.000+01:00

Mumbai.

City of Joy. Shrine of Sin. Mother and Mentor of Chaos. Granter of Dreams. Thief and Destroyer of Life.
City of Colour. City of Love. City of Hope.

Nothing inspires me like this city does. Three years on, here I am once more. Making the same journeys. Living the same routine, this time on a different side of the fence.

Here I am, and Mumbai, as always, has sucked me up into the grinding mill. I may have never left. Any life beside this must have been a pleasant dream. This is the beauty and the cunning of Mumbai. You leave here and you return to find that anything else you have seen or done was only a mirage. A mere reflection of what life is when you are not fighting to survive every day. When you return, Mumbai scoops you back up, swallows you whole and spits you out into that very train you travelled in for six years before you left.

This city never forgets.

To return in the rains is to return to new beginnings. In Mumbai, the rains mean love, coffee, new college terms, floods, umbrellas and plastic shoes. But every monsoon, when the rains come, for one moment, I believe that they wash away all the sin and the sorrow in the city. For a brief, blink-of-an-eye moment, time stands so still that the city, in unison, heaves a giant sigh of relief. And then, crash, the clock begins to tick again, and life moves on.

And so when the first rains came two weeks ago, I looked to the sky, imagined the patter of raindrops on my face, and thanked the city for my new beginning.

One Life, Many Lives

2011-06-02T08:19:00.000+01:00

Sometimes when you're on the threshold of a big change, you wish you could live many lives.

One to stay and experience the joys of now and one to leave and test the waters of the unknown.

There would be so many more experiences, and so much more variety. We could all see and do the things we love many times over or make different choices each time just to see where they would lead.

Or perhaps if we were allowed dual lives, we would not really appreciate how much every decision we make contributes to the people we are and those we become. Or how leaving those we love behind would hurt so much that all we had left was the hope of a better tomorrow. Or how selflessness and the courage of one's convictions are so much more than just words.

Perhaps if we were given dual lives to lead, as we so often wish, we would cease to live the one life we have fully.

A Note On Good Goodbyes

2011-05-31T10:54:00.002+01:00

Some goodbyes aren't all that bad.

They mean that you go away only to return. You leave because you know you will come back, and that gives you the strength you need to take the plunge.

Some goodbyes mean that somebody you love has let you go, that they have seen and embraced your free spirit, and that they have had the courage to see the bigger picture.

Goodbyes in one place mean warm welcomes in others. Hugs and flurries of kisses from family and friends.

Some goodbyes make for new experiences; long conversations, long letters in the post, mental notes on post-its to tell a story, the excitement for all things to come.

Two days ago, I was given an opportunity to say goodbye with a song. It was a decision I made in under a minute and before I could talk myself out of it, I went up and put my name down to sing in front of a crowd of twenty or so.

I think some songs, no matter how old or how cheesy are, make for excellent goodbyes. Because if you have to say goodbye, the best way to do it is with a song in your heart. Because long after you're gone, and the emptiness threatens to take over, a song can bring back a happy memory. And when you listen to it and sing along, you know that everything will be alright.

The Happiness Project

2011-05-20T19:26:00.001+01:00

Ah, Happiness. How beautifully it finds us when we least expect it, and how silly we are to think it's ever very far away. I spent a month lovingly shaping my happiness list, and I continue to make a mental note of it each day as we go forward. For myself. And now, here are some of the people and things that have found their way into my happiness list...

April 10

Waking up on a lazy Sunday, to friends' voices. To laughter, and sunshine, and the promise of many such days ahead. When I was a child, I had wonderful memories of waking up in my aunt's house on the first day of my vacations in India. We would all be there- my parents, cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents, and after having spent the night in different corners of the house, we children would wake to the sound of hushed voices in the kitchen, the smell of fresh idlis, muffled laughter and the tweeting of birds. They remain some of my most cherished memories, and even today, when friends are over and I wake to the sound of many loved ones around me, I feel blessed. #S&S, R&V, K, P&P

April 11

Lazing in the sun, with my best friend's head in my lap, talking of nothing and everything at once. Stealing sentences from each others' minds, and breathing in the scent of the sun, under our very own piece of sky.

April 12

Waking up in my own bed after days spent gallivanting with friends. Ah the small joys of life.

April 13

Today, I didn't have to cook. Happiness came in the form of some excellent Chinese takeaway, and a comfortable sofa with a rubbish thriller on TV.

April 14

The feel of the cool body of a guitar. The twang of a string, the joy of a perfect note. The familiar tune of an old song that brings back memories. Music makes the heart remember stories like nothing else.

April 15

April 11, Our own Piece of Sky

Vishu; the Malayali New Year. My parents wake me at 4 am to wish me, transporting me back to times when somebody in the family would cover my eyes in the wee hours of the morning and walk me to the kitchen to pray. Even so far away, the call brought me memories, and I felt loved. Remembered.

April 16

Ah, a Saturday. The feeling that the weekend has only begun and the best is yet to come!

April 17

Hearing my father say he loves me. It's so much harder for men to emote, and especially fathers who have had turbulent relationships with their daughters. My mum says it often because we are both people of the heart, unlike my father who is a person of the mind (this doesn't mean I appreciate it less, Mum)

April 18

Having somebody to tell you it's all going to be okay.

April 19

The sheer pleasure that comes from a good cleaning. (When I have hunted and killed all the germs, or feel like I have, anyway)

The joy of a prayer remembered from my childhood. From moments of meaning and blind faith. From words that bring healing to hurting hearts and minds.

April 20

Watching a true story on television that moved me to tears. A miracle of another person to remind us that our own may not be far away, or may have come, or may be under our very noses. #Ewa Wisnierska

April 21: Good book and the song of trees

April 21

The joy of lying in the sun. On cool grass. With the screams of childish laughter and birds twittering. A good book, cider, some Jack Johnson and the sound of my still soul.

April 22

Old friends and new beginnings. Friendship that is full of history and expectation, of love and disappointment, of memories both sad and haunting and happy and loving. #Never telling

April 23

The joy of putting a gift together for a friend. The birth of an idea, the meticulous planning and executing and finally, the satisfaction of a gift well-received and loved. When I was young, I would only make gifts, draw cards and create little pieces of zero utility but with a whole lot of love and soul. Perhaps I will motivate myself to continue...#A&P

April 24

The feeling of holding a child. A squiggling, squealing little mass of life, that laughs from the very bottom of her toes. The smiles, the stories, the babbling, the love and lack of judgement, the feel of wet kisses, the noise, the cooing, the screaming, crying and the the simple and unassuming love. #Saachi

April 25

The familiarity of a room. Of all things yours.

April 26

Having a family that remains a family. With moments bad and good, but still a family.

April 27

Successfully creating a meal from scratch. No preservatives, no pastes, no shortcuts. Ah, the joy of such a meal.

April 28

The thrill of using an ink pen! I remember being in school and being forced to use terrible pens that left a permanent mark on your middle finger and stained every other page or item of clothing with ink. (Ah the happiness at receiving my first Parker pen, a beauty of a device; black as the night and smooth as anything there ever was. I love ink pens.)

April 29: Always give thanks for Safe Landings

April 29

Safe landings by aircraft. Phew.

April 30

The excitement of a vacation. The thrill of adventure and learning and exploring and the discovery of the unknown. (Oh and picture-making opportunities)

May 1

Meeting an old, time-worn and weathered couple who looked as though they had just had their fifth honeymoon. The idea of a love that lasts a lifetime. #Look-my-wife-is-saving-the-bus-ticket-for-memories-couple

May 2

Meeting fellow travellers from another continent and another world and finding out you have many things in common. (Like a cleaniness freak-streak) #Amanda

May 4

Climbing up a real volcano and seeing sulphur fumes! A-mazing!! #Santorini

May 5: Good shoes and long walks

May 5

Good shoes to walk in. Comfortable shoes make for good friends. They always understand how you're feeling and never leave you stranded!

May 6

Seeing history jump out from my 6th grade textbook. The Parthenon is every bit as beautiful as it is a ruin. But there is nothing like seeing something you studied and dreamed of for so long, in the flesh (so to speak)

May 7

The cab driver from Pakistan who refused to take money from us because we spoke to him in Hindi and spent the short ride trying to get to know what his life in Greece was like. There is nothing to remind you of how similar we all are than the human connection.

May 8

The familiarity of a home away from home, the joys of toilet paper, and being first in line for immigration (I know, right?)

May 9

Having someone cook for you when you're unwell.

May 10

The joy of writing a letter. Of baring your soul on paper, of sticking a stamp onto an envelope and sending your love to someone in the post. #Mum&Dad

Of Home And Homes Away From Home

2011-05-19T21:47:00.002+01:00

I feel like there's a giant hand that's just put me on a board-game and has nudged me to make my move.

Yesterday, I was applying for jobs in London, blissfully unaware of what today would bring. And here I am suddenly, with a one way ticket to Bombay, feeling like I am being uprooted once again for reasons it would seem, are all my doing.

When I first came to England, I wasn't ready for it. Emotionally, mentally, even physically I was in a time warp. I lived a dual life. One me was huddled into layers of clothing, sifting through snow and that irritating rain only England can produce, shuffling into University. But another me lived in the oppressive heat of Bombay, in the flashes of everyday life that I had just left behind, travelling in the crowded locals, weaving through the colour in the streets, preparing to leave a grieving family and a grieving city behind. I never did leave it behind, for my entire first year here.

Things changed later, I met new people, I made lifelong friends, some from the first year and some who breezed in in the second. I began to work, travel, do the things I've wanted to do, and with the finest company possible. I've always been afraid that England would sanitize me, sterilize every spontaneous emotion that grew from my Bombay days, but when fighting it, I learned to appreciate life here. The sheer structure of it, the beauty of being comfortable in your skin, and not the skin society wants you to mask yourself in, the independence and the freedom that ought to come with youth, the happiness of walking down a street without worrying about lecherous men and crowds. Finding and choosing a better life isn't a crime after all, I suppose. But three weeks from now, these past three years will feel like a different lifetime. Bombay has a way of sucking you up like that.

And now, two career lines and three years later, I find myself in a place that is utterly and completely devoid of any drive or motivation. I don't want to go up the ladder and be a corporate drone. I can net a job but keeping at it will be near impossible because I have not come this far to spend a lifetime staring at computer screen and doing ad-hoc work for the entire team because I'm everybody's friend. So I will admit here that I am an utter failure at the corporate world and that I admire the resilience and drive with which people stay in a job like my previous one to go up the ladder. I don't have it in me, and yesterday, I admitted defeat.

So I'm going back. Nobody has told me yet that they understand this decision (barring four people, two of which are my parents of course, and that isn't very much of a surprise). Everyone I have spoken to, close friends and family are supportive but dubious. From some, there is sheer concern. I have a year left on my UK visa, and I have the experience to get another job. And yet I find myself applying half-heartedly, almost mechanically, just to stay in the country. And when I realized this was what I was doing, I needed out. Advice comes from all quarters, some friends genuinely worry for my sanity, some wait to say they told me so, and some, like always silently judge from the sidelines.

But that's alright. I can understand how it looks from the outside. I have a comfortable life here; the heat, grime and crowd of Bombay is behind me. As are the petty problems of home and the complications that come with them. I am financially independent, if not emotionally. I have love, friends, freedom and a good quality of life. There is no real reason to leave except every reason.

Except I have an instinctive feeling. I believe this is the right thing to do. I want to begin a career in teaching because though I have no idea what kind of teacher I will make, I know I will enjoy it. I want to study some more without a lifetime's worth of a loan hanging over my head, and so the only feasible option for me is India. I want to spend more time at home before I am married, with my parents, in the city of my birth. I want to be around for friends' weddings, for family weddings. I want to learn how to drive, without having to pay £700 for it.

And when everybody tells me that I am in for the worst year of my life because I am going back home to an India I may not recognize, I want to remind them that this is my choice. That I appreciate all the concern and all the well-meaning advice I have been receiving even though I may not agree with it. That I know that the toughest times are when the familiar become unfamiliar and you don't know where you fit anymore. I want to remind everyone that I am making this decision knowing that the heat, grime, crowd, pollution, poverty, crime rates, politics and societal idiocy that awaits me is not unknown to me so I do not need reminding. That I am under no illusions about the romantic idea of coming home to the India of our childhood.

It will be difficult, and I will probably crib a whole lot, but it is India. And in the end, when at the start of my working life, my career looks like a dim bulb in a roadside shack, it is giving me refuge and taking me in again. And while my heart is torn in two directions, it consoles me with the thought of so many loved ones. And when I have turned my back on it, it still gives me opportunities so many places and spaces cannot give me. And it is home.

And in the end, that makes a lot of things worth the effort.

Tales Of Ancient and Modern Ruins: Greece

2011-05-13T17:37:00.007+01:00

Thira, Santorini Riya Kartha©

Part One: Thira, Santorini

Named after the patron Saint Irini, this little island was our first port of arrival. With the prospect of sun, sand, blue skies and good company, we set off on a vacation to remember. We came home a little richer, a little poorer and very sunburnt.

The Runway and the Square

After a long and sleepless night spent waiting at Athens airport, a garbled announcement informed us that we were to board our next flight to Thira, Santorini, an island 230 kms away from the port of Piraeus, Athens. A few more garbled announcements later, we were on the aircraft, a full sized jet that was full of people (surprisingly enough). I had assumed that since it was not really the peak season (June-August), that the aircraft would be smaller. Mistaken as I was, I could not help but thank my stars we weren't on one of those lightweight ones that look like a little boy somewhere was guiding by remote ('What does THIS button do, Daddy!?')

As someone who hates flying (a wild imagination and too many episodes of Air Crash Investigations is an inadvisable combination), I wasn't looking forward to the flight. I needn't have worried; we had only heard the captain announce take-off, when presumably having put the microphone to rest for a second, he picked it up again to tell us we were landing. I was overjoyed.

Thira (or Fira as it is also known) has an airport the size of a phonebooth- a small, compact little building that stands beside the only runway on the island. Helpfully, there is a small staircase that leads straight up to the entrance of the airport. But the Aegean Air authorities thought it best for all passengers to be hustled onto a bus, to wait ten minutes for everyone from both ends of the plane to make it in, and then to show us around the plot of land on which the airport was situated- driving around the aircraft once and then up a slope to stop exactly where the flight of stairs would have got us. It was all very amusing.

Oia, Santorini Riya Kartha©

Further amusement awaited us in the baggage claim area. While I stood and watched the urgency with which people waited for their bags to come out, I wondered what it was they were running away to do. There was no immigration and there were no other arrivals; only an empty airport and a vacation beckoning. And yet, there they were, all surrounding the hatch through which the baggage came in, ready to snatch it out of the hands of the staff themselves, rather than around the conveyor belt. I decided that these were the same people who scrambled up and scooted across the floor when the boarding announcements were made, spending a total of 20 minutes standing in a queue at the gate, only to get on board the aircraft to claim a seat that was already theirs.

Once out of the airport, we found a bus waiting to take us to the little town of Thira. Our hotel was situated just off what is known as the Main Square. When an inquisitive American asked our bus driver if the bus stopped at this location, the old man grunted in the affirmative. This vague response was lost on the American, however, and so he asked once more. The Greek driver this time raised his eyebrows and nodded his head to say yes. Still doubting the meaning of this very clear gesture, the American persevered with his question to which the driver threw his hands up in the air and shouted "Yes, yes, Main Square!" Later we learned that the driver's frustration may have also stemmed from the fact that the title of 'Main' Square was slightly misleading, because Thira on its finest day only has one square.

A Little Slice of Myth and a Little Ounce of History

Santorini itself is a deceptively large island, a fact that you realize only when you approach it through water. It has a deep, almost poignant story, and has a far more important place in history than you realize. The center of possibly the largest volcanic eruption in ancient history, ancient Thera as it was then known, was home to the Minoans, a Bronze Age civilization that was credited by philosopher and author Will Durant for being the 'first link in the European chain'. This civilization was advanced for its time (the Paleolithic or the Stone Age), even having had windows in their houses and clay pipes for a rudimentary sewage system, which sounds ordinary enough except for the fact that it took hundreds of years to come into being elsewhere in the world.

Geographically, the island is formed on a caldera, a cauldron-like feature that emerged due to an earlier volcanic eruption. This happens when after a particularly colossal eruption, the magma chambers under the volcano give way and are filled with water. Only one part of the volcano remains above water; the part we see today. However, this still-active volcano lies deceptively dormant but has some sinister secrets.

The Volcano, Santorini Riya Kartha©

In 1620 BC, a cataclysmic volcanic eruption occurred, effectively wiping out the inhabitants present on the island at the time. This eruption was so massive in its proportions that it created a mega-tsunami that devastated the island of Crete, which lies over 80 miles to the South of Santorini. The island itself was buried under sixty feet of pumice which fell along with the ash from the explosion. When inhaled, the pumice would mix with the water in the lungs to form a compound similar to cement, killing the unfortunate victim slowly and painfully. And so in a matter of days, an advanced and intelligent race of people were nearly wiped out. Weakened and bereft of any structure, the Minoans were later conquered by the Mycenaean armies.

But none of this with all its glory and tragedy can take away from the most interesting fact of all. Studies now claim that Santorini, or Ancient Thera was the place of Plato's mythical, magical and mighty Atlantis, a claim that holds some water considering the eerie similarities between many aspects of the lost city and Thera.

Imagine that.

"A great civilization is not conquered from without until it has destroyed itself from within" - Will Durant

Toes and Travel

Five days in Santorini gives you an excellent amount of time to wear out the walking shoes. There is a bit to see, but very rarely do you have to exert yourself to do anything. Especially because the place itself is very laid back. Arriving before seven in the morning, we realized we were probably the only ones awake at this seemingly unearthly hour, even though the sun shone brightly down on us. From the four people to be found, we were given four different directions to our hotel, until by sheer chance we spotted the signboard.
Again, we were told it was just off the Main Square. What we hadn't realized then is that everything in the town is just off the Square, or a minute up or down from the Square, or behind the Square....

Donkey! Santorini Riya Kartha©

The bus station is an interesting place. Before the first buses take off for the major towns (Oia, Pyrgos, Akrotiri, Imerovigli, Kamari and Perissa), the bus drivers all stand around in a circle, some jovial and smiling, and some, like me, expressionless (presumably not morning people, and I can sympathize here).
They talk and talk, and smoke their cigarettes and shout at each other and haggle about where they will go. So if Driver BushyBeard has to meet a girlfriend in Kamari, that is where he will go. And if Driver StiffLips wants to sunbathe, the bus to Perissa is his. This continues for a good fifteen minutes while tourists stand around melting into puddles in the sun, trying to decipher Greek (a pointless task that nobody in their right minds should waste time on). When the haggling is over, each driver shouts over the other to inform passengers of their intentions to proceed.

This of course results in more chaos, with American tourists asking the same questions five times over and Chinese tourists looking generally unsure as to what to do even when they know what bus is theirs and the Indian tourists, well, we just go and get some food for the journey.

The bus timings are strange. At first glance at the timetable, there's a bus every hour. Look closer and there's sometimes a two or three hour gap between buses. So planning ahead is sensible so as to not get stuck somewhere without transport back. While renting a quad bike or a car is possible with the right licence and money, buses are still the cheapest mode, and in all our stay we managed perfectly with them.

Ah, and for the more adventurous traveller, there's always the donkey ride to and from the port. In all our time walking down the steep steps to the port, however, only the large groups of Chinese took to the donkeys, smiling and waving happily at us, probably thinking that as usual, the rest of the world had a long way to go before we caught up with them.

Lucky's Souvlakis

The Guide to Greece lists a number of places in Santorini for travellers to eat good, inspired Mediterranean cuisine with an eye on the tab. All the restaurants that we checked out were good. But along the way, we found places that were even better.

The thing with reading guidebooks is that you lose your sense of adventure, limiting yourself to the places the guide tells you are best, often without realizing that in between the guide going to print and being published, anything can happen to change the quality of the eateries they list; there could be management changes, the head chef could have killed the sous chef and have been arrested, or the place could have been shut down for ominous reasons. Therefore the sensible thing to do would be to check out other places that aren't on the list, or maybe even ask the locals, or use plain common sense to see which restaurants have a long queue outside, rather than go only by the book.

NRG Creperie, Thira Riya Kartha©

Lucky's Souvlakis is a popular spot in Thira for the lovely gyros and souvlakis that make up the local snack and fast-food fare. Gyros (pronounced yee-ros) is a close cousin of the shawarma and therefore a big favourite of mine. Souvlakis are kebabs and are served with pita and salad. When we ate at Lucky's, we thought it was good. But the next day, we walked into a completely unassuming little shop and had a far better meal than at Lucky's. This place wasn't in the books, though, sadly enough.

The guide was right though, about Naoussa. Their bread was fresh out of the oven and the moussakka (a lasagne-like dish with eggplant and other baked veggies) was exceptional. And about the NRG creperie where the owner was nice enough to make me one with fresh yoghurt and fruits so I could stay off the sweets.

A View from the Top

There are plenty of interesting things to do in Santorini, but most of all you need to be able to appreciate the aesthetic beauty around you.

Wine Museum,Kamari Riya Kartha©

We visited the wine museum at Kamari, which was an educative cave (six meters below the ground, 300 metes long) full of little tableaus showing the actual process of wine production from the 1600s to the 1970s. I was hoping it would include an actual tour, but instead it has a free wine tasting session in the end (an excellent alternative, except the man who served us and informed us about the intricacies of the wine was rapidly evolving into a robot as he spoke, presumably from the boredom, repetition and many braindead tourists that his work entailed.) The caves themselves are slightly damp and the mannequins are eerie but the audio guide in concise and the plaques are mostly in English and make for clear reading. I enjoyed the museum because it had so much of the human side of wine-making, showing the evolving processes from when it entailed so much more than just machines and smooth technology.
Another interesting day was when we climbed up the active volcano. It's a good trek and when you finally get to the top you can see the craters which still spew sulphur along with hot fumes. It's a slightly daunting sight, and thankfully for us, we only researched the volcanic history of the island later, or I would have tiptoed up that mountain what with the stories we'd read. Once you get to the top, you can really see what the island must have been like before the first eruption. It's like standing in a castle in the middle of a moat, with the rest of the islands beyond it. And it's stunning.

All in All

Santorini is breathtaking. There is colour all around, the houses are quaint, and even the doors are beautiful. The view of the caldera is beautiful beyond imagination. The colour of the Mediterranean never disappoints. With all the sky, sun and sand at your disposal, there is nothing to bring you down. At every turn in the road, you look around and marvel at this place. And knowing the story, you marvel at how life goes on, even after the worst tragedies, the human spirit wakes up to life at every opportunity.

Doors of Colour, Santorini Riya Kartha©

Coming Up.........
The next part of this travelogue will contain images and observations from Athens, though if I added in this post, I would risk creating putting the few fans I have in a comatose state!

How The British Love Their Monarchs...

2011-04-29T09:17:00.000+01:00

....And how we all love a good wedding!

As thousands gather all around the UK to watch their Prince step into marital bliss, there's a palpable sense of wonder and joy all around. People have been camping outside Westminster Abbey and in the Royal Parks for the whole of yesterday and the wee hours of this morning.

What makes it even better is that William is really loved and respected. And Kate Middleton has an earthy charm about her. And this is what appeals to people; they are part of the monarchy, but still so very ordinary. William, of course, has roughed it out, apart from spending most of his youth trying to live more like a commoner and less like a Royal. The result is evident for all to see; he has become so popular in England that he is no longer just Diana's son, but an entity in himself.

I think it's heartwarming to see a nation come together to celebrate like this. Thousands are out waiting to catch a glimpse of the couple, and there are hundreds of street parties all around England, with giant screens up so people can watch the wedding together. The Union Jack is out in style and people of all nationalities are waving it about.

I wish Diana was there to see her son getting married though. He's taken after her charitable spirit and involvement in the development sector- something that other royals around the world could learn from.

Okay so clearly I'm a big fan. Not of the entire Royal family, but definitely of William and perhaps now Kate. I hope they live a long life. And stay together, setting a much-needed example for the people of the United Kingdom.

The Secret Life of Bees

2011-04-14T16:15:00.001+01:00

Yesterday, after what feels like lightyears to a bookworm like me, I picked up a book to read.

As luck would have it, it was one of those books that you pick up and decide by the end of page one that everything else in between this page and the last is going to be a distraction.

Deceptively simple, Sue Monk Kidd's The Secret Life of Bees is a simple tale, told by a refreshingly simple voice.

Narrated by Lily Owens, the little girl who forms the core of the book, the story takes us to Sylvan, South Carolina at the height of the racial divide. Lily is thirteen as we begin the book, living with her borderline abusive father who seems to see her only as the bane of his existence. Her only friend and confidante is their help Rosaleen, who apart from being overly forthright and very feisty, is also black (“she oozes the colour of night itself”, according to Lily).

As Rosaleen’s one great desire (apart from her daily intake of snuff) is the chance to vote, the passing of the Civil Rights Bill gives her the opportunity she’s been waiting for and she is determined to make it to the voting lines. Lily’s insistence on going along and a mishap along the way leads to events that neither of them could dream of, whisking them out of Sylvan.

Lily’s mother also forms a central theme in the book, leading her into the Boatwright family home, where she meets sisters August, May and June Boatwright, each of whom play an important role in Lily's life. Towards the end, Lily will have to come to terms with many decisions, both past ones made by her mother, and future ones she makes for herself.

Lily Owen reminds me of little Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird and the subtle wit and generous humour the book is peppered with leaves you with a lovely fuzzy feeling, just as other events can also bring ready tears.

I always judge a book by how much of it stays with me long after I've finished it and set it down. The Secret Life of Bees left me with a haunting sense of the bittersweet, and reinforced some simple facts of life bluntly and beautifully.

"Some things don't matter much. Like the color of a house. How big is that in the overall scheme of life? But lifting a person's heart--now, that matters. The whole problem with people is...they know what matters, but they don't choose it...The hardest thing on earth is choosing what matters"

-August Boatwright to Lily Owens, The Secret Life of Bees

The Happiness Project

2011-04-14T15:49:00.000+01:00

The Happiness Project is a nice little think-up I've come across and I think it's only fitting that I take part in it considering my current frame of mind.

Not because I'm not happy. On the contrary, I am very happy. Only I believe that I don't give enough importance or thanks to the things that truly deserve it. I don't think many of us do. As a result, I am going to be jotting down a sentence a day.

This sentence will not, in all probability be something life-changing or profound, but simple and real. An everyday thing that I have lost focus of, perhaps. Or a happiness I've forgotten.

I am going to be noting this down in a little book, but also on this blog, wherever I can. If I am comfortable sharing, I will put it up here. If not, it will lay confined to my little moleskin.

For more information on the Happiness Project and if you feel you would like to do it yourself, check out Seven Cherubs, who has summed up Gretchen Rubin's idea excellently.

For those of you who read this blog and don't have blogs of your own- why don't you try it anyway? I don't think it can hurt anyone and it would be great to share in a month's time (or not, upto you).

All it takes is a pen and a paper and less than five minutes every day!

Yay, happy windmills!!

Happy Endings

2011-04-14T12:32:00.000+01:00

I like movies.

I've never been crazy about them, or liked them as much as books, but if you ask me to come watch one with you, I'd be as happy as the next person.

As long as it doesn't have a tragic ending, that is.

Growing up in KSA as I did, there wasn't much scope to watch movies in a theater. In fact, come to think of it, there wasn't much scope to watch movies at all. Like with all families who craved entertainment, we owned a VCR and about five video tapes to go with it (this was a collection of five that we built up over time, mind you).

It was the era of the Video Tape and everyone who had any idea about anything would have a favourite rental store and visit it every weekend. Of course, the owners of these stores, like most shopkeepers in KSA would be Indian, and therefore have the best and most fantastic selection of Bollywood movies known to mankind. Armed with a tape, we would come back and insert it into the player, only to stare dully at the screen for two minutes, realizing that we had either been duped with a dodgy copy or we had simply forgotten to hit the Play button.

I watched so many movies so many times over that I could spout dialogues and perhaps act in various roles myself if it came to that. The Sound of Music, The Twelve Tasks of Asterix, Robin Hood, Tarzan, The Lion King and Race the Sun formed the basis of my formative years where movies were concerned. I also remember one occasion where we had a huge get-together to watch Independence Day when it was released. What a wonderful movie and what a festive occasion it was. You just don't get that kind of entertainment anymore- even with CDs, DVDs, Blu-Rays and 42 inch TVs- the spirit of excitement is dulled with all the choice.

Through college, being in a Mass Media our course dictated that we watch a variety of movies for a module called Understanding Cinema. Let's just say that though a lot of those movies were meant to be groundbreaking cinematic experiences, most went over my head.

Then having cemented myself in Mumbai, I began to also cement my relationship with my cousins. And if anybody has ever gotten close to making me a movie buff, I'd say it was Vinit. For two years he badgered me to watch V for Vendetta and I kept putting it off, having no clue what it entailed or what it was about. I gave in one day, and instantly it became my number one movie of all-time. So many movies followed, and whatever education I had where cinema was concerned came to me on in a stuffy little room with yellow curtains, where my brother and I would watch movies late into the wee hours of the morning, raiding the kitchen from time to time and having intermittent talks on the window sill.

And for whatever reason, I cannot watch a movie that I know ends sadly anymore. I never could, but I used to be able to digest the fact that it was just fiction. But now I've lost the capacity to watch movies where art imitates life so much that you can't tell the difference. I don't like endings where people die, or people don't make up or abrupt endings where things don't fall into place. It works like that in life a lot, it doesn't need to in the movies!

Today, I can pay for theater tickets and can download and watch movies on a 42 inch TV in Blu-Ray. But nothing comes close to that rickety old computer that Vinit nurtured (and hated) so much. He would probably have loved it though!

Some things are at their best when at their simplest I suppose, and some memories are the way they are because of that.

A New Endeavor

2011-04-13T20:49:00.001+01:00

And so after much toiling, I have finally put into progress something I've been wanting to do forever!

*drumroll*

A Portfolio Photography Website...!!

This is something we here at QM have been wanting to do forever. 'Tis only a portfolio website, so I hope I can keep changing the pictures off and on, but it's just something to put the best of the best up in. This is the beginning, so I will make changes as we go along until one day, it will hopefully have some much better stuff on there!

I also will be updating Amethyst Haze, which I have so woefully neglected for many months. Perhaps with a new change of face. Only 'tis quite difficult to get 600 pictures onto a computer, scour for the best ones and then find the time to upload individual pictures, but perhaps a better platform than Blogger awaits and I shall find it and AH will be resurrected once more!

Anyhow, for the new site, here is a glimpse of it, and I will also be linking it on trusted QM. I know every second person on the planet has one now, but I'm hoping this will be a platform to analyze my photographs and learn from them more than anything else. As always, feedback is much appreciated!

Riya Kartha Photography

Happy sifting through my memories!

QM

When Sport is a Religion...

2011-04-06T22:00:00.002+01:00

...We worship without a thought to class or creed or colour.

We rise to pray as one and sing the same hymns.

We laugh and cry as one people, bridging generations, and accepting defeat with the grace of those whose faith is strong and unbending.

We embrace disappointment and we try to forgive in the hope that tomorrow will be different.

And when the wind blows our way once more,we stand on the brink of realizing a dream.

We chant our God's names and look to the sky together.

And in that moment we rise as one.

One billion people praying for one dream.

And when the deed is done and the sun has risen, we celebrate. We laugh through each others eyes and we breathe each others beliefs. We hold hands and we are happy for each other in a way we have never been before.

And in our moments of glory we shine as one.

Thank you team India 2011. For making a dream come true for a billion people who have so much and yet so little in common.

For the moments in time where we breathed and prayed as one people.

For bringing home the World Cup and so much more.

For two interesting and excellent opinions, both of which I support, please read:

A Whiny Letter to a Country that probably doesn't need it.

and

Why I didn't watch the World Cup Final

A or B?

2011-03-22T15:50:00.000Z

I am an indecisive person.

On a good day, I take fifteen minutes to make simple decisions. What most people would find simple, I find exceptionally difficult. Will it be the blue shoes or the black shoes? Will I have a pasta or a pizza? Will I wear the dress or the trousers to work today?

Simple decisions like this take me time. Lots of time.

On a bad day, it’s anybody’s guess just how bad it gets. Friends have been known to angrily shake menus (and fists) at me and many have been known to order for me to spare themselves the ignominy of my dillydallying while the waiter slowly loses the will to live.

My family has been plagued by this affliction of mine for years. Most of my decisions are now viewed with an air of extreme cautiousness and sometimes screams of despair because they have no idea what decision of mine I’m going to reverse next.

Oddly enough, I am also the most impulsive one of the lot too. And as the astute among you will know (I can see you shaking your heads in well-placed concern), this is a contradiction in itself, and never the best combination.

Because how can you work on an impulse, when you haven’t decided what you’re going to do?

I have chosen to make life-altering, ground-breaking decisions on impulse; leaving careers, choosing careers, opting for degrees and educational institutions on impulse, etc…you understand me.

Needless to say, I have been doing this all my life. And so I’ve landed up in many a soup (the details of which you will never see on this blog, so don’t bother looking) But I turned out okay, (although many of my impulses may have been grave let-downs, and of course invaluable fountains of learning for me)

It’s one of those things that I’ve tried to change. Until I realised that my lack of decision-making capability is not because I don’t know what I want from life. It’s because I can see so many possibilities in every equation that it always seems wrong to pick one without a thought.

Sure, some would call this being greedy. I call it the Wider Perspective. In the end, because I can’t have all the time in the world, I pick whatever seems best for the moment. And this very frequently lays the foundation for my downfall.

Recently, I made one of these impulsive decisions. In many ways, this was the most serious one I’ve made. Like my mother said to me later, I didn’t think with both my heart and head. (I usually only listen to the former and leave the latter hanging and then have to deal with a lot of gloating).

Faced with one of Life’s Big Questions, I made a decision. Without consulting anyone, without bringing anyone in on it, without so much as asking for advice or opinions from everyone it would affect.

Needless to say, I woke up one morning with that familiar sense of being completely torn between Options A & B. I am still torn. Knowing me, I’ll feel this sense of being pulled in opposite directions for many months to come.

This time, being a far more serious offence, I inadvertently hurt a lot of the people I loved the most. My parents, my best friends, the rest of my lovely family. Knowing me the way they do, most were upset, but not too surprised. I’m sorry you guys- I know that it may seem like I have no idea what’s going to happen next (and I don’t). But I will make sure that it will all fall into place. (And if it doesn’t, hey what are you guys for anyway?!)

Now I am on the brink of another decision. One that might possibly shape the rest of my life. As always, I can see so many possibilities that picking one is the hardest thing for me.

On one hand, I could choose to live my life hammering away at a computer in the corporate world, making money, seeing the world, building a concrete foundation for myself and those around me. On the other hand, I could make a genuine difference, a tiny dent in the world, carve a niche for myself.

What it’s going to be and how long it’s going to take is anybody’s guess.

Question

2011-03-20T15:13:00.001Z

Can you guys read this?

Because as purty as it looks and as nice as my blog's makeover has been, I sure as hell don't want to write in it if my small band of loyal followers can't read!

Feedback appreciated!

QM

Japan

2011-03-17T15:46:00.002Z

What if you woke up one morning and you looked out the window and saw Death speeding down the road?

In an instant, you would lose everything you had. The house your parents built from scratch and the first ever car you bought.; that lovely watch that your grandmother gave you, the one you were waiting to pass on to your own daughter; pictures of your children that smiled happily at you from the mantelpiece would disappear along with that unassuming piece of paper with your name on it, made out the day you were born.

Every single tangible form of evidence that you had lived - graduation certificates, love notes, keepsakes from your ancestors, your favourite photographs and paintings, diaries and to-do lists – everything was about to vanish into thin air.

If you survived the first onslaught, Death would still haunt you. Your most beloved people would go missing, every fibre of your being would hurt from worry, and then despair. You would have nowhere to go and nothing to do. You would exist but any sign that you ever lived was gone forever. How would you define your life, yourself?

All around you people would walk aimlessly- searching for houses that once stood on their street, for friends and family that had lived within, for workplaces and educational institutions that defined them and their achievements. Everything would fade away into a mass of rubble and mist. How would you walk on? And where would you go?

And when food became scarce and everything you knew and loved was gone, where would you look for hope?

And when would the line between despair and desperation begin to blend?

And what would you do if you woke up like that, without a parent, a lover, a sister, friend or brother, to find that the world beyond your borders didn’t care? That people’s sympathies were restricted to tut-tutting in front of televisions and moaning about it to co-passengers on trains?

How would you feel if the world gave up on you?

I do appreciate that we have all got our own problems.

Financial problems, relationship problems, spiritual problems- there’s a whole spectre of problems that plague us all every day. But our biggest problem, as a collective issue, is the fact that we have become so selfish, with our heads so far up our posteriors that nothing really matters to us anymore, if we are not at the centre of the issue.

We are the problem.

Let me make it clear now before I get a barrage of comments- I am not sitting here on my high horse judging everyone who does not contribute. I am, however, going to judge you if you don’t make an effort in any way.

Apathy is unacceptable.

If you don’t have money, don’t contribute. But do your research, donate clothes or medicines or a list of everyday items needed. If you don’t have clothes or money or any of this, spread the word to people who can afford to give. Talk about it and discuss it. Even if it jerks one out of 50 people out of their reverie, it’s worth talking about.

Do your bit.

Because the world is changing and one day it may be you walking down a road of rubble, down a once-beautiful road, where your house once stood.

Because you owe it to another human being, however far away, however disconnected from you, to reach out.

Or to try.

Your India or My India?

2011-01-24T13:41:00.001Z

Recently, one of my closest friends commented on one of my favourite blogs and said she thought the author was self-righteous in many of her posts. She said she thought that the problem was that she didn’t see India as it was and held a more elitist perspective of the country, and should come back down to reality sooner than later.

Our argument was especially relevant because I'm on the brink of one of those big decisions so many of us abroad find ourselves making- I want to come home and I want to come home to an India I recognise.

While living abroad has its charm, my heart lies in the chaos and the colour back home.

As always, people have their opinions. In a society that requires the neighbourhood doodhwallah’s opinion on the simplest of tasks, I find myself at the end of a lot of genuine but misplaced advice. I am constantly reminded when there of how this is India, not London. I am also constantly reminded that workplaces are crappy hellholes with work-life balance being a completely foreign concept. I am reminded at every turn how difficult life is and of the sheer struggle that every day is. That it’s dirty, grimy, that I will have to live at home after two years of managing my own life. That this is how it is, get used to it.

And yet I wake up in London to a silent morning and go to sleep without the rickety motions of the fan, and I don’t enjoy it. I have a smooth tube ride to work, never have to travel for more than 40 minutes both ways, don’t get my hair mussed and the world’s grime on my face, walk into a comfortable office and work comfortably while sharing amazing banter with colleagues. I have access to excellent internet speeds, pay all my bills online, have a place of my own and come and go as I like. My weekends are free and I’ve two whole days to see and do all that I want to in London, which on most days feels the cultural capital of world.

England is a wonderful place in many ways and there is so much we can learn from the English. They have systems firmly in place and they have rules that they not only follow, but respect. They also protect and preserve their heritage in a way that puts our indifference to our own glorious cultural and historical heritage to shame. As a people, they are friendly and humorous, and save the occasional oddball, I haven’t found them to have stiff upper lips at all. They are polite and they are more widely travelled and less ignorant than most other people in the West, and I’ve made some excellent friends here. Most importantly, their patriotism is an extension of their civic sense, and that’s why the UK looks and feels the way it does.

And yet here we are, the fastest growing economy in the world, and we still sit with blinkers on, refusing to acknowledge the problems we have and insisting on being ignorant and apathetic and infusing the same apathy in our young ones. We still have the most flaw-riddled employment and labour laws (despite being a completely labour-intensive economy) and we have dreary workplaces that can make new joiners feel like they’ve entered Hell itself. We still spit on roads (and every surface that can form a proper backdrop to the colour of beetle leaves) and walk like cattle between heavy traffic. We still shy away from discussing issues at home. Sex, fundamentalism, religion, poverty- everything is taboo. As always, we remain a nation of contrasts. As we grow, we leap backwards in time every day- reinforcing ridiculous taboos among our women, insisting on putting religion before common sense, and generally closing our eyes to logic and humanity.

So when people tell me that I should expect and accept these things when I go back home my first question to them is why. Yes, this is India’s reality. Yes, I can expect to see it there. But no, not now and not in a million years will I accept it. I understand that things are the way they are for a reason. I know our past and I know why our mindsets are the way they are. Changing them will take decades. But accepting them only reinforces them and makes things worse. I am going back to India because I love it. But I don’t need to love everything about it because I can see what’s wrong with it and I want to believe that it will change someday.
If India belongs to the poor woman on the road who litters, it also belongs to the rich girl who can see something wrong with it. If India belongs to the men who reinforce chauvinistic trends, it also belongs to the women who fight back. Accepting that something is wrong is the first step to righting it.

We often listen to NRIs who return home to crib about India with a sense of irritation and annoyance. I’ve often been in the position where I myself have reinforced so many of India’s ills to people who come and whine about it to us back home- because it always irritates us to listen to what's wrong with us. But if we really pay attention, we could also really see how much we have to do and where we can go from here without glossing over our problems.

India is a mixture of realities. It is your reality as much as it is mine. And coming back home is going to reinforce that in many more ways than one. I love London and it is a beautiful city and it enriches whoever has the fortune to have lived in it. But I have made a decision and I have a right to go home to my country knowing that we can do so much better.

I only hope I won’t have to give this speech every time some poor unfortunate soul reminds me that this is India, not London.

Yes, this is a rant. It is also slightly all-over-the-place. But hey, point made :)

Of Surprises And Goodbyes

2011-01-17T07:19:00.000Z

I love surprises as much as I hate goodbyes.

In two weeks, I've had a chance to be a big part of the latter- surprising my parents, aunts, cousins, friends and all the people who matter to me in the city I call home. In the end, as with all surprises that go off well, it was all worth the wait. Eyes popped out of skulls, decibel levels hit the roof and millions of hugs and kisses were exchanged in a matter of seconds.

All the nail-biting suspense, inconvenient and tiring travel and horridtinyterrible airport transits in the world are worth that one moment. Nothing I have felt compares with the feeling.

And then yesterday after a rollercoaster two weeks, I had to say goodbye. I had to turn around and wave at my favourite people in the world, committing details to memory once more, for the next few months. Nothing compares with that feeling either.

In my heart of hearts I know that few things are worth that feeling. A sense of independence, standing on your own two feet, paying your own bills and making your way in the world may bring you consolation when you go away, and voices will tell you that in the long run, everything happens for the best.

But when you have lived in that world, however long, or however briefly, there are few things that matter more than being among those you love. Those that do have to be handled with care, with faith and hope and a little living on the edge. Those that don't pale into oblivion anyway.

Life is tough- whichever way you look at it. But it is what we choose to fight life's downs with that make us who we are in the end. On one hand, comfort and convenience beckon, entrenched systems, work-life balances and strong employment laws entice us with their lovely and sedate ways.

On the other hand there is such a place where every day, every fibre of you is embroiled in a fight- to stay alive, against injustice, for peace, for a day's worth of sanity. But this place offers so much more beyond the anarchy and the chaos we see at first glance.

My choice was made the day I landed in Mumbai.

Next time, there won't be anymore goodbyes.

2011

2010-12-31T12:36:00.000Z

Tomorrow another dawn will usher a New Year in.

At midnight, the scales will be even once more, the slate wiped clean.

As always, there is something beautiful about the stroke of midnight on the 31st of December.

I hope that tonight as you stand on the threshold waiting to usher a New Year in, you are surrounded by love and happiness.

I hope you believe in all that is sacred to you and that you hold closest to your heart. I hope you look eagerly for the rays of dawn on the horizon and take the plunge into 2011 with light hearts and laughter ringing in your ears. That you decide to fight prejudice and hatred of every kind in the New Year and that your world is made better by kindness, compassion and goodness.

I pray that you have the strength to face every obstacle that comes your way with a head held high and a clear conscience. I pray that you’re happy but more importantly, content. That you remember that those who we have lost will be watching us, urging us to put our hearts and souls into life, because we are here for a reason.

More than anything, I hope you live, love and make beautiful memories.

Happy New Year, All.

Have a blessed 2011.

A View From The Top

2010-12-31T11:54:00.000Z

Sometimes all we need is to look at the bigger picture.

This is a lesson I have learnt this year; perhaps I’m still in the process of learning it, but I know I will try my best to live by it as much as I can. My new lesson consists of one simple, powerful word.

Perspective.

I recently had one of those days of absolute and crushing disappointment- something I was looking forward to didn’t work out, and at the very last minute, it all came down like a house of cards. Sadly, I made my way home.

Elsewhere in the South of England, a mother and father were being told that their daughter would never come home again. She disappeared eight days before Christmas and was found strangled by the roadside a short distance from her home.

My world, which had previously suffered a minor spin, was in one way set right again in that moment. I was home, I was safe, I was loved, I was alive. And that was enough. For the Joanna Yeates of the world, there is no tomorrow, there is no waking up, and there will never be a time to come home. That thought puts me to shame- we are right to feel despair and disappointment for we are human- but our sorrows must be within reason.

And if you really think about it, perspective works for most things. For those of us who have lost two loved ones to death in the past consecutive years, we are glad that between two one was spared the suffering. For the one who suffered, we take comfort in the fact that we are not among those who have to wait years for wrongs to be righted and for justice to take its course.

We can look at ourselves in so many ways- we can look at ourselves as lone figures on a field or we can look at ourselves as small pinpricks in a vast ocean of people. I now believe that it’s the view you pick that makes all the difference.

Babies Before

2010-12-21T16:46:00.004Z

Recently at work, we had a Guess the Baby Photo competition.

It was tougher than most of us thought- people do change and despite the fact that some of our noses were slender and tiny when we were babies, tragically they don’t always stay that way.

After a lot of guessing and hooting at the differences between then and now, I picked mine up and stuck it to the side of my screen. A day or two ago, when I was indulging in a bit of daydreaming- (I don’t do this often at work, mind you)- I looked at the picture and wondered at how very small I was. And just how small my world was then.

Something about my wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights look made me want to pick my baby self up and hug it. I thought of all the bad days I’d had recently and maybe that’s what induced this sudden madness, but I wanted to console myself in a way that seemed possible only if I went back in time.

I would tell the baby Me that she would be okay- that the world was a big place, with a lot of disappointment and a lot of heartbreak, but also that it was a place filled with beauty and love- the glory of which the older me still couldn’t fathom. I would like to tell the baby me how I was proud of the person she’d become, that we all have flaws but beating herself up about it as she grew would only damage her more. I wanted to hug her and kiss the top of her mostly bald little head and warn her not to be ungrateful about the hair she would have- because it was good hair and she should stop cribbing about it.

If only I could hold the baby me and wrap my arms around her, I would remind her that even through all the heartache she would face growing up, she was still blessed- to belong to a beautiful family, to have love in her midst every day, to have the world as her oyster. I would remind her that the disasters life would bring her wouldn’t really be the ones she worried about while she bit her nails throughout her adolescence and beyond- they would blindside her like bolts from the blue.

I would hold her little hands and tell her that she wasn’t alone in facing life’s disappointments. That failure was a part of growing up, and of success. That to pull through it would mean to come out stronger. I would warn her of the despair losing loved ones would bring- brothers to death, boyfriends to growing up, friends to bitterness and negativity, others through apathy and time, and I would remind her that while some loved ones couldn’t be replaced, new ones would appear- and stay.

I would look the little baby Me in the eye and tell her she would grow up from the fragile little soul into a woman with a passion and a love for life. That she would have as many flaws as the next person, but that she would steer clear of most vices and stay clean, that she shouldn’t spend so much time worrying because she couldn’t control everything that happened.

Little baby Me, it may be a little early in the day to say this yet (seeing as we’re only 23) but don’t worry- I think we turned out okay.

(I realise this is an awful lot to saddle a one year old with- so I’m glad we can’t all go back and say all of this to our past selves. But perhaps we could remember our baby selves- the naivety, the innocence and the goodness that is inherent in all children- and remember that not everything we do and everyone we become is something we can control- a little bit of slack and a little self lovin’ goes a long way!)

Winter Rainbows

2010-10-31T19:09:00.001Z

Winter is here.

And as everything is cold to the touch, I try and keep myself warm from within. Unlike the one before this, I am going to warm myself and fight my demons,(for we all know how much those demons like cold dark nights) with the help of something fundamental, something basic.

I'm going to fight them with colour.

And so while we move out of daylight savings and into the dark murkiness of the winter months, I'm going to keep reminding myself that even when all the skies and all the people in England swathe themselves in gray,I have a choice whether to blend in or not.

I'm going to make sure I incorporate colour into every day,even if it means a bright red scarf or a small yellow bangle. I'm going to do all the things that bring me purple splashes of joy and pink polka dots of love and embrace all the yellow rays of sunshine that come my way.

I'm going to remain true to my Indian self, never forgetting what it means to belong to a nation of colour and vibrance that other countries can only hope to have. And in doing so, I'm going to carry around a little piece of home wherever I go.

Yes, I'm going to bathe in colour every day this winter. And before you know it, I'll have played with all the colours of the rainbow.

And then it will be summer again.

As always it took one of my constants to remind me of this, which is fitting because she's the most colorful of my constants- always bathing the world around her in yellow sunshine. Indebted to you as ever, littlester KM. You bring a lot of colour into my life, so thank you for this, and more.

Arundhati Roy's Kashmir

2010-10-31T14:12:00.003Z

Once more, Kashmir has fought its way to the headlines.

Never a stranger to the front page, it has nonetheless been propelled back into our collective consciousness with Arundhati Roy's recent statements, breaking free of the little closet in the back of our minds- that space where we secretly store all our uncomfortable issues, where our controversial silences and fundamentalist stands lie.

And once more, we are losing sight of the actual issue. While everyone in India is on a Roy-bashing spree, we need to look beyond the words and the sentiment- and really see what we should be seeing- Kashmir.

Roy suggests 'Kashmir has never been a part of India', and though I do not believe I am informed enough to go into the political and historical intricacies of this statement, I believe this is true in a certain way. For a majority of us have never treated Kashmir as more than a place on the map, a crown to our kingdom. For over sixty years we have fought our battles and lived our lives as though Kashmir owes us gratitude for being a part of India.

But we haven't earned Kashmir. We are insistent on saying that it is an integral part of our country and yet we are so hesitant to really get involved in the deep and dirty issues; the politics, the history and the everyday lives of the Kashmiris. We sit on our high horses and say that we cannot let it go- if it's Kashmir today, it will be the North East tomorrow- or the more common refrain- India's loss will be Pakistan's gain.

I understand what it may mean to give Kashmir away. I feel the pain and I will grieve as much as the next person because I feel a part of the whole that is our country. But if it means that more children will grow up without guns and hate, if more laughter fills the air and more men and women walk the streets without fear, then my joy will overshadow, even obliterate my sorrow. And if the sun rises without a mask of blood in Kashmir every day, then I don't care whether people call themselves Kashmiris, Indians or Pakistanis, we will have succeeded in bringing peace to a one part of the world. And we will all be better human beings for it. It is an idealist's thought, I know, but it is not impossible.

And unless we can really get involved in Kashmir's issues, we cannot afford to take a stand blindly, and this is what Roy is trying to point out. Our apathy and our indifference is appalling, and nobody, not one of us can afford to take a patriotic stand backing an Army of 70,000 without truly understanding the sinister meaning of military occupation.

But what I don't understand is why we are so intent on allowing this to remain a political issue. Is our national identity the collective sum of the number of states we call ours and lines on a map? Have we become such hypocrites as a nation that we remain blind to inhumane practices on our soil while we are quick to berate other nations guilty of the same? Have we lost the ability to look at the simplest of injustices- the missing sons, the raped daughters, the silence of the dead and the grief of the living?

If the answer to these questions is a yes, then I must agree with everything Roy has to say. And I must pity, as she does, the men and women of my country who want her silenced.

We are on the verge of becoming a superpower; on the precipice of a great future.

But if we are prepared to enter this era without being open to dissident voices, without fighting for the smallest injustices, without respect for opinions that challenge our own, and without the will to debate and question our decisions and actions as a country, I for one am going to grieve for the country we could have been and the country we are about to become.

Watch this space:http://zunagash.com/author/ria/

Delhi 2010

2010-10-03T23:00:00.001+01:00

I've spent a lot of time over the past few weeks having arguments with friends and colleagues about how India has handled hosting the Commonwealth Games. I have followed it closely and criticized the government and our apathy as a people as I followed the news in the media. But today, as I sat watching the opening ceremony of the CWG at Delhi, I felt nothing but pride.

For the past two weeks, being so far away from home and having to depend on the (extremely biased BBC) and other media, I was frustrated, annoyed and most of all disappointed. I despaired and told colleagues and friends alike that we had one chance to show the world we were capable of not mucking something this big up, and I genuinely thought (the idealist that I am) that we would really come out on top. So when pictures of paan stained enamel and stray dogs paws were circulated in the news, I felt like screaming at the top of my lungs.When the bridge collapsed, I threw up my hands in despair and thought it was the end of the road for us.

But today as I sat with a group of six other friends (all from various parts of India), I felt a glow unlike anything I've felt before. For the first time as I watched an international event of this scale and size (even if it is a glorification of England's imperialist tendencies), I felt a surge of pride that my country was showcasing its massive potential.

As a fan of opening ceremonies in general (one of those random things), even if I wasn't Indian (and this is a debatable point), I would have had goosebumps. I have never seen India deliver a more tasteful performance, so beautifully in sync with everything that makes India the country it is- the colour, the vibrance, the variety and the sheer chaos. Everything fit.

What I especially enjoyed was the fact that there wasn't a single celebrity to hog the limelight and because of this, credit can be given where it is due- to all those nameless, faceless people who made this happen, all those people who worked tirelessly, relentlessly against all odds and all criticism to make this a success. All those dancers, children, artistes and singers who spent hours practicing in what I can only imagine was a grueling routine (how else could 9000 people be so fluidly in sync with one another?)...I am so proud of them all, I could burst.

Turns out we that we also knew exactly when to cheer and when to boo. I was proud when India cheered for the Pakistan contingent and I was even happier when Kalmadi was booed. I know, it's petty, but politicians in India have hogged the limelight for far too long. Today was a success not because of any of these people but because of all the volunteers who made Delhi 2010 possible, who went out there and gave it their best shot so all of us can still hope that things will get better.

I am also wondering why out of 71 countries who participated, only England, Scotland, Wales, Australia and a handful of other developed countries had a problem with our facilities. I don't think for a minute that there should be a compromise on the hygiene and sanitation aspects, but I wonder why the Jamaicans never found anything wrong with the premises. Are we to believe then that only the countries that voiced their dissatisfaction had world class athletes? Whatever the case, I hope credit is given where it is due now (hopefully the Village will be in a condition that ensures this is the case).

Perhaps the Western world forgets sometimes that we are still developing, and that for a country of 1 billion things are far too chaotic and matters too diverse to just fall into place. Nor should any of us be comparing Beijing to Delhi. There is no justification for any lack of international standard, but every country is unique and therefore must be viewed as individual entities when it comes to international events such as this. I don't for a minute believe that this means India should compromise on any international standards, but I do believe we must do everything within the remits of our resources.

This article is provides a refreshing view:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/johnbeattie/2010/09/india_the_perfect_location_for.html

We are far from perfect, and we all know that pride very often does make itself felt before a substantial fall and I really do hope this is not the case with these Games. But for now I am happy to stop and stand with my mouth agape and appreciate the sheer effort that the Games must have taken.

What a show. My mind is still reeling from watching all those beautiful men and women dance and sing and smile into the cameras. My people, my country, my chaos. We have two weeks to go before we know how exactly we have fared, but for a start I must say that this was better than I imagined it could be. Unwittingly perhaps, all those men, women and children who participated in the ceremony and all those 15,000 volunteers have shown the world that India is capable of big things.

But much more importantly, they have shown us all as Indians that we are capable of reaching any heights that we want to if we work together. The palpable pride with which Indians everywhere are discussing the opening is heartening because more than anybody else it is we who need to believe in ourselves.

I hope with every fibre of my being, that this is the beginning.

Prayer

2010-09-21T23:08:00.000+01:00

I’m not a religious person.

I don’t have that strong sense of conviction that most people have that there is a God and a heaven and a hell. I don’t have that blind devotion to the skies above, that unwavering faith in destiny and in the way things are meant to be.

But in spite of this, I have realized that I do have something in common with all the people who do. I have realized, that despite being the least spiritually inclined person I know, I still pray.

And so I catch myself sending a string of prayers heavenward at the oddest of times.

I pray to the sunshine when the morning sun rays come down for a gentle cuddle. I once prayed to a violin as it sang away in the underground, its melancholy strains staying with me long after my tube had left the station. I have prayed to books, while stories have come to life in front of my eyes, and I have prayed to the moon and the stars on a cold winter’s night.

On more random occasions, I have prayed while I danced the night away with friends and when in the shower at the gym. I sometimes pray to food and to inanimate objects like paintings and statues and memorials of History. I pray to trees very often and to the songbird and the squirrel that inhabit the tree in my backyard. And like every human being, I have prayed to the shadows in a dark room, to the smell and the tears of loneliness and to Despair.

I’ve prayed to men and women who have changed my life, I pray to History and Science and Art and I pray to Tolerance and Humanity and Peace. I’ve also prayed to a movie and a song and a blank piece of paper without a trace of ink or life in it. I still pray to Ideas and Poetry and Love. And ever so often, I pray to the dead who I still hold dear.

No, I am not a religious person.

But I pray.

Of Songs And Peace

2010-08-25T17:56:00.002+01:00

Inspiration is a difficult thing. On the days that it appears, your world is a brighter place. Flowers bloom in the dark, the sun shines in the night sky and every songbird sings a happy song.

And this is all very well until the world is righted again and suddenly the starkness and sorrow of reality strikes you. Then the flowers wilt and only bloom in the light of day, and you can't imagine why you ever thought they could do otherwise. And with every reminder that reality brings you, you go deeper and deeper into a shell, because you can't imagine how things could have turned inside out so quickly.

And then, out of nowhere, after you've spent weeks trying to see the sun's rays shine through the night sky, you spot a yellow ray slicing through the clouds.

I recently had one such moment. Oddly enough it was around a group of complete strangers. And understandably enough, it was the simple element of music that bound us all.
So an evening where a young man sang some songs for pennies in a crowded little square in Covent Garden turned into a magical evening with a small but appreciative audience humming together.

I'm aware that the sceptic in you will wonder what I'm raving on about, but I'm an idealist and I think each time people of every race, faith and colour stand around and sing together, the world is a better place. Because when we let music take over, we are free of any judgements and prejudices, and we are united by a fragile, silvery threads that allow us to put humanity over everything else.

And so we stand around a lone man with a guitar. And we smile at each other, because even if you're black and I'm brown, and she's white, we all know the words. Because we know that in this moment we are two people united by a common love.

And so we open our hearts and we open our minds, and we sing as Lennon once did-

Imagine all the people,

Living life this way,

They say that I'm a dreamer,

But I'm not the only one.

I hope someday you will join us

And the world will live as one.

(And we did sing this, and this simple song, coupled with some excellent company and lovely weather was the source of some much needed inspiration and a new breath of life for QM.)

2010-06-06T08:02:00.001+01:00

I wish we had spent more birthdays together.

I don't remember the last time either of us spent either of our birthdays together. I have a picture of us somewhere, we're young and everybody's in it, and we're all celebrating your birthday. This very day, perhaps 15 years ago. We all look so happy and like all children everywhere, we are enjoying the party. It's such a funny picture and all of us look so sweet. Happy Birthday Vinit, the wall behind you says, made with that multi-coloured crepe paper that was an inseparable part of birthday parties then.

So many birthdays have gone by without us spending them together. Circumstances dictated most of the absences, but so did that feeling of complacency, that foolhardy feeling that sets in when you think things will stay the same forever. It doesn't matter, birthday absences don't dictate relationships. And if we knew what we know now, many unhappy, bad things might have changed but many happy, good things might never have happened.

Anyway, this post is not to meant to show regret for anything. Instead, it's a small prayer.

I hope that wherever you are, you're happy. That you have everything you couldn't have here. I hope you can travel the world in spirit, and see everything you wanted to, from a much more wonderful perspective than we're gifted with. I hope that you can't feel pain, and anger and sorrow but only happiness and love. I hope that you have accepted that things are the way they are, and have taken heart in the fact that we have had to accept it too. I hope you know that though we're all here and you're not, you're never alone, just like we're never complete without you. I hope that you have all the movies, ice cream, Russell Peters episodes, comics, South Park and Simpsons that you could want, and everything else in between.

Today, I don't mourn your absence. I miss you, I know we all do, and I sit here thinking of all our times past. As cousins, a brother and sister, and as friends. I hope that you see this, wherever you are, because I'd like you to know that I consider you every bit a part of my life as I did before. Today, I don't think of you as lost. Instead, I try to fill the hollow that I feel by celebrating your life.

Happy Birthday, Vinit.

Three

2010-05-09T16:47:00.003+01:00

Let me tell you a story about three women I know.

Three very beautiful women, each one with a heart of gold. Three very different women, who share a strong bond, forged in the womb.

At first glance, they don't look anything alike. They're all different heights, with different eyes and ears and noses. They don't sound alike or smile alike. They're also as different in temperament as they are in appearance. One is quiet and gentle, one is lively and chirpy and quick to temper, and the third is sunny and bright (and occasionally bursts into flame (!). And as with all the closest bonds, they don't always see eye-to-eye.

They grew up in ordinary circumstances and grew out of them to make a space for themselves in the world. They are not wealthy or famous. But they are rich in a way few people can be. They have brought children into the world that they can be proud of. They have stood together to face the worst of times and have come out stronger. When one crumbles, the other two form pillars. They are friends and confidantes, always looking out for the other. They are warm. They are full of love. They know how to give as only mothers know how to. Each of these women has a child born in the same year. So much of the richness in my life comes from the fact that my cousins are my friends too. One is a bit further away than we all like, but we know he is close, and the bond is as strong as it used to be.

As a child, I've been yelled at and pampered by all three of these women, as a teenager, I've been given an occasional warning and a gentle push by each one, as a girl turning into a woman, I've found support and unconditional love from all three. Inside out, they are three of the most wonderful women I know. All my life, they have loved me, worried for me, watched out for me and been there for me.

As they grow older, they have endured more sorrow and setbacks than many, and yet they have not turned on one another, grown bitter, contemptuous or judgmental. Instead, while they fight and bicker and irritate one another to a large extent, they remain true to their bond of sisterhood. And as they grow older, they still laugh and love and live life looking to the sun.

Very few people have been loved by their mother's sisters like I have. Very few people know the joys of having three magnificent women like these to call their own and to love.

To my dearest v'mas. Thank you for everything. For all the hugs and all the faith you have in me. For all the insane amount of money you both spend on me, for the magical notes that turned up in my wallet some mornings. For scolding me when I'm being silly and for soothing me when the world turns out to be rougher than I imagined. For letting me paint your wall and making a mess of it. For forgiving my flaws and still loving me. Thank you for all this, and so much more.

To mum. If you haven't guessed already, the sunny, bright bursting into flame was for you ;) Thank you for being the mother, friend, and confidante you are. We are part of each other, and you are the sunshine of my life. I would not be half the person I am if it wasn't for you. So thank you.

To the three women who have blessed my world with love, laughter and sunshine.

Happy Mothers Day.

I love you all.

An Assortment Of Miracles

2010-05-09T13:54:00.002+01:00

We all wish for miracles.

I wish for a good many, far too many perhaps, and far too often.

Recently, in a bout of horrid homesickness, a terrible frustration at unemployed, after being in a position of constant worry over visas, work, finances, the tangles of shifting houses and living like a charity case, I have been wishing for more and more miracles, demanding what any powers that (may) be would deem recklessly selfish.

And in that reckless bout of greedy want, I spent a week in utter distress after a job slipped out of my hands. I wept and cried and pouted and pleaded with thin air for something good to happen, as though willing it with my pathetic ranting would help anything.

And then yesterday, while I sat around a table with four other people, having dinner while exchanging stories, I realized that I had absolutely no right to be so completely, utterly, ridiculously selfish and demand a miracle, when all I had to do was acknowledge the ones in front of me.

I have my mother's sparkling smile and relentlessly positive spirit to keep reminding me to look to the sun. I have my father's quiet wisdom, born from experience and an understanding of the world that is so deep, I can only hope to have it someday. I have friends in England who have redefined generosity in a way that only true friends can. I have a home to return to, where people laugh, ask me how my day was and worry with me and for me. I have brothers and sisters, which is more than any only child could hope for. I have something beautiful to call my own. I have friends who are far away but who are with me in every decision I make. Above all, I am healthy and alive. And I have the single, most beautiful miracle of life.

And because like all miracles, they need thanking, here goes.

For Paras Fatnani, because I don't know anyone who's wired to be more generous, thank you. For giving me a roof over my head when I had nothing to call my own, for helping an imbecile like me go through visa forms that I couldn't make head or tail of, for sound advice, for always making time to help and lend a hand. I honestly do not know anybody like you. Definitely a basket-case prototype :P

For Priya Jolly, whose humour and warmth have shone through the cloudiest days in London and who has helped me in so many tight spots, I can't even keep track of them anymore. Pri, thank you for being there for me in more ways than I can count, for listening and never, ever judging me, even once. You have one of the cleanest, purest hearts I know and thank you for letting me into it. Of course, we will continue to fight about who sleeps on the floor, but hum toh aise hi hain yaar ;)

For Karthik Notada, who has had to put up with the whiniest, most annoyingly pessimistic version of me the world has known in a while, and still manages to give the sound, sensible and optimistic advice he does. Thank you for listening patiently, calming me down and reminding me that the world is a much brighter place if I only just open my blinds to it again. For making me laugh and reminding me how much there is to look forward to and reminding me not to take life so seriously that I forget how much fun it can be.

For Umah Jacob, because you truly know how to make me laugh with my heart. Thank you for listening to me and nursing me out of my blues when I came back into cold, grey London. For all the times we spent listening to songs on youtube and gossiping and clickety-clicking. For all the spontaneous I-Love-You-Ya-Riyas and the sudden hugs. For letting me into your circle of newfound friends and for giving me pride of place there. For all the daydream-conversations and hopin', wishin' and prayin' we did/do together, thank you. We had better be on for July.

For Mariam and Ereen, two fellow home-enthusiasts. For all the times spent cooking together, gossiping, laughing loudly and exchanging crazy-stories before and . For every crazy day spent worrying about the state of the house or each other, for all the shared shopping and the hours spent giggling and counselling each other for illnesses of the heart and body. Thank you for being my friends and for being such wonderfully open and genuine people. Here's to some more madness and being each others' family away from family.

For Jatin Bhana, Priyadarshini Singh and Priyanki Shah, thank you for not giving up on me despite my horrid lack of keeping-in-touch-skills. Thanks for the numerous calls (both missed and answered) to check on my health (mental and otherwise) and for inviting me to dinners and meetings you know I am the most unreliable candidate for. Jatin, (this is long overdue), thank you for being my first friend in England outside of 20 Northview and for all the advice and the time and money spent on my pauper self. Priya, thanks for calling and checking on me even from the remote areas of rural India, you are one of a kind. Priyanki, I hope we manage to stick to some of the plans we make, but thank you for being a partner-in-crime anyway ;)

For Ashley Silva, who is far away making a career and no doubt fretting over things not in her control, just so you know, even though you're not here, you still are.

For Nikhit, Divya, Dipsy and Vinit, you guys are the best. Thank you for making me feel like I belong, in a way that only-children rarely have the luxury to be blessed with. You make me proud, all of you, and I am grateful for your support every day, even though I am the butt of all your jokes. Sigh. Some things never change, I guess.

For friends unmentioned, those far away and unsung, you're part of the miracle too, so thank you all.

Of Silent Sorrows

2010-05-09T13:22:00.007+01:00

I've seen her as she stands drooping sadly, her gentle leaves swaying with the wind, nodding sagely with a grandmotherly air.

She cries silently through the sunshine of day and the blackness of night, weeping softly for us all, and for all the sorrow and the wretchedness the world holds.

Sometimes I want to reach out to her and soothe her, brush my hand over her drooping head and tell her that everything will be alright, that the world is full of pain, but also full of hope and laughter.

I want to hug her and tell her to look to the sun, because in her grief she misses the flight of the birds, the song of the wind, and blue of the sky, but still she looks down, sashaying, swaying and sighing.

I know she mourns for us. I look around and I know the world is a bad place, though in my heart I know it is more full of goodness and love than we can see.

So perhaps one day, when we don't have to look so hard to see the light in the darkness, when there's more good than evil, when love and peace triumph, the Weeping Willow will look up at the sun and smile again.

The Weeping Willow is my favourite tree. She and I understand each other. We are melancholic people, and we feel for the state of the world. Unlike her, however, I don't have to bear the burden of standing rooted to a spot, like a standstill in time, watching and weeping at the sorrows of the world.

I have the liberty to be free, to smile up at the sun, I have happiness inside me and I can choose to see all the good, all the love and beauty in the world. But since we're friends, I understand that the Weeping Willow has a beautiful soul and I love her because she has the capacity to understand humankind at its worst and most hateful. And so I sometimes weep with her, for her awful burden.

Inside, I know the Weeping Willow's soul is gentle and kind, and perhaps that is her curse. To be so beautiful inside that she can only see the worst, because every little slight and every tiny bit of suffering that she witnesses hurts her so.

So next time you walk past a Weeping Willow, remind her (and yourself) that the world isn't such a bad place.

And do make it a point to say hello and smile up at her when you see her, won't you?

Image can be found here

A Pocketful of Courage

2010-03-27T09:37:00.005Z

Courage is a funny thing.

On days when your world falls apart and when darkness threatens to engulf you, courage seldom waits with open arms. You look around you and wonder how the fates brought you so much night even in the bright light of day. You wonder how you will face tomorrow because today looks like it will never end. You wonder how every ounce of courage you thought you had can disappear into dust.

I wonder how it could be that one day can be so full of hope and splendour and the next can bring you to your knees. I look around me and wonder around which corner my little pocketful of courage hides. And in the search for it, I look around me and find strength in the one place I knew I should have looked before- in the eyes of the people who have found it.

To the mother and father who have lost their son, who smile sadly at a missing void, but with their heads held high. To the sister who fights a raging battle between hope and sorrow, against her demons and the fates. To the man whose torment plagues him as he lies in a world far from home, who fights his battles with quiet strength and dignity even with his world turned upside down. To the parents who accept that their daughter is leaving the nest, with unmatchable grace and dignity. To the boy who had to see the love of his life fade before his eyes, and who refuses to be broken by it. To the beautiful girl who deserves so much better than a simple flowerpot, and who has turned her face to the sun once more. To best friends who believe in a bond and a future that defies distance and time.

To all these people who show me perspective, thank you.

There are so many more unsung heroes in my life. People who give me the strength to pick up and move on when my world falls apart. People who have overcome adversity to find hope that can be ever so elusive. My pocketful of courage lies in the eyes of all these people.

To all my heroes.

Thank you for your contribution to my pocketful of courage.

The Moment

2010-03-17T06:58:00.003Z

And for that one moment, the world stops spinning.

For that one moment you are at the centre of the universe.

That moment is the axis on which your world revolves.

It is in the soul of your very being.

That moment is when you know the universe has conspired to give you what you want.

Everything in it is a combination of what you want and what you need, of wonder and surprise.

It is fleeting, and yet it is carved our against the blurry edges of your world.

Your eyes grow large, flaming bright, unbelieving. They sparkle, they smile.

Your breath comes out in a mist, frozen shimmer in a day lit room.

With your fingertips you reach to touch the words floating in the sunshine.

Then you blink.

The moment is gone.

Only the soft, bubbling butterflies of joy rise up inside you. And like feathers in the wind, they flutter in the breeze of the day, settling against your heart to make you smile.

The moment is gone. But you keep your inner smile.

And the world spins madly on.

Home And Heart

2010-03-11T14:04:00.002Z

Being back home means slipping into an old routine. The comfort of the smells, sights and sounds that make it what it is. I didn't think I would slip into lazy lethargy again, but I did and it doesn't feel too bad. While my parents worry constantly as to whether I'm sleeping my life away and living what they call a 'dissipated' lifestyle, only I know how fleeting this wonderful feeling is.

Soon I will be back in the real world again. Where my responsibilities will be mine alone, and nobody else will be able to bear them for me. I will go back to the world where I have to be more adult than child, more woman than girl, more sensible than spontaneous and a hell of a lot less lazy. I will, once more, be in charge of my own life, pay my own bills, cook my own food and live like a self-sufficient unit. I will worry about burnt and tasteless food, unpaid bills, intolerable landlords, the intricacies of banking, council tax, and the steadily increasing VAT among a variety of other things.

But in this world, in this little space, in a cosy little apartment in a comfortable nook in Bombay, I am at peace. Because here is the one place in the world where I can be more child than adult, more girl than woman, more spontaneous than sensible , and lazy. At night I sleep the sleep of the blissfully ignorant, without being constantly plagued by the worries of tomorrow. Here I am able to dream of happy things, allowing myself to be swept up in that tide of peace that washes up to you when there are others to worry on your behalf.

I wake with a sense of familiarity. The routine embraces me and knows me, and this is evident even in my parents' remonstrations. Things have changed, but nothing important. I can still hear my mother calling out to me in frustration as the clock strikes ten in the morning. My father still wanders in and looks at me and mutters in disbelief as I lie half-awake and sprawled on the bed. The newspapers lie gathered neatly (my parents always stack them up tidily), waiting for me to put them into disarray. The television blares out, vessels clang in the sink, and the birds chirp themselves into a frenzy outside.

In one year, so much has changed for me. Yet being back here gives me hope. That no matter how far I go and where life takes me, some things will still remain familiar and welcoming.

Because here, in this little nook, in Bombay city, lies the heart of my existence. From here, I begin, and to this I will always return.

Mumbai Meri Jaan

2010-02-14T14:02:00.002Z

I've often wondered why Bombay hasn't yet become a city with more international citizens living in it. Why haven't we become India's international face, a city of the world, a place where everybody wants to flock to, build a life in-?

Everybody senses it, everybody knows it's close, right there on the horizon. But why hasn't it happened?

Perhaps it's because being a Mumbaikar requires an extra ounce of courage. Because it is a city that cannot be loved and accepted unless you are capable of looking beyond the dirt and the grime, right into its very heart.

Perhaps it's because Bombay makes you watch the fierce battles between good and bad every day and wonder ever so often about how the precarious balance between hope and faith, and despair and loss will weigh out.

Like a difficult child that refuses to see reason, Bombay makes us throw up our hands in despair. And as we wade through the murky waters of corruption, greed, poverty and politics, we know that good doesn't always triumph in this city.

We know that on many days hope fights a losing battle and faith doesn't find its way home at the end of the night. We know that every day is a battleground and every step a battle waged. Some days we emerge triumphant, and some days we experience crushing defeat like never before. Every day this city eats up its warriors, every day we see war wounds that have left scars deep beyond the surface of our skin.

And it tests us, this city. It asks for our beauty and our love and gives us sorrow and misery. It eats into our hearts, numbs our souls, brings us to our knees and breaks our spirits.

But because we Mumbaikars can see beyond it's greedy, rotting surface, because we can look beyond the sickness and the filth, we can see a city like no other.

And because this city teaches us to brave the brutality of reality and the cries of the crushed dreams that we tread on, because it challenges our apathy every single day, because it surprises us around every corner, we are gifted with courage like no other.

Living in Bombay is like living in a patchwork of dreams. Intersecting with silken rich threads are frayed, dulled ones. Strong, hardy threads loom over tattered, weak ones. Thousands of hopes fall listlessly to the ground each night, and hundreds of dreams turn to mist before the light of day.

But as the sun rises, Mumbai opens it's all seeing eyes and watches over us. And as invisible fingers nudge us along our ways invisible threads connect us, pulling, pushing, tightening and loosening around us all. And as day breaks and we begin our journeys with that little extra courage Mumbai has put in all our pockets, nudging us on, telling us she understands and loves us too.

Perhaps that is why we do no appeal to so many other nationalities. Perhaps they realise that while Mumbai is a difficult place to be, a Mumbaikar too, is a difficult person to become.

For People And Places

2010-02-11T05:54:00.006Z

Marshmallows and candy sticks.

Lime and mint squash.

Sightseeing and sighing.

Chai and conversations.

Baby kisses.

Sandy shores and sunny beaches.

Airports and butterflies.

Farewells and unspoken promises.

Hugs and familiar faces.

Little sisters.

Far-away friends.

College and histories.

Muffins with souls.

Heathrow farewells.

Musical soulmates.

Window-ledge conversations.

The Jazz blues.

Joshua Radin and Norah Jones.

Corkscrew Failures.

Two thousand word weekdays.

Porterhouse weekends.

Clickety-Clicks and Christenings.

Mommy hugs and Daddy smiles.

Chinky lovin' and verbal diarrhoea.

Save Tonight.

Mutual Admiration Societies and wavelengths.

Four week wonders.

Yellow Rug Buddies.

Audrey and Happy Stripes.

Smelly cheese and Best Friends.

Hope in a black mug.

Marathi at Immigration.

The smell of Bombay.

Home.

This past month has been fascinating.

I have managed to wind up a total of nearly 20,000 words worth of assignments, completed a rigorous Masters degree, had a fabulous set of weekends, met old friends and made new ones and finally, come home to family and friends that all the world's money couldn't replace.

On this fascinating rollercoaster, I've made some discoveries.

I've discovered that some friends are family. They love you, accept you and welcome you into their arms like that is where you belong. They show you the sights, help fund a dream, invite smelly cheese into their homes, scold you like your mommy would, and pick you up and drop you to the airport with all the warnings, hugs and reminders your parents would give you. To my host families at Dubai and AUH, thank you for welcoming me into your homes and more importantly, your hearts. I love you all.

I rediscovered the joy of being an older sister, to two wonderful girls who stole my heart away. One of whom is a wonderfully sensible, smart and fun young girl, a great older sister herself, and another who reminded me of what is was like to be around the innocence of babyhood, and who welcomed me with sticky kisses and soft hugs and giggles and laughs that made me feel brighter on the inside than I had felt in ages. Greesh and Megh, I hope we always share the bond we did this wonderful February 2010.

I discovered the joys of spending a long day in the sun, lying in the sand and looking up at blue, blue sky. Of sitting on a familiar rug, talking of things past and things to come, of heartaches and new-found glows and the contentment that only conversations with very close friends can bring. I also discovered how wonderful it is when you wake up to the smell of baked muffins because one of your closest friends woke up early to bake for you. Kyresh, thank you for giving me some Kyra-lovin'. It's the best kind and anybody who lets that go doesn't deserve you. Here's to more random trips, chai, sandy clothes and hair and comfortably picking up where we've left off.

I discovered the joys of window ledge conversations, of long long, conversations about the world and all it holds within it, of the beauty of jazz and the wonders of Camden. Of anticipation and awe, of spontaneity and laughter, of a shared love of museums and history and travel and food. I discovered that friendships sprout in the oddest of places, and that life is always catching us by surprise, one happening at a time. To K, thank you for all the support in the busiest, craziest month of my year. Let's hope we can still find some window ledges to chat on.

I discovered that ecstasy can be brought on by something as simple as a jumble of hugs at an arrival lounge, that the very smell of Bombay can cause a bubble of hysterical laughter to rise up within you. I discovered that there is nothing in the world that compares to giving my mum a hug and sharing a joke with my dad. That the sorrow of leaving one best friend behind can only be made up for by the joy of reuniting with another one. That only a best friend will do up your room because you've come home and stay up to help you unpack. That my mother's tea is still as awesome as ever. That only my dad can fill ink pen cartridges with terrible, tattered droppers. That a family reunion still leaves me in the best of spirits. That some hollows heal but linger. That nothing, nothing in the world compares to the joy of being home.

That's because it's the people that make a place what it is. Without people to love, without people who love you, without the warmth and smiles and the long conversations that make up the best part of our lives, a place is nothing. All the beauty in the world cannot buy you that feeling of belonging.

So for everybody who makes home what it is, for everybody who brought some sunshine into my life in London (P,P, P, J, U,K) for everyone in Dubai and AUH who took me back out into the sun after a long time in the rain, thank you for being the beauty and the wonder in those places.

The Return

2010-02-11T05:46:00.002Z

February 1, 2010

08.31 am

Day breaks at Heathrow and I wonder how in retrospect one year could seem to go by so soon when in reality I know how long I've waited for this moment.

What a revelation this year has been, I think to myself. How much clarity we are blessed with in hindsight. I have been the loneliest I have ever been, been tested in so many ways, and seen and done so much that I have always wanted to. Now I'm on the other side and I can appreciate the lessons learned, the little joys, and the big moments, all the sights I've been blessed to see.

And in this moment, when things fall into place, when the pieces of the puzzle come together, when the future is bright again and old wounds are healing, when life is full of promise and possibilities again, in this moment, I am at peace.

And when I rewind to the hardest moments of the year past, I know that every test, every triumph, every moment lived has led me here.

Here to that feeling that nothing can compare with, to that feeling of bubbling happiness, the moment you know you're going to that one place where everything will be okay.

To that moment when you know you're on your way home.

Of Idiots

2010-01-12T15:32:00.007Z

This is a rant.

Have you ever wondered how there are some people who exist just to correct everybody else? You all know someone like this. Perhaps you are someone like this. Let me describe this person to you. They will be annoyingly cocky about anything to do with themselves. They don't have the best grammar, they don't have the best spelling, and they sure as hell aren't the world's most informed people. But without fail, they will insist on correcting everybody around them, taking it upon themselves to embarass the person out of their wits.

I've met so many people like this, and it never fails to amuse me about how smart people think they are. I had the misfortune of being in a group at university today where there was one such person present. One particular classmate of mine makes frequent errors in pronunciation, and everytime she said something the wrong way, we would all be treated to a discourse about how it was supposed to be pronounced, by the smartmouthing idiot. Even my being blatantly cold and downright rude didn't help, he just went on.

I understand that people can learn when you correct them. I know that if you teach someone how to say or spell something the right way, it saves them embarassment in other places. But making a fool out of someone is no way to do that. On the other hand, I have a problem correcting anybody, even close friends, because I don't know how they'll react. I make plenty of mistakes, but at times I've been fortunate enough to be corrected gently, quietly and subtly, so I felt like I'd learned something, not lost my pride in some way, as opposed to other times, when someone has laughed out loud and made me feel like a complete imbecile.

I absolutely detest it when people start picking on other people and correcting them about things, laughing at them. It really is a despicable thing to do. If I had to start correcting people about how they spell 'definately' (definitely), mistake 'loose for lose' (or the other way around) or generally be anal retentive about spellings and grammar, I'd be doing overtime every day. I'm not perfect, far from it (as my mum will tell you), but hey, I'm particular about it, except I don't go around rubbing it in peoples faces.

*Rant ends here*

Of The Little Confuddled White Beings

2010-01-06T16:03:00.001Z

Clearly my view isn't of the Alps (yes, I know, geographically impossible too), and doesn't hold very much splendour. But when I lie down, I can see the flakes come down, descending from a pretty mist and that is a view no camera can capture. Oh but I wish you could all see it. They're here now, the little mites, gently standing at my window and melting ever so quickly into little pearl drops.

Of all the wonderful phenomena nature has to offer, snow is my favourite. I love the rain too, but snow has a charm nothing can beat. It's so gentle, elegant and graceful all at once. Snowflakes are such sweet and funny little things. They all look like they're running your way with something to tell you most urgently. And they just fly about in a frenzy like they're looking for something but they can't figure out what it is. They bump into each other, fly about in irregular ways and just look so confuddled, you want to put out your hand and guide them along and say, 'here now, that's where you're headed to'. Except that wouldn't serve any purpose because they all land up on the ground anyway.

Being snowed in has its benefits. It helps you appreciate the beauty of the cold, pristine white dancing flakes from the warmth of your home. I feel like a little kid when it snows. When you're warm on the inside it takes more than snow to bring in the cold :)

Must go now, I believe there's a snowflake with a secret waiting at my window.

Ringing In The New Year

2010-01-01T16:58:00.004Z

Ringing in the New Year entailed a lot more for me this year than just the celebrations at the stroke of midnight...

Meeting Anna

She stood in line in front of me, waiting to board the bus, looking very annoyed, and pleading with the conductor to let her in. She was small, with shortly cropped hair near the top, with stray strands running down her back, making her look like a tiny wayward pixie. She stared up at the conductor who was twice her size. "But the ticket's for the 29th of January, madam, not the 29th of December,"he said. With a howl of frustration, she cursed at the air in general, and ran away.

Fifteen minutes later, I'd found myself a comfortable window seat on the bus and was happily staring out the window, when a sudden flurry of bags and a string of mumbling caught my attention. It was the pixie girl.

Hello!, she said, brightly, a thousand watt smile lighting up her face, her eyes shining from behind her glasses. And then we talked. Of world politics, of religion, of prejudices, of being from different parts of the world and being so different and yet so much the same. In the process I made a pagan friend who practices Wicca and had a very interesting conversation about their practices.

I was also happy to converse about trees and nature and the sun and how maybe life would be a lot better if we took it a lot more seriously and a lot less for granted. And so my trip to the new year began with my making a new friend.

House Full

This was the first New Year I spent out of my comfort zone, and strangers became friends very soon.The line between strangers and friends blurred quickly and soon the jokes and the laughter carried long into the night and the wee hours of the morning. Many of us were complete strangers to each other but it didn't make it any less memorable.

From cooking, cleaning, eating, drinking, playing card games, dumb charades, 20 Questions and discussing bits of history and politics, every moment spent was full of fun. We partied before the new year, at the stroke of the midnight hour (in the freezing cold), and in the new year.

On the morning of the second, when we were all scheduled to leave, nobody wanted to go back to reality.

Like A Fish To Water

As a child,I loved roller skating. I've spent long hours navigating the house and other open spaces on a pair of skates perfecting many moves.

As an adult, it surprised me completely that I could still stand up straight without falling flat on my face when we went ice skating. I have long resigned myself to be among the clumsiest humans mankind has to offer and so remained pleasantly surprised when I ended up being the only one of the group who stayed on my feet throughout the slotted hour.

I kept waiting for the moment when my feet would give way, causing me to land in a flying mass of flailing limbs somewhere in a heap. Surprisingly it didn't happen and I remain incredulous about this fact.

The others had their share of falls and picked themselves back up and went at it again, and I wondered if I'd be brave enough to do that if i'd been in their place.

Soon it was over and i was still left with a feeling of disbelief.

The Railway Man

Often there are lovely people who appear out of the blue and take you by surprise. On our train journey from Glasgow to Edinburgh, we found ourselves in a coach where only three of eleven could find seats. As we moved towards the doorway, deciding to stand together instead of being dispersed, a small man walked into our midst, stopped and looked around at us. "Are you lot together then?", he asked. When we nodded in unison, he gestured to us to follow him.

And that is how the train's conductor led us into the first class section of the coach and let us set up camp there. In the process, we had a nice little exclusive cabin to ourselves and we could sit together and take the obligatory photographs and share our excitement about the Hogmanay.

A few minutes later, he emerged from his cabin again, holding out glow sticks. He showed us how to shake them so as to get them to glow and then gave us little holders for them so we could put them on our wrists. Soon, eight fully grown individuals sat with childlike glee and brandished their new glow-bands for each other to see.

I left the train saying a small prayer that the railway man would have a good year. With a heart like that, I was sure he would.

The Edinburgh Hogmanay

Thousands of people turn up to experience Edinburgh differently in the last week of every year. While there are many events that take place over the week, many of them simultaneously over the day itself, one of the main attractions is the Hogmanay Street Party.

While a lot of time is spent trying to push through a gathering crowd, at the stroke of twelve, all the pushing, pulling, drunken (most often hilarious) yelling is suddenly worth it. The fireworks are spectacular, but even better is the feeling of being among friends and so many strangers, ushering a new year in together.

Strangers In A Circle

In line with tradition, the thousands that have gathered under the lights of the Hogmanay sing Auld Lang Syne together, and that in itself is worth being around for. Where we stood, a group of people stood with interlinked arms and sang loudly, and when the song was done, hugged everybody around them and wished them a Happy 2010. It's nice wishing a stranger the best that life has to offer in a new year. It makes you feel that you're in touch with your human side more than the animal that lives in the usual rat-race on another day.

Coming Back

Most often when we leave for trips, we come back home. And then we have family awaiting us, asking us for the details. My flatmates played that part, and I was happy to humour them. But as I walked into my room, I was hit by that bittersweet sensation you get when you return from a really good trip.

And then I realised what really mattered. That it was the New Year. That I had a whole new start to make and a whole new bunch of experiences and ups and downs to face. That I was blessed to have a trip like this to represent an end to and a new start to a year.

And the best realisation of all. That in a month's time, I would really be home.

The Coming Of Twenty Ten

2010-01-01T15:06:00.004Z

This has been a long year for me. Full of new experiences, spiced with the excitement of being in a new country and peppered with large amounts of despair for the losses of 2008.

We all grow over the years. But some years we look back and see that we have faced more odds than usual, have been confronted by more obstacles than before, and with a startling amount of clarity realise we've learnt more than anyone would have thought possible.

Looking back on a year always gives you a sense of astounding disbelief. Every joy and every sorrow witnessed weave together to form a tapestry that couldn't be complete if anything had turned out differently. The threads are all colours, the blues and greys merge with the yellows and reds, and the threads overlap, and form little patterns of their own. Sometimes if you look closely, you can even see the loose threads sticking out, waiting to be tied up later.

This year, I believe the universe has conspired to teach me some home truths. I have learned to like my own company, to depend on myself when in a rough patch, and I am in a place where I am comfortable with myself. As with everything, there is always room for improvement. I don't believe that life is a competition, and I don't think there is any room to compete; and especially not with your loved ones. Living in your own pace, by standards you set for yourself is what will eventually make the most sense. And that is one lesson from 2009 I am taking with me for life.

Living alone has taught me more than I could have ever thought possible at 22. I have managed my own money (with a little help from friends) and I'm much the wiser for it. I'm not as ignorant about things like taxes, bills, tenancy agreements and other such gory details of life as I was before and I am very grateful for it, because I believe I can live anywhere and be in charge of my own life.

And living away from always teaches you just how much we take our family and friends for granted. When you're away, there's no scope for that, and it makes you realise that all the money and all the charm the world has to offer is no substitute for those people. That being said, I believe everyone should be able to see what the world has to offer, and feel that hollow of being away from home to remind them of what they hold most dear.

This year, as every year before, I live in hope. That there will be more good than bad, more happiness than sorrow, more love than hatred, for each other and for the world around us.

Goodbye, 2009, hello 2010.

Happy New Year, all!

And gently they fell...

2009-12-18T01:01:00.003Z

...like little jewels from heaven. Frenzied, fuzzy, funny little things, speeding across the skies, streaking across the streets, hurrying past one another, sprinkling themselves over faces furrowed in happy smiles or little grimaces.

Sweetly they fell, gently onto curled eyelashes, onto the outstretched arms of the trees and the little children who stood smiling up at the sky.

Gently they brushed past people making their way home. Sparkling under the yellow of the streetlamps, they scurried down, waiting to settle and sleep where they fell.

I watched them and I knew you sent them. Ushering them out of the palm of your hand. With the glee of a little child blowing soap bubbles. I could picture you smiling with delight, as you would be if we were here watching it together.

And as the softest of snowflakes settles gently on my face, I look up at the sky and smile at you.

In Prayerful Song

2009-12-12T15:46:00.004Z

I've always wanted to sing in a choir. There's something almost magical about it. Given the chance I'd like to sing anywhere, but there's something very wholesome about singing in prayer, in a choir or otherwise, and I quite enjoy it (even though I sing more and pray less).

Two days ago, one more dream off QM's list came true. After a grand total of four days (four consecutive Mondays) of practice, the University of Westminster choir sang in at the beautiful All Saints Church on Margaret Street to a full congregation.

I'm afraid these terrible pictures taken from my phone will have to do for now, though they do no justice at all to the splendour of the church architecture and detail.

I'll try and put up some recordings of the actual carol service as well. Till then, yayyy for me!

Look Who's Back!

2009-12-12T15:44:00.002Z

And after a long, long, long, LONG hiatus, Amethyst Haze is Back. And How!

For all my photo-starved folks back home, happy AHazing....

http://amethysthaze.blogspot.com/

Please feel free to de-lurk and comment.

A Lonesome afFair?

2009-12-10T20:33:00.003Z

Whoever told you you need company to see the world is lying.

Because I've seen most of London by myself and I've enjoyed it. It gets lonely sometimes, yes. It gets tiresome to not have anybody to take pictures of you smiling moronically with Trafalgar Square in the backdrop, yes, and it's certainly not fun making conversation with the voices in your own head all the time.

But there is a charm in seeing things by yourself and with yourself that I'd forgotten till I got here. Now, I've learnt not to wait for anybody, not to base my plans on anybody else's, not to listen to any more pathetic excuses, and not to be disappointed when things fall through- simply because I don't need to. I can do it myself, thank you very much.

In the process of embracing this newfound realisation, I visited Hyde Park last week while there was a winter fair running. I took pictures to my heart's content. (AH will be updated as soon as I've time to look through the 300 pictures I've taken) and I walked around obliging happy couples in skating rinks by taking pictures of them. I watched little girls ride on the merry-go-rounds and little boys go up in the giant wheel (no stereotyping, just in a manner of speaking is all), and I had a good time. In between, I watched a live band play, bought myself some sweets and took some more photographs.

In the process, I also took pictures in two stalls and found they were fledgling shops, waiting to set up websited etc. So, surprising even myself, I asked if they needed photographs, and both did. And so I sent them photographs (with a watermark with my name on it), along with an email saying they could use it, as long as the watermark was visible. I didn't get money, but oh well, it's just nice to know that there's a little place in the internet world with your photographs out there :)

And so I wandered around quite happily, befriended a gang of South-East Asian girls who were having the time of their life watching people fall over in the skating rink, and then decided I was cold enough and there was no place warm enough and so wandered off home.

While I plodded off, I wondered to myself if there was any other rational human being who would go to a fair alone, and decided there probably wasn't and felt sad for a grand total of five minutes, before I decided I was better off this way, since there was no dearth of people to call, and while the ones invited had no time or an excuse, others were willing but had unsuitable choice of timings. I was better off alone.

And then, while on my way out, I watched another girl wander in by herself, stopping to listen to a huge reindeer head mounted on a wall, singing carols out loud, much to everybody's amusement. The girl and I exchanged a chuckle and went our own ways.

And as I walked to my bus stop it occured to me that I'd had a very wonderful evening. Funnily enough, with just me for company. And I recommend it to everybody who cares to break away from the world once in a while and do what they like at their pace, for their comfort, in their own time. With just themselves for company.

Of Weekends And Weepies.

2009-12-07T12:38:00.003Z

I had a wonderful weekend. This one was especially good because it was a mix of so much.

On Friday, I watched Regina Spektor in concert. And though I wasn't the biggest fan before (I do love her music, no doubt, but there are some songs I don't quite dig - as they would say elsewhere in the world). But I've a suspicion now that I'm a convert of sorts after the concert. She played the piano as she sang, and her voice is something else.

On Saturday, I went to visit the Imperial War Museum and the Museum of Natural Science. Both are amazing and in all honesty, it takes an entire day to see the latter properly. The Imperial War Museum has an amazing display of tanks, missiles, WWI and II airplanes and the likes. Even to someone who didn't know much about artillery, it was awe-inspiring.

There were exhibits about the two World Wars and another showing the War through the eyes of the children of Britain. It was all very poignant. But what truly made me weep was the Holocaust Exhibition.

With displays that included real articles of clothing worn at concentration camps, letters written from Jews who were being taken away to their loved ones, and personal belongings that were confiscated when they were being gassed, this was the first time I felt like I was learning about the Holocaust through the eyes of the Jews themselves.

People moved around in a listless daze, reading about the horrors the Nazis were capable of, staring at photographs and little anecdotes in disbelief. When we sat down to watch an account by survivors, I lost my bearings completely and along with the person next to me, I began to weep. Watching those ageing men and women talk about a lost childhood, about how many of them never saw their parents and siblings and friends again, was bad enough, let alone the details of what happened at the camps.

In a way, in retrospect, I think it was nice to sit with a complete stranger and feel the pain of another stranger's story. The bonds that link us are so fragile, so invisible, and yet they are there. Throughout the exhibition the same six or seven men and women, would talk to you and take you through their entire lives before, during and after the camp, the camp itself, and the liberation. Many died days after liberation. Many couldn't eat because they couldn't digest the food and died soon after. The stories are plenty and they're all appalling beyond belief.

What hit me as most profound was the last audio visual before the exhibition ended. In it, one of the survivors said that she didn't think the world had learnt anything from the Holocaust. She said that there was still so much prejudice, so much religious fundamentalism, it could happen again and nobody would be able to stop it. And I thought she made a very valid point.

Many people read about the Holocaust. Out of morbid fascination or a love of history. But what we need is to truly educate our young about it. Explain to them what can go wrong if man is allowed to hurt his own. Explain to them the power of an idea, and how if we use it incorrectly, it can harness so much hatred and injustice that the world can be full of more evil than good. And we need to realise ourselves about how fallible, how very weak and strong at once the human mind is. But above all we need to remember how completely real the horror of the Holocaust was. How mankind is capable of so much evil, even the Gods must have been horrified. We need to remember and learn from it. Because the danger of it happening again, now or sooner or later, is very, very real.

And So It Begins

2009-11-26T22:30:00.004Z

And so it begins.

A new generation comes forth. The birth of my cousin's baby, my first nephew,brings the start of a whole new era.

As with all families,his birth marks the fading of our age to give way to his.

My only hope is that before we fade completely,we find a way to make the world a better and safer place to live in. It's a stretch to believe that so much can be achieved in so little time but we can make a start.

We can become more tolerant,more accepting of differences between people.we can begin to challenge backward, unhealthy mindsets.We can lay emphasis on cleanliness and civic sense instead of class and caste.

We can inculcate a sense of respect rather than hatred towards new people and places.We can teach our children the value of integrity and dignity over money and power.

We ourselves have so much to do as a generation; so many horizons to broaden,so much enlightenment to bring about.but if we hope to do all of this we have to first learn to live this way ourselves.

To my first baby nephew I say this; welcome to the big, beautiful , crazy world. It's going to confuddle you,confuse you and drive you crazy. But I hope you can learn to look beyond the dirt and the despair,beyond the prejudices and the hate and see how much beauty it holds. You're already blessed with beautiful parents and a loving family and the number of people who love you will grow with every year. So welcome home. I wish you the best of everything life has to offer. I hope all that is good, sacred and whole comes your way.

Remember to give the world everything you have, embrace life in all its beauty, and you will get it all back tenfold.

To Let A Song In

2009-11-24T01:38:00.003Z

If you let a song in, it will seep into your every pore. It will enter every fibre of your being and take over you.

Breathe it in, let it drift about, let its mist settle on your skin, and it will consume you. It will take you back, to a person, to a time so far away it seems like a distant dream.

Then something inside you will give way. A wall will crumble; a dam will break. Everything will spill out of that little closet in your head.

Your heart will slow down and you'll see the song drifting in front of you- each little note painting a picture. A grainy picture, yellowed by time, blurry around the edges and yet so precise in every detail. They float about, each one a tableau, telling a different story.

The song will put a spell on you. Enchant you with its melody. Mellow your strongest promise to yourself. And as you watch, the pictures will do a dance to the melancholy notes that swim across the room.

You've gone a million miles,

How far'd you get,

That place where you can't remember,

And you can't forget.

And it plays on. Even when it's not out of the radio, it's seeped into your mind. The music fills you. And you watch the pictures dance on the ceilings even as your eyes are shutting, and your mind drifts away. You know you're under the spell. Awake or asleep, it sings to you, and you remember.

And even as you surrender to the dreams the night brings, you sing along; and as if you're welcoming a familiar friend who brings back a precious memory, you sing along. With a little heartache and a scent of the bittersweet, you sing along.

Of Cowards

2009-11-18T21:18:00.004Z

Lately, over the past few months, QM has received quite a few anonymous comments.

One commenter claimed to be a friend of a friend and passed judgement over many things, without having ever met me (this is quite clear from the comments),and a lot of it was from hearsay.

More recently, I received a comment which was downright rude and nasty. Needless to say, I wasn't amused.

But then I realised that I will never really take what anonymous people say seriously. Whether it's good or bad, the fact that it is anonymous ruins most any comment that's posted. Because I have no respect for such folks. Because anybody who doesn't have a name to back up an opinion isn't really worth listening to.

It also amazes me how these people have so much time to just sit around and be mean. I mean it takes ingenuity to think of something nasty to say each time, but even more so, it shows such a lack of ambition to do something better with life. Pity, really. Even more amusing is that such folks have the time to check blogs they profess hatred for regularly, only to leave some bile in the end. Well, they have my deepest sympathies. Must be sick, and warped and just lonely.

I have posted comments on other blogs, critical comments, voicing opinions that didn't seem to be in sync with everyone else's, taking a different stand, I've even put my foot in my mouth on several occasions. But never have I posted a comment anonymously- the author of the site/blog will have always had access to my identity, and a way to further interact with me, linking back if they felt like starting a dialogue.

So though I have published some peoples anonymous comments in the past, it ends here. Nobody's comments will see the light of day if they are without a name or a trackback link. I am quite positive I've lived my life without making enemies, but if you have so much energy to harbour malice and spite, then don't waste it on dissing my blog and yet checking to see if there's a new post. Please, it's sheer hypocrisy.

Recently, my account was hacked into as well. Having traced these back to certain places, I'm pretty sure it's somebody I know, or someone who knows me at least from a distance. To this person (or people), I say this.

You can hack into all the accounts you want, but you will never know me. You may have seen and read a good deal of e-mails, notes and whatever else, but there is only so much you will be able to gather from those. So even if I have had to delete every single e-mail of significance, my memories, my stories, my closest dealings with family and friends remain in a place you will never be able to touch.

And I hold you in contempt, but I also feel sad for you, because like the anonymous commenters on this blog, you have no face, no identity and you will remain a shadow of a human-being, thriving on the thrill of bringing someone down. And so, like cowards around the world, you move in a nameless, faceless haze, happy in the knowledge that nobody will know who you are and what you are like.

But you know you're a terrible excuse for a human-being, so I'm sure it must be difficult being someone without anything to do but live on the outside, looking in on other peoples lives.

And that is the end of this tirade. You stand warned. I have a policy of not reading when I see the word anonymous, so don't bother wasting your time or mine.

I Will Hope

2009-11-11T00:39:00.003Z

I will hope.

Because I have a right to it. Because what I want can be mine only if I have the strength to stand by it, to have faith in the idea of a dream coming true.

Because I do not live without hope, I only walk through life's surface, not breathing, not seeing, not loving, not learning.

Because without hope I cannot see all that I can be. Without hope I am nothing, only a shadow of gauze, with an empty soul yearning for the light, yearning to be the glow in the firefly's soul.

I will hope because in a dark tomorrow it will bring me the sun. It will save me from everything that is wrong, from the dark, from the shadows within.

Don't tell me that hoping will only bring disappointment.Because to that I will raise my head in defiance and say to you that you have not learned life's greatest lesson. That all that you secretly dream for, all the thoughts that fill your head, all the shadows that dance on your walls at night, all that you whisper to the darkness will never be yours simply because you are scared to acknowledge they exist, because you are scared to hope.

Because hope is not for the faint-hearted. It does not come to those who dont embrace it. Because to hope is to give the biggest,most vulnerable part of yourself to the darkest realms of despair and see it grow into the strongest part of you.

I will hope. Because I am strong.Because I know that without it, I am just an empty, hollow shell, a leaf swaying in the wind,a grain of sand being swept away.

So I will hope.every day,against all odds, I will hope.

What Will Come...

2009-11-11T00:38:00.001Z

Nearly a year spent in a city that's just beginning to become familiar now. There's a buzz in the air as Christmas nears.

And yet my heart lights up when I think of going home.back to the warmth that familiarity brings,back to being a phone call or a shout away from conversation,from family and friends.

As the year draws to an end,I'm faced with that question that everyone thinks will be the life-changing decision for me.will I stay or will I go?

I don't know yet.but in all the confusion there are some things I do know. That there will be tough choices ahead,whichever way i go.

Time will tell. And Quaint Murmur will reflect on everything that comes to be.

One

2009-11-11T00:37:00.003Z

November 9th, 2009.

One year to the day. A lifetime lived and a hollow that lingers and grows with every passing day.

The details are fresh in my mind and I fight every day to keep it that way.

But the day will come when there are blurs around the edges,when there's a tint that darkens the memory. When the clarity fades and the sharpness loses focus, even when that day comes,you'll be part of everything we love and hold dear.you will be part of us.

One year on,we remember and celebrate you.and we grow closer to seeing you again.

Shine bright,shine on.

Light

2009-10-16T23:20:00.003+01:00

Sometimes we live lifetimes within our lifetimes. I get this feeling when it's time for another festival.

Sometimes when I look back at the past one year, I really do believe this is true- that seems to have been another life.

Last Diwali, we didn't put up lights out of respect for Avanti. This Diwali, with Vinit gone, the lights will be missing and the sheen's always going to be a bit duller than it could be.

But as always, the lights that Diwali brings always give me hope. Hope for a better tomorrow, a more beautiful tomorrow, where good will triumph over evil. Where mankind will be less cruel, less capable of hate, less prejudiced. A tomorrow where the lights can reach even the darkest shadows.

I can shut my eyes as I sit here in bed and see the lights in Bombay, the strings of fairy lights hanging from buildings, shimmering within trees, the little diyas being lit on balconies and steps everywhere, twinkling happily. It fills my heart with happiness, just the thought of it.

This is the darkest, most dreary Diwali I have had the misfortune to witness. But amidst all the heartache, amidst all the sadness and the grief, the very thought of a diya twinkling, the very idea of the message behind Diwali, that lovely sheen of fairy lights- never fails to bring me some hope.

Interesting Spaces

2009-10-12T11:27:00.003+01:00

While I did my Bachelors in Mass Media, I met a good many people. In a class of 60, that I spent three whole years with, I used to often look around and marvel at the sheer talent that was crammed into a tiny space.

Never was this realisation more evident than when it was time for a college festival. At times like these, one room could hold people of various shapes, sizes and ages, with skills so wonderful, it was always a delight to watch them in action. Some would paint, some would draw, some would brainstorm, some would write out copy for advertisements, brochures, banners and some would help with everything.

I was always sure there was amazing potential among friends and classmates alike. A year on, there's evidence of this fact everywhere. These are some links to the talent that lies out there, as yet unsung, but still growing into something that will no doubt take the world by storm some day.

http://wethewritestuff.blogspot.com/ For Harry and Kyra (and their friend Tejas's) fantastically fun-to-read perspectives on movies, books and music. Both professional and fun at once, something that if you ask me, is quite hard to achieve.

http://bhelpuribheja.blogspot.com/ - For Roshnee Desai and her Batootas, among other more fantastically creative things.

Both spaces on the web are just mirrors of what talent and initiative can do. I'm sure everyone involved will go very far. Good luck, you guys.

All The Pretty Things...

2009-10-07T17:09:00.003+01:00

Raindrop-paisley on my windowpane, shimmering, smiling, sparkling.

Swaying trees dancing with the wind.

Cranberry tea and swirling steam.

Elderflower bottles with sensual shapes.

The smell of oranges.

Norah Jones and mellow melancholy.

The scent of lavender, waterlillies and witch hazel.

Soft curls and freshly washed hair.

Butterflies.

Sketches dangling from the sky.

A worn Mumbai Meri Jaan T-shirt and cotton shorts.

Happy pinstriped blanket and pink pillow.

Bathing in the quiet, gentle stream of twilight.

Pink flowers peering from the window.

The song of the six string.

A draft of wind that carries the smell of damp earth.

A flutter of wings and a delightful shiver of the soul.

Rainsongs and melodies of leaves in the rain.

Hope.

Of Constant Constants

2009-09-27T01:51:00.005+01:00

We all have constants in our lives.

That one person who doesn't change. That one place where you can be who you want to. That one thing that you do to keep the familiar close.

Nothing provides more comfort than the constants in our lives. They are there, always watching from the sidelines while you live your life. They give you faith because you look up to them, or because you've been through so much you know what their answers and reactions will be, or because they have been your shelter from storms past. Because of the warmth and familiarity of the bond shared.

Sometimes our constants let us down. Sometimes you go back to something you thought you knew, and you realise it's become unfamiliar. The magic's gone and you have to move on. Perhaps find another constant you didn't know existed.

As constants for other people we must do our best to be there for the people who come back to us. Like we depend on others, they depend on us. And we must try to never let them down.

For everyone back home who is down because a constant went away- A, S, J, R, R, A, A- she will be back and for her, you are constants, so remember that. And thank you for being my constants too.

For U, because she will soon be out and into the wild, testing waters, taking plunges and living it up, chin up, you're going to see it all, get it all and you will deserve every bit of it. When you need it your closest constant is right here.

For all my constants, named and unnamed, those I recognise and those I don't. Thank you all. For all the people who look at me as a constant, let me know how I'm doing, will ya?

Haven And Home

2009-09-12T13:50:00.005+01:00

It's popular knowledge that I'm a creature of change. This also reflects in the way I have this nagging urge to rearrange my room every now and then. For five months now, I've had my own room, and it's been my haven and home in the best ways possible.

It's small but it's cosy and I have friends and family and everything I hold dear peering at me from my pinboard, and sunlight streams in from the window every morning (as much as English weather will permit). It's lovely.

But I like change. And so after debating on how to give it a makeover, I decided to string up some of my sketches. The result, though slightly messy, is a carnival-like atmosphere....

QM's room, ladies and gentlemen, is as crazy and colourful as she can be ;)

Birthday Thank You

2009-09-08T21:13:00.003+01:00

This is a thank you note for two friends. One, a newfound one and the other a lost-and-found friend, someone who I let slip away some years ago, in a fit of childish ignorance and the hazy mist of misunderstandings teenagers are plagued with.

Thank you. For not allowing me to be alone on my birthday. For being the only two people to call at twelve (something that until this year wasn't so important to me, because of all the years I took it for granted). For waltzing into my life with 1000 watt smiles and decibel levels so loud that they could (and did) wake the neighbours up at unearthly hours. For all the laughter and the jokes and the sunshine that has filled every single day I've spent with you two in the past few months. For taking me into the fold, for allowing me to become part of a small circle that I'm honoured and happy to be part of.

And B, for the birthday call that went acknowledged, for all the trying to fix things when it should have been both of us fixing it, thank you. Most of all, thank you for the chance to be a friend again.

Thank you both. For putting up with the cribbing, the crying, the arguments, everything. For being friends anybody would be proud of. The kind anyone would want to have around them on a birthday.

That being said, I had a wonderful birthday. Quiet, uneventful, but nice nonetheless. I thanked the heavens for all the small things this time. For the international calls, the coffee on the house from Pret, the wonderful friends at work who bought a slice of cake, a pair of earrings and some sunshine into the day, for friends who took me out for Pizza and conversations at Trafalgar Square, and for the people who really look at FB birthdays and take time for a page to load and actually wish a person, for fellow bloggers and readers who read this sap ;p ,for the simple joy of being remembered by the ones you love, and the ones who love you. Thank you all.

22

2009-09-04T14:25:00.004+01:00

In three days time, I will be 22.

This year there will be no celebrations. It will come and go quietly. There will be other days to celebrate, other birthdays to remember. This year, everything I hold dear is with me already. In memories, in thoughts, in my heart and mind.

This year, being alive is a gift enough. That I am well, that I have family and friends who love me is enough to carry me through. There is beauty in life, and there is a lot to live for, and this birthday, I give thanks just to be able to see, feel and be.

This birthday I celebrate being alive.

The Weepies

2009-08-30T03:00:00.003+01:00

We all cry. It's a form of release we all need, every few weeks, every few months, every few years.

As a child, I used to be teased endlessly because I used to cry all the time. As a person on her way into adulthood, I still cry a lot. I cry when I'm angry, when I'm frustrated, when I'm worried, when I'm upset, when I watch sad movies...

I've cried on buses, trains, on the tube, in parks, in public places of all kinds. Mostly because there's comfort in the anonymity. There's a sense of peace in doing so, when there are strangers about, who are going about their daily chores, without so much as a glance. (By crying, I don't mean weeping and wailing and flailing my arms about while beating my chest).

When I am angry, and by this I mean when I am seething, hopping mad, tears begin to roll down my face. Many have made the grave mistake of taking this as a sign of weakness. In time, when words are exchanged, they realise that it is possible to hold one's ground and present a strong argument, even with a weepy face. Perhaps it's a defense mechanism. Whatever the case, I'm plagued by tears sooner than the average individual.

I like to believe I am a strong person. I like to believe I am capable of overcoming the odds, one way or the other. And I refuse to believe that because I let a vulnerable side show through while I am battling those odds, I am any less strong. In the years I've spent travelling on public transport, meeting people of all kinds, I've never seen a single person cry. I, on the other hand, have picked a convenient window seat facing a wall and held a handkerchief to my face on many occasions, and have never been bothered by questions.

Recently, a friend of mine had a bad day at work and was found shedding a few tears in the canteen. Another person who heard her story advised her to 'never let her weakness show'. I thought about it and I've been wondering for a few days now- why not? Your weaknesses do not define you. You do not become any less of a person if you let them show on occasion.

Being sensitive to a point does not mean you've lost a debate if you can swing back after. A chink in the armour doesn't make the wearer any weaker unless they don't want to fight back. I refuse to believe that if I tear easily, I am a weakling. I am not asking for your sympathy when I cry. I am doing it because it's what drives me to fight back. If I cry, and you think that's my weakness, then I don't really mind, it's what makes me human.

Yes, this is part-rant, part-pondering, and in case you're wondering, it hasn't been fuelled by any conversation or one particular incident. It's just a thought. I sometimes wish people would show a little more of their human sides. By this I don't mean everyone should be so sensitive as to start weeping copious amounts of tears, but just a little more sensitivity, a little more vulnerability wouldn't hurt the world. Opinions are welcome and I know many won't agree with me on this:)

September Baby

2009-08-25T09:39:00.003+01:00

September is a month of change.

Like March, when the flowers of Spring begin to bloom and lift their sunny faces to the sky, in September, green turns to brown, and carpets of gold and yellow leaves appear. In other places, September brings a harvest, even spring, or an end to the monsoons.

September is a month of change. A month where what has been and what is to come meet and melt into one. It is the end of the holidays, the start of a new term, the beginning of school. It is the month where change is imminent.

I am a child of September. Perhaps I identify and embrace change of most kinds because of this. I love change in most of its forms. Redecoration, makeovers, replanning, shuffling, changes in routine, changes in the littlest things.

This year, however, too much has changed and too soon. Some changes are impossible to reverse, and some scars are too permanent to ever heal. This September does not bring so much joy as it would have in the past. This September is still, quiet, asleep. This September, too much has changed.

The Bookworm's Fire

2009-07-23T20:40:00.004+01:00

In the past week, I somehow found myself with a lot of time on my hands. And I decided to do what I love best.

Read.

In the past three days, I've read four books, and as doubtful as that may sound, I will assure you that it isn't a lie. When I begin to read, and sink my teeth into a book, I get the feeling that everything else- eating, drinking, sleeping, etc, are just not that important. They merely serve as distractions, each one attempting to conspire with other forces of the cosmos, keeping me away from my next chapter.

I have taken to assuming a hunter-like stance in bookshops. I first scan the entire shelf, or table (prices included) and then rapidly check to see if there are any known names that are not in my collection, snapping it up before the person next to me does.

In charity shops, I breeze in, pretending to look at clothes, while inching to the farthest corner where the books are kept, pouncing on what I can find on the shelves, hugging them closely to my chest. Recent purchases have included the His Dark Materials Trilogy- Phillip Pullman (of which the first book was made into a film- The Golden Compass), Vikram Seth's Beastly Tales, The entire collection of William Blake's poetry, Bill Bryson's Notes from a Small Island, Alice Hoffman's Here on Earth, and Chimamanda Adichie's Half of a Yellow Sun. Of these, I've finished three, the first two of the Pullman trilogy, and Hoffman's. Another Bill Bryson was also promptly devoured- a borrowed book- The Lost Continent.

But my aim in this post has not been to trumpet my newlyfound second-hand (and one or two new) books or my bookworm self to the readers of this blog.

I am just grateful I feel the need to read again. For sometime before I got to London, I really didn't have the time or the inclination to read anything. Now, like I once did, I need to read every minute that I'm not doing something. And once it becomes as natural to you as breathing or sleeping, you know it's there to stay again.

My best moment as I assumed my hunter avatar was when I walked into a quaint and utterly non-descript little shop near Waterloo station. It was a second-hand bookshop, with lots of books crowded onto sagging shelves. I walked around and scanned them, eagle-eyed, and I nearly shouted out loud when I saw it. My very own copy of the Lord of the Rings. (Yes, I haven't owned the book till now, only borrowed it from my cousin). As it happened, it had the exact paperback cover of the one I'd borrowed and read several times. It was an original, one that I plan to bind and keep along with the Silmarillion and when I buy it, The Hobbit. Someday I will have a lovely illustrated version of each.

And so that was the story of how I bought/ adopted a stray LOTR while it lay sadly abandoned on a lonesome bookshelf in a quaint little shop. So what if it isn't new? It looked thumbed (which means it was once loved, but abandoned anyway because nobody knew the sheer value of the book). It was Fate, and as Tolkein himself would say: It chose me.

Pitter Patter

2009-07-23T20:33:00.003+01:00

There is nothing that beats walking in the rain, while listening to Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

I had forgotten how much I really loved the rain, since here it's a dampner because it's always unwelcome, always dreaded and cursed at, and always an annoyance. More often than not, it's always a silly drizzle. Not like today, when there was real rain.

I'd forgotten how it felt to just turn your face upwards and feel the rain on your face, breathing in the smell of freshly wet earth. It cleanses the soul, it does.

So today, while I walked back home from the bus stop, I turned my face heavenwards, greeted the music the sky was bringing me, and I remembered the feeling of the first rains in Bombay. Something I have always loved and taken time to thank the stars for.

Tomorrow, I will go back to hating the rain here, but for today, I am happy being embraced by it.

Of Charm

2009-07-23T19:51:00.004+01:00

It was just another day in London, and I decided to give my eyes a break from all the reading I've been doing, and so I decided to watch The Sound of Music. Once I'd decided this, the anticipation while the movie buffered was so immense, I couldn't believe what had gotten into me. I was like a woman possessed.

As I watched, I realised why I loved the movie so much. I watched it several times as I grew up. It made all the technological upgrades with me; the videotape, the CD, the DVD, and this time, the internet. I watched, and like every single time before, I felt the magic sweep over me again.

I sang along to all the songs- I know every single word in every single one, and I giggled and chuckled and felt sad in all the right places, though if you pressed me I could probably tell you what the dialogue that followed was going to be. Yet, when I saw the nuns turn their eyes heavenwards during Maria, I chortled. When Captain Von Trapp sang Edelweiss with his children for the first time, I felt joy and relief, and when I saw his expression when he noticed his children hanging from the trees with curtains for dresses, I laughed out loud.

When the movie was over, I felt a bit wistful. I thought about it for a while and realised that these movies had a charm that not a single movie today could touch with a bargepole. The King and I, My Fair Lady, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, Roman Holiday....Nothing really beats them and I doubt very much that anything can ever come close. That's not to say movies today are rubbish (most are, to be honest), but there's a difference. Everything is slick and everything has style. But there's very rarely any charm. The kind that doesn't involve stupid dialogue, ridiculous banter, and at least one sex scene.

I know very few people from among my generation who could sit and watch the movie without thinking they were doing something really corny. And I don't know anybody younger than me, from the next generation who's actually even seen it (though I'm sure there are exceptions to this fact). I wondered to myself if that meant we were the last few people who would really have the privilege of watching movies with real charm and an essence of innocence no teenager today would understand.

Ah well, perhaps it's their loss. I know that however old I get, Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer, the Von Trapp children, the music and the dancing in Sound of Music, the sheer magic of it all, will never, ever grow old for me.

Blue Skies And Green Fields

2009-07-17T12:52:00.003+01:00

A couple of days ago, while I travelled back home on the National Express, I was treated to a wonderful view of blue-grey skies and green fields. The window was beautifully wide and allowed me a brilliant view of everything that passed.

As I watched, the trees of all shapes and sizes sped towards me and disappeared in a blur beyond my line of sight. As the skies darkened, and I looked for shapes in the clouds, I felt myself overcome by grief.

I have always been easily moved by nature. There are some things that not everyone will have the fortune to see. And the sheer beauty of what I was witnessing was enough to remind me of that fact. Sure enough, it was a pretty regular view as far as views go, but I have seen similar ones- wide acres of fields melting into vast expanses of sky, and yet, I have never been bored.

It occured to me that V would possibly never get to see it, along with so much else. It seems unfair that so much beauty that runs wild and free is an everyday view for some, and has a price on it for some others. It's even worse to think that for some, it's not an option any longer.

But then I wonder if he has a better view. Maybe where he is, the sky is always blue, there are always rays shining through the clouds, and the fields are always green. Maybe his world isn't rife with intolerance, greed, hatred and apathy.

And maybe, like Don McLean says, this world was never meant for someone as beautiful as you.

The Little Bastion

2009-07-12T22:17:00.006+01:00

I had the pleasure of spending this weekend in Colchester, with a friend's family. Apart from being some of the most generous and warm people I know, they are also among many other things, the funnest people I've met.

Apart from the raucous laughter, singing and wonderful conversation that the weekend was spotted generously with, I also attended two melas where I made some interesting observations. The friend I was staying with was to perform a bharatnatyam number at both melas, and while both shows were amazing, they were also bigger eye-openers than I would have ever imagined.

With lots of bhangra music playing in the background, and so many English people and other caucasian souls drifting about appreciatively eyeing, the colours the Indian population was adorned with, the melas were absolutely wonderful to behold, especially to someone who likes to observe people. At one point, when there was a mish-mash of white and brown people waving their arms about and screwing light bulbs, doing snazzy bhangra moves together, I was a bit confused as to whether I was truly in England or not.

But my favourite part was watching my friend and the rest of her dance group face an entire audience of mostly white people, performing a traditional Indian classical dance, with absolute ease. Another amazing view was watching four white girls perform the typically south Indian dance, as gracefully as ever.

So I realised a few things. I realised that wonder exists in the littlest of places. In the little town where everybody knows your name. In the mela where Indian girls with British accents return to their roots, with unmatched grace and courage. In a little park where white people, black people, brown people and people of all colours are all united by a simple song and dance routine. I realised that it is in these small and slightly unknown bubbles of the world that true wonder lies. Because it is in these little bastions that the hope for a more peaceful, and a happier world still exists.

This post is dedicated to a marvelous young girl, who is more rooted than I could be at 17. Who is smart, gorgeous, and full of talent and will go a long, long way. J, I'm sure you'll do the right thing whenever you have to ;)

Of Memories

2009-07-07T22:54:00.003+01:00

Today is a day for memories. Every day is, when you live alone, but then some days they come back stronger than others. Some days there are more rushing through your veins, knocking the walls of the deepest recesses of the mind, waiting to spill out, like clothes stuffed in carelessly over the months...

The music sets the tone, lulling you into a bubble...

A house full of laughter. A family sits around a room, pulling each others legs. They are a raucous bunch, and in their laughter, some bass, some shrill, some trilling away into the wind, in their laughter, they silently celebrate each other....

A little white car glides along a small lane, and four girls sit looking out of their windows. There is always music in the car. Conversation has slowed. They sit in companionable silence, till one of them brings up a thought. Then they start talking again, four women bonded by an invisible thread over six years. Once more there is a lull. And each one knows what the other is thinking.

A song brings back a memory of something lost and something gained. The Raghu Dixit Project and a broken dream. 4:53 and a terrible sensation that the song may very well be true. A bittersweet decision.

A dark room and a flickering computer screen. A choice of movies and the movie pimp. The blue light of the woofer.The raiding of the kitchen at 3 am. A walk on the terrace and long talks....

The memories aren't just snatches from stray thoughts. I can see the details. I can see my aunts' and cousins faces crinkle up in the first one, I know what the expressions on A, S and U's faces will be like, their posture, how their eyes light up when they have something to say, I can see Vinit sprawled over the bed, shaking his legs while he watches the movie....

I am in each one and so the memory is in me. And today is a day to embrace each memory. Because as I lie here, in a world away from the ones I love, I have only the details.

Why, I Hear You Ask?

2009-07-07T22:48:00.002+01:00

I like change. So every few days I change the template when I feel like it. I'm still in search of the perfect one. Till then...

Of Sashaying Trees And Dancing Leaves

2009-06-30T15:25:00.003+01:00

When I wake, the first sight my eyes are treated to are the tops of two trees that live outside my window. Since my bed is right under it, I can see the leaves shimmering away, with sunlight painting the tips of its leaves if it's a sunny day or raindrops glistening on them if it's rainy, as it usually is in this country.

Over the months I have come to like this view very much. The trees are my friends now, and together we wake in the morning (maybe they rise a little earlier than I do) and look out at the world. We also discuss the weather, something we never really tire of doing. They instruct me as to what I should equip myself with, and put in a word or two about what clothes would be most suitable.

Being such close friends as we are, there are some times of day I love more than others. The morning, when I wake is one such time. But equally beautiful are noon and twilight. At noon, if it's a sunny day, the leaves make patterns on my walls. Sunshine and shimmer become part of my room and the leaves dance along my bed, brightening up my duvet and bedspread, sometimes naughtily sneaking up my face and arms. At times like this, when I look out the window, I am in awe of the tree as she sashays with the wind, reminding me of a middle-aged lady standing around, swaying slightly from side to side and humming to herself absent-mindedly.

At twilight she begins to settle down, and together we watch the sky darken until it turns a beautiful blue that both she and I love. At nightfall, I say goodnight and draw my curtains while she stands guard over my window, sleeping watchfully until day breaks and the curtains are drawn open again.

Tracy Chapman

2009-06-26T17:05:00.003+01:00

Last night, I struck one thing off my wishlist. Watch Tracy Chapman in concert.

Tracy Chapman was just a name to me, years ago, when I first watched Fast Car on television. Needless to say, I loved the song, but had no access to acquiring albums or songs by legal (too expensive) or illegal means (the terrible dial-up we had). And so when I could do both these, I began acquiring what I consider some of the finest music I have access to now. The music Tracy Chapman makes.

Yesterday, as we watched from Level 2 of the Camden Roundhouse, I knew exactly what it was that I loved about her. Her simplicity in both her appearance and her music make up the essence of what I see as Tracy Chapman. There is a beautiful spirit in her songs. And sorrow and joy and all the other emotions she creates through her music have a power over you that only the very best musicians can lay claim to.

When she came on stage last night, I was pretty sure that it was going to be an amazing experience. When she played Sing for You, from her latest album, I was sure I'd never been happier. But when she played Revolution and Fast Car and Baby Can I Hold You Tonight? and Gimme One Reason, I was pretty sure I'd died and gone to heaven. And when the band went silent and she sang Behind the Wall, I was pretty sure that I was witnessing the highlight of my six months in London.

The wonder of seeing Tracy Chapman live in the flesh and playing what are clearly considered anthems, was, as they say, something else. Her new album is excellent, and the old songs are familiar friends that give comfort at any time of night or day. The feeling of being among a crowd of people singing Revolution together is out of this world.

So last night, I struck one thing off my wishlist. And rewrote it again :) Watch Tracy Chapman in concert. Again.

From Daddy's Little Girl

2009-06-21T16:22:00.003+01:00

Little girls and their fathers have a special bond. When they're babies they hold them tenderly in one hand, when they're toddlers, they spin them into the air, when mommy shouts, daddy will give comfort.

Sometimes along the way things change. There are upsets, and the bond grows weaker and the fragile link breaks. Differences arise and not everything can be mended with words.

My father and I share a relationship that has encompassed everything I have just described. When I was much younger, I would find it easier to talk to him than to my mother. As I grew up, we both made mistakes, and we are still trying to fix some. We have weathered the bad times because of the sheer strength and positivity that my mother brought to the equation, even though for years she was caught between a rock and a hard place, between the devil and the deep sea.

Till date my father is the only one who has called me something other than my real name. He calls me kanna, apple of the eye in Malayalam. Though it's a common enough endearment, it's still something that is unique to our relationship.

Discipline from my father usually came through disapproving glances and a comment to put me in my place. I can only remember one time when he raised a hand to me, and that was because I was being so obstinate, I refused to study for a Math exam. Besides that, my mother was the one whose five fingers usually found their way across to do the disciplining.

Like most fathers, mine would take silent pride in my achievements, something I may have mistaken for indifference or apathy as a child. Like most fathers, mine would put up my kiddie paintings on the refridgerator, pinning them up to show the world. Like most fathers, he could never really figure out which grade I was in, something that I amuses me to this day.

I was always in awe of how he would do everything in our house. We never needed an electrician, a plumber or a handyman. If something broke, my father could and still does fix it. At a science competition in school, he and I decided we would showcase how a signal junction worked. When he was stumped about a certain electric connection that wouldn't light up at the right switch, we consulted a lot of our friends who were engineers and the likes. In the end, no one could find an answer, but he did. And we won second place. I was ecstatic.

There are many things that we may wish to change about each other, my father and I. Yet, I will always see him with the utmost respect for the way he has built his life from scratch. How a little boy from a village in Kerala grew up, went out into the wild world and made his place in it. It may not be a big place, and it may not be the best, but it is his. And so it is ours. He has made an honest living. He has worked hard throughout his 57 years, and he has tried to do the best he could for most part.

The trouble is, I can see him do more. I believe he can be more than he is now. I believe that he has not reached his full potential. He can be a happier, more positive person, if he only puts his mind to it.

The problem with being daddy's little girl is that even when you grow up, you are still just that. Daddy's little girl. Perhaps this is why fathers can mostly only see the little girl, and not the woman. Perhaps it's why they are so averse to giving them away, and so protective of them.

Dadda Dearest,

I love you. And no matter how far I go, and how much I grow, I always will.

Happy Father's Day,

Love,

Your Little Girl.

To 23 And Beyond

2009-06-20T15:30:00.003+01:00

This is for a couple whom I love very much.

A couple who has been through the ups and downs of life, and like all couples do, still continue to do so. Like all couples, they fight, they bicker, and they drive each other up the wall all the time. So much so that sometimes it's hard to tell if they love each other or not.

And yet, twenty-three years later, for better or for worse, they are still together. Twenty-three years of compromising, adapting to each other's peculiarities and oddities, and agreeing to disagree on a variety of things out of sheer frustration.

In the process, they have succeeded in driving me up the wall frequently. As an only child, I have had to listen to both sides of the story, and it has been difficult.

Yet I am eternally grateful for these two people, for I am a product of the two. Flesh of their flesh, blood of their blood. I am a mixture of two polar opposites, and the contradictions within my thoughts, I often attribute to this. They are a strange mixture of a glass half empty and a glass half full.

They have seen better times, both as individuals and as a unit. And though they now function more as individuals than as units, I hope that time will come again when they are in sync with one another. Times when he would dance and sing, when she would be happier, and times when the smile would reach their eyes more easily. Times when they would talk and listen and arguments would be few and far between.

To the couple I love the most.

Happy Anniversary.

Here's to 23 and more years of finding love again, and living for one another, growing old together, being grandparents together, and to being the best parents a girl can have.

Celebrating A Life

2009-06-06T09:23:00.005+01:00

The sixth of June.

Years of birthdays celebrated with cards and family gatherings, baked cakes and parties, and today we can only remember the past. We have only those memories to hold on to. And for me, they are less than for most others.

From now on, we have only memories. Of a 1000 watt smile, of a boy who always bought birthday cards, of a fun-filled spirit, of a boy we loved and still do. Today, I celebrate his existence. His life. His essence. His spirit.

Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

This was written by his brother...

Our worlds sing your forever tune

Even as you dance and play beyond the moon

Woven far beyond the smallest eye can see

In our beings and souls, forever free

Brother, son, friend and more

Wade on to the Rodasi shore

We etch the sky with stars in your name

For we are the sentinels of your flame

Our worlds sing your forever tune
Even as you laugh and play beyond the moon
Woven far beyond the smallest eye can see
In our beings and souls, forever free

Play the solo again, beat that cymbal in time
Alchemist of sound, forge that golden rhyme
Ride that firebreather, you have earned your dues
May the next episode be bathed in glorious hues

Brother, son, friend and more
Wade on to the Rodasi shore
We etch the sky with stars in your name
For we are the sentinels of your flame

And as Kahlil Gibran says in the Prophet;

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and melt into the sun,
And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.
And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.
And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

Happy Birthday, Vinit.

Tea Or Coffee?

2009-06-01T22:16:00.001+01:00

A quaint and softly lit shop occupies an unobtrusive spot in a non-descript little lane in Nottingham. On a little shelf opposite the door are little glass jars with tea leaves, with a vast choice of Mother Nature’s finest offerings waiting to be relished. Lee Rosy’s is a world in itself.

There is a flavour for every occasion. Rooibos Flowerdance, Peppermint, Cherry, Apple, Mint, Lychee, Vanilla, Blackcurrant, Wild Berries, Forest Berries, and Blue Sky, among others. There’s a flavour for every emotion.

Sweet and subtle, strong and lasting, with aftertastes that linger long after the conversations have ended and the light outside has faded.

I’ve always thought of myself as a coffee person. I would pick coffee over tea any day. But I’m afraid I’m never really going to be a coffee person again. Perhaps the smell of the earth in tea leaves stirs something inside me that freshly ground coffee beans don’t. Perhaps it’s the aroma of fruits and flowers and sunshine that tea brings. Perhaps while coffee is strong and suave in its essence, tea is more delicate, more fragile and so much softer in spirit.

And while both tea and coffee have souls of their own, and while I cannot imagine life without coffee and its strength, I believe it’s now time to take a bit of wisdom from tea’s gentle, yet strong spirit. Maybe the dregs will then start to tell happier stories, and when the aftertaste has faded, the memory of it will remain, along with snatches of conversation and the colour of the fading light.

And as the aftertaste of the Flowerdance leaves fades, I am a tea person.

Some Suggestions For Service With A Smile

2009-05-19T18:49:00.002+01:00

For my current part-time job I work in a food joint. It's a health food place so we make salads and wraps and smoothies. It's all very pretty from the outside, but like any other place, we have our problems. Some days are intolerable, some better. But I've realised a couple of things.

One, taking out the trash, cleaning floors and selling food to people is a humbling experience, and it gives you a sense of perspective. If everybody had to do this at least once in their lives, they would certainly, and you can take my word for it, be more polite to people who do these things for a living- your household help, waiters, janitors, peons..... I have never understood why people talk down to these people because for one, it's a decent, dignified way to earn a living and there's nothing wrong with it. Also, they are almost always doing us a favour and being much nicer about it than you would be if you had to clean up after them.

Two, some people just don't know how to be nice. There're a number of people who come into the shop each day and while most offer you a smile and a kind word, there are others, who simply cannot bring themselves to do either. Don't get me wrong, I don't expect bright shiny people all the time. But customers tend to think that they are the only ones working, having a bad day, and so they are allowed to take their irritation out on everyone else they come into contact with.

Three, everybody makes mistakes. Everybody. With time and experience they become less in number and magnitude, but there won't be two days in a row without them. Some hide theirs, some are unfortunate enough to make mistakes where the world can see them. It evens out, some help and patience can make a world of a difference.

So I have a few suggestions for those of you who're having a bad day, can't handle it, and end up taking it out on the poor people at the counter;

1. Take your frustration somewhere else. Why? Because in all probability, the person at the counter serving you is probably having a bad day too. But unlike you, she doesn't have the privilege of being able to stand there with a stone-faced, grim or sour expression, which means she's trying. So you should try too.

2. Being mean, passing snide comments or rubbing it in will not help anything. The person serving you will remember you. And unless you make amends in a spectacular manner, you will have ruined your chances at being served with a smile. A genuine one that is.

3. If you're nice, and you smile and chit-chat, chances are that you may be served more portions, or will get the best of whatever ingredients you're having. Which may not be company policy, but like every customer has their 'experience' with a place- that can decide whether they like it or not, come back or not, even the person behind the counter has their experience with you. And you can make it or break it.

4. If person behind the counter isn't wearing a suit, or isn't dressed in their prettiest, fanciest clothes, or doesn't speak impeccable English, it doesn't make them stupid, or any less of a person than you are.

5. Even if I wasn't a Master's Degree student, and I was doing this for my livelihood, I wouldn't be ashamed of it. So I see no reason why anybody should think any less of people who haven't had the kind of opportunities they've had.

6. Be nice. It'll definitely get you better service :)

If I Could Be Somebody

2009-05-19T18:42:00.003+01:00

Whenever I see a police officer in this city, I feel somewhat wistful. I know, it's not exactly a logical feeling to have, but it's somewhat like the same feeling that takes over you when you wish you wanted to be someone else.

I'd like to be some other people. And this is not considering the perils, disadvantages and sheer irrational thought that goes into the idea. On a whim, then...here they are;

A surgeon. (I am capable of mixing up peoples intestines or sew their heart back in wrong. But I am always in awe of doctors. What discipline, sacrifices, passion......)

A police officer. (There's a certain respect you command. I walked past a lady officer that day and she and I just looked at each other, and she gave me the slightest nod. It was just a split second and somehow I was just awestruck)

A lawyer. The type that wears formal clothes and high heels with a finesse that makes anyone envious. (Yes, I know, anyone can wear formal clothes with finesse. But brains too? Incredible combination.)

A truck driver. (Not that I enjoy constant cussing or crude talk but our own colourful Indian trucks would be brilliant to drive. Or maybe a road train, or a cement truck. This won't happen because I will, inevitably, without meaning to, kill somebody.)

An officer in the Indian Navy. (Okay, this is shallow. Erm, more shallow than the others, that is. I just like the uniform)

A gymnast. (You know, the kind that come to the Olympics. The ones that look like they've been training since they were two.)

A ballet dancer. (Imagine gliding and moving so gracefully you look like you're treading water. Ballet dancers are a different league. They're not human somehow.)

An actor. (No, not in Bollywood. Or Hollywood. But in theatre. Even if it means playing the silent maid who's sweeping in a corner....Ah imagine the rehearsals, the props, costumes, entering a new skin everyday.)

A singing sensation. (Not like Hilary Duff. More like Cher or Celine Dion. And here I am only referring to their voices, mind you.)

A sportstar. (Imagine being the one who scored a goal when there're just seconds left on the clock. The scorer of the winning run.....the victory lap around the ground....And yes, I understand that you must lose too.)

A photographer with the National Geographic. (Okay, so there's a small chance that this dream may still come to be.Let's not say anymore and jinx it.)

A forensic expert. (You know, I've always found that forensics borders on being morbid and amazing at once. And I used to love the discovery programs about how murders were solved with forensic help.)

Somebody a comet was named after. (I mean, think about it, how wonderful would it be to have your name in the history texts and little kidspointing to the stars calling out your name even years after you lived.)

........ (to be continued as life goes on and inspiration strikes at the oddest places)

I'm going to keep adding to this one. I'd suggest you do the same.

And Now...

2009-05-16T21:12:00.003+01:00

Those of you who know me- both on the blog and otherwise, will know that I haven't been myself for the past few months. I have been completely disoriented, and for a long time, I didn't know what I needed to do to really snap out of the sorrow and the misery and move on.

Most of it comes from a hollow that is now present in my life. I am convinced it will never go away. Death does steal a lot more than a life. And then sudden change is difficult to handle.

To a large extent, I still don't know what to do.

But I have decided, that for me to accept and to move on, I really need to try. And so try I will.

Before I take the leap of faith, though, some thanks are in order. For those people who have been patient and who have tried to understand why I have been the way I have been, and for still standing by- some leaping into the picture frame with me, and some silently standing by.

My family. For the mails, the calls, the chit-chat and the comfortanble banter that only close families possess. Without them there to understand and share in it, it would be impossible to move on in any way. So thank you all for being my pillars. (Vma, Vcha, A and N, my strength comes from yours.)

My friends. For being the kind of people who go home to my parents on Mother's Day and spend the day with them, without being asked or prompted to. For being the kind who have been there without being physically present. A,U,S, J, A, you guys amaze me. Thank you for all you do for me.

In London, there are special thanks to give. To begin with, S and H, for bringing sunshine into my room everytime the clouds threatened to descend. (I am going to stop being kalashian now :P) P, for the long talks, for being an excellent listener, and for the unending moral support. For my newfound friend Pr, you are an inspiration and one of the most genuine, nicest people I have met, thank you for being my friend and accepting me before we'd even met :)

And though this comes in the end, it is just as important as every other slot on this post- This is my thank you to the readers who have stayed with this blog and read every single, sorrow-filled, depressing, torturous post and stuck around without losing their sanity and going unhinged. Thank you. Priya, for being so concerned when a post doesn't appear for over a week, for worrying about the person and the blog. Deepali, for still checking in off and on, Rivers, for seeing some sort of beauty in prose even in the saddest posts, and for everyone who checks the blog anonymously. Thank you for sticking around.

The sorrow will not go away. And writing is catharsis for me. So when I vent here, I feel better. Hopefully, the posts will be happier, funner, and less depressing.

Here's hoping QM's lighter side returns.

Twilight Blue

2009-05-02T21:52:00.002+01:00

Lonely is not just a feeling. It’s a Place. One that everybody visits now and then. It’s empty, very empty, but there are a couple of things floating about in there.

Dreamy visions of happy days that have disappeared beyond the horizon. Like photographs yellowed by time, memories lie piled up, some grainy, some dog-eared by frequent use. And like every photograph, they smell bittersweet, but only more bitter, tinged by sadness so strong, it’s difficult to see the bits of happiness that float about.

The lonely space is full of emptiness. Because nothing in the lonely space has a soul. In a little corner of the space is a storybook. It tells stories, mostly sad stories, of times past, of love lost, friends that once were, lifetimes lived even in one life, worlds away from the present. All the stories were happy, until they made their way into the storybook. Then they lie still, tainted by sorrow.

The colour of the space and everything in it is blue. The colour of twilight. The colour of that time when day turns to dusk. It is the colour of change. All the memories in the space are tinted with twilight blue. The storybook, the pictures in it, the photographs are all twilight blue.

Loneliness is a twilight blue.

The Moment

2009-04-28T18:48:00.002+01:00

It was a moment. It didn't last very long, but I remember it as though it was just yesterday. My eyes were bleary, and I was standing in the midst of a circle of people. I looked up at the sky, and suddenly, all the voices around me were muted. There was a gentle breeze and I looked up and the sun was in my eyes, and it didn't seem so harsh anymore.

And in that moment, I felt like he was there, and he was watching us. And I felt at peace. It was a brief moment, but I go back to it whenever I think of him and feel depair at the thought that he isn't around. I try to go back there, to that very spot, in that dreary, dark place, where a ray of light, floating on a gentle breeze, came and played with my hair, reminding me that he was around, watching, smiling, as only he knew how to.

Just a little moment. Filled with peace. I go back there whenever I think of him. To believe he is alright, he is okay, he is doing what he does best- having fun.