At Random

The bus slows to a halt at the turn under the flyover and the driver turns off the engine. The traffic is thick and we'll be here for a good five minutes, time enough for a miniature Study of Human Nature. Postures change slightly but perceptibly as limbs are stretched in anticipation of the 'long' wait. The discomfort of cramped limbs seems to double when the bus ceases to move and the wind stops swirling in through the narrow gaps between jammed panes (for most of the windows are normally closed to keep out the chill and the dust) and the frames.

An unspoken-of camaraderie, born of impatience and tiredness, envelopes the stillness, broken occasionally by a sigh or a muffled whisper into a mobile phone- this isn't the right moment for intimate conversations. We envy the freedom of those outside, helmeted motorists powering their way home as we languish within the stagnant confines of an uncomfortable bus. There isn't much to do but look around, because the lights are too dim to read by.

A stout man in a white singlet wearily hands out cakes from behind the counter of his bakery, perhaps asserting his proprietorship in the way he is dressed. A band of thinly-clad beggars straggles by, disabusing the notions of merriment that have pervaded our cubicles rigged up in festive bunting (the debris of which will later have to be cleaned up by people who know few holidays, if any). Street lights glint off the black helmets of motorists making their way home in the rapidly falling dusk, pedestrians weaving their way dangerously through the endless stream of traffic- having to wait for a break in the flow of vehicles can reduce the most optimistic person to sheer hopelessness.

The air reeks with the odour of unwashed clothes, and my suspicions of the source hinge upon the man I am sharing the seat with, for a valid reason. As he hums under his breath, he scratches his ear and moulds wax between his left thumb and forefinger, and I cannot think very highly of his ideas of hygiene. Surely his clothes have been on him for two days on end? The thick, dark stubble on his chin strengthens my suspicions.

The wait ends. The signal has turned green and the bus roars back to life. Five minutes, and I'll be home.

*******

Two Irish writers have strengthened my faith in the magic of words, even if one Ukrainian-born award-winner tried to jeopardise it (not that it is easily shaken, so no harm done). I have recently finished two books- Troubles by JG Farrell, and A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian by Marina Lewycka. The first was entirely deserving of the hype and the award of the Lost Man Booker Prize (though I've only read one of the other contenders); the latter, on the other hand, seemed rather reminiscent of a soap opera full of screeching women. Farrell's style is simple, elegant and honest- there is a practical solidity about his prose that brings to life the dreariness of the Majestic- without underplaying the somewhat colourful characters- and the troubled times after the 1916 Easter Rising in Ireland. Lewycka, on the other hand, creates a 'comedy' that is rather too loud for my complete liking. (If I don't get too lazy over the weekend, I shall have reviews of both the books up here.)

Currently, it is John Banville's 2005 Man Booker-winning novel, The Sea, which has me captivated. His prose is fascinating without being pretentious, reminiscent of a journey on a gently bobbing boat on a day that is neither stormy nor overly sunshiny, but just right.

Hurrah to words.

A Prosaic Ode to Summers of Old

Soap suds, runaways, chillingly lukewarm water from the tank in the tree-shaded courtyard, the raucous harmony of crows blending with the plaintive calls of the koel.

Summer is here, and so are childhood (mis)adventures.

If you delve into ancient history, you will find that summer wasn't an unending series of summer camps and coaching classes, a race- even as school let out to allow some breathing space- to keep ahead of your mother's neighbour's son- that is how you view these impersonal, perfect, robotic beings, who can dance and swim with clockwork-like precision and always score more marks than you do in every examination.

Close your eyes. Summer is back. These faux winter mornings blaze white with the sun inching up the sky more rapidly than it did a few weeks ago; come afternoon, the sun burns on your neck and reminds you of the buds on the mango trees, ready to come to fruition and titillate you with their ripe golden prize. Your grandmother lies in the cool, dark hall, curtains drawn, and you lie beside her, feeling the comfort of her cotton saree against your skin, the freshness of her delicately-scented talcum powder on her wrinkled neck. The curtains are drawn close to keep the searing heat of the sun out; not a breath of wind stirs outside, and the leaves droop on the branches, lifeless and dry. Mothers and sons are embroiled in their tussle as old as time itself- stay home, says the woman, while her child plays truant and seeks entertainment in the dry drains and withered sticks by the roadside. You will have a sunstroke, she calls out- the boy, heedless, watches in fascination a dead bird being picked apart by a cat. What does he know about a sunstroke, and why would he care?

The potato chips and the appalams have been laid out on the terrace on large swathes of cotton cloth. The middle-aged and the elderly are all gathered around for a gossip, and when the power goes off, they will sit in the moonlight and talk of distant cousins, the dead and the absent. They lean over gates and praise their grandchildren to the skies- there is no baby prettier and smarter than that child of the son in the States. Filter coffee flows in rivers in the kitchen as the men make themselves comfortable on the floor, to talk business, politics and the state of affairs. Oil sizzles in pans and snacks are made aplenty. The grandchildren are coming over tomorrow, you see, calls out a grey-haired matron to her neighbour across the fence.

Outings, movies, visits galore. The daily supply of orange and white flowers twined together with green leaves, bought after endless bargaining with the vendor who cycles up promptly at five in the evening. The tinkle of bells in the pooja room, the special treat of bricks of ice cream after dinner. Hide-and-seek in the rambling old house, drives in the evening with all the cousins squeezed anyhow into one small car or a jeep. The youngest cousin of whom you are jealous because he receives special attention. The cousin who tries to run away because he thinks people don't care enough. The anguish of being the 'middle child', belonging with neither the grown-up cousins nor the babies. Precious innocence and the total abandonment of academic worries.

You must be deluded if you think summers are still the same.

You know all is right with the world when you know you can go on that long walk at 9.30 at night, jacketed to ward off the chill that is gradually lessening and making way for summer; watch couples strolling up and down the roads, pushing their babies in perambulators, cuddling them and spending an hour of solitude with the ones they love best to compensate for a day of stress and worry; throw your head back and see the stars and maybe a planet or two against a velvety dark sky, slightly touched by the unhealthy red glow of city-lights. You gossip with your friend of four years, swat mosquitoes with the back of your hand, let your laughter ring through the mostly empty roads- throw inhibition to the winds.

And then you come back to the warmth of your room. You know you have someplace to go to. The cares will keep till tomorrow.

Asia Hit by Nature

Nature has wreaked much devastation in the Asia-Pacific region over the last week. Typhoons, tidal waves and earthquakes have caused a lot of destruction and loss of life. For us, who live ensconced in our cosy flats and complain about 'monotonous' routines, these sudden reminders of the power of nature come as a rude shock. I see pictures and videos of people crushed under crumbling walls, wailing mothers trying to drag their children out from underneath mounds of debris, it doesn't really make much of a difference to my life- the next moment, it's all forgotten, because the Red Cross is probably already there, the UN must be sending out help, aid must have reached the suffering, and I'm deceiving my conscience, telling myself there is nothing I can really do.


On Wednesday, as an earthquake of magnitude 7.6 struck Padang, Indonesia, tremors were felt in Singapore as well. Our beds rocked, the wind chimes jangled madly, the heavy LCD monitors at office trembled on the walls- enough warning, so we could rush down into the open space by the block. There was nothing to fear, but those few minutes of scurrying told us enough about what cowards we actually were, how we feared for our lives. It should tell us something about how lucky we are, in reality, and how often the fact just slips past our minds, making not the least impression until a slight jolt shakes things into perspective.


There was fear, a sense of excitement, the usual traps of sensationalism and the eagerness to discuss it with everyone possible- as if we were 'survivors' who had come through an unimaginable disaster unscathed. And of course, at office the next day, there were people paying more attention to the earthquake than to their work. We never learn.

Over the past couple of weeks, though, there seems to have been a spurt in the number of natural disasters hitting Asia, and things don't seem to be getting any better. Is this Nature's way of reminding us of our responsibilities? Of pulling us out of our highly synthesized lives and reminding us what actual living is about, and what really matters?

Strolling

It is a lazy Saturday afternoon, and when you wake up at a disgraceful one o'clock (allowing for the fact, though, that you went to bed only at five in the morning), it's too late for plans for a grand outing.

When it comes to spur-of-the-moment decisions for an evening out, and when most of the girls are lying exhausted in bed after night shifts, there is nothing much for two girls to do but go...shopping? Well, actually, this time I chose Chinatown because I like the atmosphere there. It is a flea market, a perennial bazaar, an exhibition of sorts- new people come and go all the time, but time stands still. You never know when you might come across something unexpected. This evening, for instance, as I stood amidst the rows of skirts and mannequins in an open shop that I'd visited quite a few times earlier, I noticed a sign I'd never seen earlier. 'Japanese Street', I learnt, was the name of the road that was packed with restaurants, shops and stalls selling clothes, semi-precious stones, knick-knacks you don't need but want, electronic items, jewellery and Buddhist artefacts. It is truly a slice of China, and somehow, you never can get tired of it. What I learnt from the sign, though, was that it was once home to coolie houses where innocent men led a life of struggle, and brothels where Japanese girls sold their dignity to help fund the war at home. Can human beings go any lower than this, forcing women to give up their honour to fuel the arrogant caprices of a group of powerful men? Now, though, the street prospers and flourishes with happy crowds of tourists and locals, the ghosts of the gory past dismissed, hopefully, for ever.

The prospect of an iced tea was rather tantalising after a walk through the narrow crowded streets, where for some reason, blonde heads come close to outnumbering the black- packs of tourists from all around the world descend here and gape and gawk at the various curiosities. You can't help but feel like a proud 'local' come there for a regular evening stroll (defining local- three or four trips to the streets should be good enough, where one shop can be very like the one next to it).

The most amusing part of the evening, though, was the 'drink' at a Thai food stall. We walked by the men sitting at the tables outside, talking over mugs of Heineken (and not Tiger beer, which is the main source of income at the stall round the corner from where we live), and asked for the day's special- Thai iced tea. The man at the counter gave us tea on the rocks- quite literally- in a Heineken mug. Derision evaporating (sorry, but I don't take very kindly to alcohol), I posed for a couple of pictures with the mug- stupid, but we were just fooling around. Too bad we lost the pictures due to a problem with the memory card in my roommate's camera.

It wasn't an extraordinary evening, it wasn't even worth writing about, but you know how things are, there are days when you have nothing to say and still end up saying it.

At Peace with Myself

Yet another trigger of memories.

On lonely nights, I am reminded of my first weeks in Singapore. In retrospect, ten months isn't long enough to get nostalgic, and rather illogical it is when you are still at the place you're getting nostalgic about. It's not the place, it's just the time, and why I cannot say, because these weeks are more enriching and fulfilling than the ones when I was a fresh import, first time away from home for an indefinitely long period. In a different country, for goodness' sake! How did I even imagine I'd survive?

Survive I did. I have paid a price in terms of forfeiting some of my fetish for solitude and loneliness, but I don't really mind, because I think I can return to what I was whenever I choose to. Independence is good when you use it prudently.

The fragrance of face wash, in this case, was the culprit. I bought this tube of Pond's face wash in my first month here, when we were still using soap and shampoo carted all the way from India, with neither enough confidence in nor enough money for 'imported' products. Those were the days when the only literature at home was the few women's magazines the landlady had left behind- glossy pages splashed across with slender women dressed in gowns and clothes that I do not have names for, the everpresent stories of splits and heartbreaks, recipes to cook creatures that I'd probably barely heard of.

Everything was new and exciting, and while the novelty has admittedly worn off and sometimes the long hours can seem interminable, I do not for a moment regret having chosen to come here- getting away from home for a spell can do you a great deal of good, and you can shape yourself, learn who you are, figure out what you want, without being bothered constantly by the 'helpful' opinions of the unknown people who live across the street and think they have a right to your life just because they have seen you walk to the bus-stop every morning for six long years.

I am alone, and I like it this way. This morning, for sure, I wouldn't exchange my solitude for anything in the world.

Celebrating Sunshine

Early mornings have become a thing of the past. As I make my coffee, it is bright and sunshiny outside- so bright that a young lady with an umbrella is running across the play-area to beat the heat (or is she just in danger of missing her bus?). Winter carries a subtle, almost unnoticeable hint of its presence on the warm summer-like breeze, just a reminder of its presence before it makes way for spring. Like the green waters of a pond, warmed by winter sunshine yet deliciously cold. Winters, too, are a thing of the past. At four in the morning, you can wander barefoot through the house in your ordinary clothes and not feel a thing.

However, this is a glorious morning. Too sunny maybe, if you're out in the open, but this is the sort of morning that kindles memories hidden away somewhere, not making the present a cause for regret and longing for the days gone by, but a celebration of what has been and what is. You seek refuge under a shady tree, but you won't mind going back into the sunshine once you're rested enough. That is what memories are for, aren't they? To rejuvenate and inspire, to push you forward for more to set store in that vast cavern in the depths of your mind. To draw strength from, to give you something to laugh at yourself about, an estimation of how you naivete has increased or lessened over the years.

On the tracks suspended in the air, a train makes its way through symmetrical concrete boxes. A cold capsule in which people sit huddled, wrapped up in their thoughts and their jackets, staring occasionally out the window and wondering at the contraption called the air-conditioner that we invented, only to look more longingly than ever at the gold-flecked grass in the distance and want the heat more badly than ever. Uncurtained windows are left exposed to the sight of curious eyes, as are high banks of grass and trees and vast, unspoilt stretches of land, soon to be covered over by buildings and be indistinguishable from the rest of the district.

(Digression: Through the depths of the night, the cold capsule pulls into the station, windows frosted over as if it were coming from the Arctic, and carries its passengers around the loop line. The warm pink lights glowing in one house mark it out from the others shrouded in sleepy darkness, bestowing it with a sense of mystery, rather beguiling after a long hard day at work. The land around is bleak and dark; what sort of monster can you expect from the unbounded wilderness?)

The orange-and-yellow school building across the road is quietly asleep. Oh yes, those trees bobbing in the gentle wind do remind me of my own playground days, and absurdly enough, they seem to have gone by just weeks ago, not years. Schoolgirls. Now just girls. Some women. Sleep away, School, you have only until Monday morning. Go on, Memories, for you will be pushed back where you don't belong once the present presses with an irrepressible, exaggerated urgency.

There was a single spot of light on the ceiling. Now it's gone. Hide-and-seek? I'm game.

Pure Pessimism

It is human. Supposed to be.

Back home, thousands of young and not-so-young people are worrying over the future, torn apart by murky revelations. Hopes ripped apart with such cruel ease, students doomed for having worked hard and struggled through college to call themselves software engineers. This is just one revelation. Are there any more to come? So they say. The gossip-mongers, the ones that have nothing to do at night, that sit comfortably, stroking their paunches in the deep satisfaction that they let go of the opportunity that had once seemed so lucrative to make a sensible choice. That they didn't end up working for the company that is now in ruins. Feeling sorry, so they say, for their 'good' friends who are in trouble now. All uttered in one breath.

Need I have any faith in human nature? Yes, in its uniform capacity to gloat over other people's misfortune and to pride itself in its own wisdom and discretion, born though it might have been of some desperate accident.

Oh, pessimism! Not again.

PS: Remind me not to write after I have worked through five nights in a row.

Trials, Part One

If you put three girls together in the night shift in an office almost right inside a mall when year-end sales are on in Singapore, what happens?

They go to work on Monday, fresh and awake after the peace and quiet of Sunday, laden with shopping bags. People look askance at them, wondering if they have come to the right place. Open-mouthed, Mr. Goon-like expressions abound, men smirk at this supposedly girlish fetish for shopping (forget the fact that they splurged on clothes just a couple of months ago during another sale- men can do what they like), absurd questions are asked.

And the three girls? They just don't care.

This was the scene Monday night, when my flatmates and I went shopping for three hours before going to work. To be fair, our main aim was to shop for presents for others, and we dealt with that first, before we came to us. And when it came to us, there was quite a bit of focus on me, because the girls are trying to make me get some extremely feminine clothes. They don't like to see me in kurtas and tees, rather they're fed up of it. Now they want to get me into pastel-coloured clothes. It has become a joke with us, as we watch girls getting onto the train in clothes that I wonder how they even manage to squirm into. For the life of me, I wouldn't even be able to figure out how to put on some of the things they wear.

New Year's Eve, while the rest of the world (okay, I exaggerate- let us put it as most of, or much of, Singapore) was headed towards Sentosa, I was on a train going in the same direction. The glitter of frocks and the excited, before-hangover laughter and merriment were unmistakable. Not us, though. My friends and I were to spend the night at the office, of course. I have never been too fond of New Year celebrations, but that doesn't really matter; envy is easily aroused in susceptible human beings. Perhaps it was just as well that I was at work that night, for I was treated to a faraway display of mesmerising, psychedelic fireworks. Harbour Front is pretty decent for that sort of thing; it is connected to the largest mall in Singapore, Vivo City, and from the office window, I get some fantastic views of ships sailing into the harbour, of lights shining on heavy, rippling, green-grey waters at night, not a soul in sight, a perfect setting for an adventure (and to let your imagination go wild on a slow day).

Loser? I? Not really. I am glad I am not ensconced in a cubicle that doesn't afford me the briefest glimpse of nature. I haven't been to the beach since I got here, but I don't really regret it as long as the sea is right beside me. I do miss the hills, though. Deeply. There is nothing I can do, though, than just bear it. For I am blessed in other ways.

Monotony

Rain, romance, books. Romance, books, rain. Books, rain, romance.

All the frivolity that my life has been made up of over the past few weeks. I look back at my posts, and I want to be really hard on myself for having done hardly any sensible or introspective writing. I can't really help it, though, while the rain still falls against the sunshades and the window panes, and the roads are slick with the wet.

The houses stand sullen and morose, peas in a pod, all wearing the same mask of disinterest. The windows are hung about with clothes that refuse to dry, or blocked by men and women in search of a strong signal so their mobile phone conversations can continue uninterrupted. One or two odd windows provide more interesting views, into dimly-lit drawing rooms with artistically arranged paintings on pale walls; this must be a house where a young man in his mid-twenties lives alone, playing the violin and the piano, mourning a lost love, seeking comfort in the dull glow of unenthusiastic yellow lamps.

This isn't a day when you would possibly want to step out of your house. It is a day of ruined picnics. The grand plans to go out on the green and fly the growling little aeroplanes with mean-sounding engines have doubtless been scuppered by the unforeseen rain. The grass will not be strewn about with hampers and sheets, the workers will not go around in conical yellow and red hats, the couple in love will not walk, hands intertwined, lost in thought. The skies are heavy and dull with pain, they weep miserably, with the kind of anguish that pours forth without reason- you know how you cry sometimes, not knowing why you do, and it takes but a moment for you to be able to laugh again. The strange play of thoughts and moods.

Your eyes are heavy and drooping with sleep, but you're sleepless. The clothes on the yellow, green and red poles outside are wet and dripping with carbon-flecked rainwater. You see no point in drawing them in, for they will only form sulphurous puddles on the freshly cleaned floor. The bags from last night's shopping are strewn about in unshapely bundles, but despite your fastidiousness you don't find it in you to get off the couch and put things in their place.

The light just grows dimmer as morning lengthens into afternoon, afternoon stretches its weary legs into evening, twilight, one without colours for a change, as the morose clouds continue to behave like unappeased, hormone-ruined teenagers. Then night, then Monday morning.

Oh, the monotony of it all!

Just Another Day

Before I set out to write what I really mean to, I must mention that the day has begun on a rather disappointing note. Felipe Massa losing the title to Lewis Hamilton by just one point, and that too through a freakish, improbable incident, is not very good news for someone who has admired the little Brazilian since his Sauber days. Oh well, there is always another season to come. At the moment, I am terribly glad I don't live in England, for it would be difficult to live with the deifying that the British media are probably already giving Hamilton.

Now, for a few days, I shall probably be writing my posts down on paper at home and then typing them out when I manage to find a computer. I have realised I am not good at writing out of my head in full public glare, thanks to all the mistakes I can think of in my last post. (No, don't try to go back there and nitpick- I have smoothed out most of the glaring ones.)

Sunday - 2 November, 2008

Flashes of lightning streak the folds of ghostly white cloud that shrouds large swathes of the smooth midnight sky; blazes of gold and silver, sinister and unearthly, a momentary grimace before the sky lapses back into its deceptive peace, broken intermittently by the blip of an aeroplane.

The television blares in the hall and I shut myself up in the bedroom I share with another girl. When six girls share an apartment, moments of absolute privacy are hard to come by, and yet, there is no intrusion or interference, which is almost as good.

Unfinished stories, hopeful dreams and fantasies continue to take shape in my head, little shoots seeking nourishment in soil more fertile than the kind they are currently planted in. They want to break out and become real.

The beautiful, ethereal sunsets still enchant me, swirls of clouds in amazing patterns, a different one everyday, lit up by the fading rays of the dipping sun- such beauty in parting! The most incomprehensible shades of rose, amber, gold and violet are spilt from the palette of the sky and splashed across folds of blue canvas every evening, never failing to surprise and stupefy with their glory and sheer loveliness. This, interrupted by spells of sudden, unexpected rain- the weather is one thing I really shan't complain about.

I find myself alone at home at times, and I cherish these few, rare hours of absolute freedom and privacy. I write, read, make disastrous, not-to-be-spoken-0f-secret-like-the-dead attempts at cooking. I always thought I liked small, cosy houses- I realise this house isn't too big for one person, after all. With so much space at your disposal, you can assert yourself and tailor niches to cater to each different mood, let the house exude your personality. I see the first unhealthy stirrings of materialistic ambition here- for I would love to have an apartment of my own someday, stacked from ceiling to floor with books, looking out at mountains and the sea, colour, fire and sobriety all packed into a bit of space all my own.

Oh, by the way, did I mention I am also discovering Enid Blyton's food here? While no Indian living in England has yet given me a satisfactory description of an English tea, I think I have made reasonably decent progress here, having discovered chocolate and blueberry muffins and gingerbeer. There is much else I could discover, but for my vegetarian preferences, which I guard fiercely.

And so life goes on, with unanticipated surprises at every turn, new realisations, adventures and experiences.

Home

I am in Hyderabad. This is home.

You form a bond with certain places without realising it. They seep into you, ingrain your soul with their elements, fill your subconscious. Then one day, all of a sudden, you realise that despite the chaos and the denial, you are a part of them and vice versa, and if you choose to accept it, you will find peace and fulfillment.

This afternoon, I went with my aunt to a place she goes to on weekends to learn Carnatic music. Her aim is not to be a perfectionist or to attain mastery over the ragas and sing flawlessly. What she looks for is peace, and she finds it in music, in the swelling of the notes that have been sung for ages and still continue to permeate homes and be absorbed by people seeking God and a return to their roots and tradition. I was reminded of my own sessions in Vizag with my mother. She sings well; I tried to learn, realised I had other priorities, but that I enjoyed it just for the sense of upliftment it gave me, and the inexplicable contact with the Unknown. The sense of accomplishment was larger when the music felt mysterious, touched my soul and moved me to tears than when I managed to do some reasonably good singing.

My aunt and I decided to go to the temple nearby after we were done with the music class, but it was closed. So we went back there a little while ago, taking a walk to do away with the sluggishness of Saturday evening, an inevitable result of all the lazing around and inactivity of the morning and the afternoon. A gentle breeze sprang up almost as soon as we were out on the road, stirring up the dust that had lain on the road all afternoon and sending paper and other debris flying. We went to the Guruvayurappan Temple.

Ethereal and mysterious is how I'd define it. My mother went there as a girl, and I have been to the temple many times over the years, but it still fills me with awe every time I visit it. As a child, I used to be amazed by, and slightly frightened of, the huge, horizontal statue of Vishnu reclining on His snake-bed. When I was younger, the statue seemed gigantic. It doesn't seem that way any longer (and I regret it for some reason), but it continues to entrance me. The numerous oil lamps cast an unearthly light on the stone statues; Krishna, simply arrayed in white and a bit of silver, looked out in majesty from his sanctum sanctorum.

The temple has a line of white-painted statues of the ten Avataars of Lord Vishnu. I remember looking up at them every time I went there; I did so again today. While I have stopped pondering over the stories behind them (the curses of growing up!), I still look at them with fascination. I am so glad I know and remember the temple, and that it hasn't changed too much. Certain things don't stagnate if they remain unchanged; they just bring with them a sense of tranquillity and reassurance.

Some kind of subtle, incomprehensible energy vibrates through the air of holy places, reducing you to tears though you might be the happiest person on the planet, making your heart swell with gratitude, even if you think you never get what you ask for. This is the power that makes you question all the suffering and insanity of life, and then, in unknown ways, assures you of its presence and concern.

The streets of Hyderabad are chaotic and crazy. The dust chokes you as you try to weave your way through the vehicles that dash, crawl or struggle their way down the road. It might take you a while to get used to the startling dialect of Telugu spoken here if you've spent twelve years listening to another. The heat is stifling. However, the rain surprises you, making up for all the hours of discomfort, and right now, a pleasant, cool breeze is floating in through the windows. The rain has stopped, but I can hear the lively patter of the water sliding off the leaves onto the moist, fragrant earth in the garden. More importantly, I know this is a place that I can always come back to, whose minarets, temples, people and rocky hills are familiar to me and will haunt me throughout my life, wherever I might be.

I know I am here for a reason that I cannot explain, and that this is home.

A Quiet Lunch of Contemplation

I sit down to my lunch all alone. My friends are on the ground floor, and I can probably join them, but 'Butter Fingers' being my second name, one I have christened myself with, I decide not to carry my food down the escalator or the steps. I sit by the balcony and look out into the distance as I eat. I think of reading the Agatha Christie memoir I have in my bag, but I wonder if it will seem ridiculous. (It won't, as I realise later, when I see a person at a table downstairs, eating lunch in the company of friends with his eyes on a thick library book- which reminds me that I need to find the library).

A rocky mound rises out of the barren earth, topped by a white, domed building. I wonder what it is. I don't see any gently rolling, velvety hills anywhere- just rock and mud, glass-fronted buildings and complicated architecture. The domes remind me, for some strange reason, of minarets. I think of the books I've read in the past few months, or am reading at present. My Name Is Red. The Kite Runner. A Thousand Splendid Suns. In fact, the memoir I am reading is also set in Syria. The last book I bought in Mysore- Istanbul. All set in countries with a similar background and culture, the same kind of architecture. And here it is, thousands of miles away, in a distant country as well. What has set off this interest and affinity for the Middle East and Hyderabad, I wonder. I am reminded of the time in Vizag when I used to awake early to prepare for the Board Exams, and sure enough, at four o'clock, the azan would sound from the mosque nearby, rising mesmerisingly in the quiet, dark morning air. I would listen to it fascinated, books shut out of my mind for the moment, not comprehending, just listening.

I think about places. About Mysore, where I stayed for just a little more than two months on a nicely-tended, well looked after campus, a world far removed from the dirt-strewn lanes and the chipped paint of the small town outside, one that seemed frozen in time, not concerned with the frenzied pace of its bigger cousins. The splendid buildings constructed ages ago seemed to preserve the ghosts of the past, keep them from being influenced from evil. Walking down a narrow lane one evening, I saw the unsymmetric houses inhabited by strangers- voices calling out from behind curtains, the air swelling with a scent I seemed to recognise as the soap my neighbour in another small town had used, a memory from when I was five years old. What the olfactory senses can do to you, bringing back memories of a town lived in long ago! Mysore is like Malgudi, unhurried and docile. The few pretences the town has are often hidden by wiser, more sedate elements. Small towns are, in fact, the same all over the country. The little garishly-painted temples sheltering under trees with sprawling branches; the bored, patient people waiting for a bus that may never arrive; the walls painted with the script of the local language, as if put there on purpose to confuse the occasional innocent tourist; the animal droppings along the road- all quintessential features of any small town.

I have heard people denounce life in small towns. They say life there is too quiet for them. Perhaps. But these are the places that throb with aspirations and dreams, where ideas wait silently to break out of their shells and create the success stories we all so love to hear about. True, opportunities are rare, exposure is limited. Life, however, is placid and comfortable. At times, it doesn't hurt to slow down.

Somewhere In Between

I know very little about Madras. Oh yes, I do know that it is called Chennai now, but what’s in a name? I don’t believe all that they say about colonial heritage and the legacy the British left behind- it would mean doing away with so many things. I like the sound of ‘Madras’ better, maybe because I’m averse to change. The debate over names will probably lie dormant until the next big change comes up, so I’ll let it be. Anyway, what I want to talk about is the city itself, not the names.

I last visited Madras in January for a wedding, and promptly fell in love with the city. As I do, every time I go there (three occasions that I remember). What exactly did I see in Madras? Not much, really. I haven’t even done the regular sightseer’s route. I’ve only been to the Mylapore Kapaleeshwarar Temple, the Triplicane Parthasarathy Temple, Spencer Plaza. I liked the old-worldly charm of Triplicane- the temple, the narrow streets, the temple pond, the little shops- as if they’d all sprouted from the earth, not been made by man. They just seemed to belong there. We passed the Chepauk Stadium. And yes, I went to Marina Beach too, which was on a Sunday, not a very memorable/enjoyable visit. I could only catch glimpses of blue from amongst the sea of human heads.

The ambience of Madras enchants me. The sights, sounds, colours and smells. To be sure, you can see temples and smell jasmines in Hyderabad, and feel the tepid waters of the Bay of Bengal in Vizag. But just being in Tamil Nadu gives me an inexplicable feeling of coming home to where I belong. All of a sudden, everybody seems to be speaking the same language that I do, which makes me a little wary of speaking to my mother in public- people can actually understand what I say. (Never mind if my aunt in Madras says I don’t speak proper Tamil- I know I do.) In Vizag, I enjoy the confounded expressions of friends when I have rapid conversations with my parents in Tamil- they pick up a word hear and there, and try to decipher the meaning of what has been said. Shopkeepers hear us converse and ask us if we’re Tamilians. It’s nice, this feeling of uniqueness. But I lose it in Madras.

On my January trip, I had my eyes and ears wide open. I wanted to absorb the flavours of Madras. For some reason, understanding Tamil became quite a challenge, and I couldn’t quite follow the garrulous man who brought us coffee at the hotel. I realised then that while in Madras, I’d have to relegate our Iyer-esque Tamil to the back of my mind and try and make sense of the delightfully colloquial version that seemed to pervade Madras. It was fun.

We experienced the essence of Madras. We got fleeced by the auto drivers, walked about in bright (wintry) sunshine, felt the humidity (though Vizag has definitely conditioned me for it, and could give Madras a run for its money). The rickety green buses that I saw didn’t seem very fit for travel, but I’d have liked to try out one of them. Maybe next time. We went shopping. Now shopping can have various connotations. It can mean window shopping in malls, browsing for books in a cosy bookstore, or the bizarre variety that some women seem to enjoy. Sample this- two women (with my uncle and me in tow) revelling in the vegetable market at Villivakkam (I had considerable trouble recalling the name that evening when my cousin asked me where we’d been) behind the railway station, the sun shining down in full glory, pungent odours floating in the air. They had a whale of a time ‘shopping’ for traditional medicine, herbs, face packs, vegetables, fruits, roots, turmeric, powder for the Diwali concoctions- everything they laid their eyes on, while my uncle and I watched in impatience. Laden as they were with bags containing numerous little packets of brown, yellow and green powders, they looked as happy as kids with new toys. But this was a Madras experience, and though it was one o’clock in the afternoon and I was hungry, I tried to enjoy it. My aunt and my mother are still talking about it.

Strangely, while I was in Madras, I found myself missing Telugu a little bit. A thrill of familiarity ran through me when I saw a theatre playing the Telugu movie Vaana (‘Rain’). I have got used to hearing Telugu being spoken all around me, and to reading the Telugu script on movie posters, hoardings, buses- everywhere. All my friends come from Telugu-speaking families. I know the kitsch and the entertainment of Telugu movies, I enjoy some of the classic old songs, Shankarabharanam is one of my few favourite movies. Despite my aversion to spicy food, I relish the fiery avakkaya (mango pickle) my friend’s mother makes. The Godavari is my favourite river, and I feel an inexplicable affinity to it. Ugaadi (New Year) is coming around, and my friends will wish me, too. It doesn’t matter that I’m not Telugu. They say I am, though I’m also the Tamilammaayi (Tamilian girl). Maybe it’s the ready acceptance that has made things easy for me. They ask me questions about Tamil lifestyle, food and festivals. They listen to Appadi Podu; a senior in college told me when I was in the first year that he loved Tamil film music. Many people here tell me they think the language sounds beautiful. They inform me when Ajit’s next movie is releasing, and often watch Tamil films on TV. I’ve even known girls from college watch soaps on Tamil channels. Now that, I think, is going a bit too far.

You might think it’s no big deal, that I’m not an expatriate experiencing a culture shock. But sometimes you do like to identify with a single place. In my case, it’s just that I can’t make up my mind. But do I have to? I can surely belong to more places than one. So can everybody, and in the wake of all the recent protests in the country that have further divided people linguistically, I hope everybody realises this truth.

My roots are in Tamil Nadu, but I’ve thrown out shoots elsewhere. I’m lucky, for I’ve experienced different worlds.

Chronicles IV

A Lazy Afternoon

At exactly one o’clock on a hot, summer-like afternoon, the streets are deserted but for the odd car or motorbike, honking to warn away any imaginary pedestrians. There are no customers at the provision shop across the street, and the girl at the counter and her father stare out at the sun-splashed empty road from the stifling confines of the small room. The heavy, coal-fed iron clanks as the weary woman at the rickety stall on the other side of the road draws it across a pair of grey trousers. A heap of clothes is piled behind her on a narrow table balanced across a culvert; a little child, her daughter or niece, maybe even her granddaughter, drinks thirstily from a green bottle.

It could be a scene from this day. Or thirty years ago. The unvarying quietness of hot afternoons always reminds me of summers gone by, of the vacations associated with them and the concomitant sights and sounds.
The sky is languid and cloudless. The bushes on my bit of the hill are parched and dry. From where I stand on the balcony, I don’t get a clear view of the hill. Intersecting wires strung between electric poles, and an ugly white-and-orange building rising from the gentle mound towards the foot of the hill, mar the vista. But you notice them only if you pay attention on them. Lose yourself in the hill, and they don’t bother you. It just depends on what you want to see.

Down the street comes the postman, pushing his old bicycle, a bag slung from the handlebar. There is an inexplicable timelessness in his arrival, in his disinterested walk as he delivers letters. True, the friendly communities have been replaced by the cold isolation of flats, and business mails largely outnumber intimate letters; the arrival of the postman is no longer a much looked forward to event as it must once have been.
But I like watching the postman as he walks through the sun-drenched streets, an occasional tree providing him with some welcome shade. He wears an old, faded, once-purple cap, and an indiscernible expression on his face. He reminds me of the last century, of Tagore and RK Narayan, of everything homely, earthy and simple.


A Formal Goodbye

The rose from last evening is drooping, and everything is now just a confused memory of dazzling lights and sound, no, noise.

We had our Farewell party yesterday, and it was evident that the Third Year students had gone to much trouble organising it. I appreciate all the effort they put into it, but it really wasn’t my kind of thing. It was my first experience of a discotheque kind of atmosphere, a DJ, crazy lights that gave me a headache, and loud music that almost shattered my eardrums. Evidently, no conversation was possible, and all I did was watch as people danced and laughed for no particular reason. Once dinner got over, however, it was fun- we took many pictures and acted silly. Some of us crashed into the DJ’s booth and explored the console. It was my first time at a party of this kind, and watching everybody all dressed up was rather interesting. Nobody got emotional. We were probably too absorbed in the way we looked to worry about other things.

So it’s officially over.


Spirituality

I have been reading two books- Beyond Boundaries, the autobiography of businessman Swraj Paul, and Autobiography of a Yogi, the story of the life of Paramahansa Yogananda. I am a little disappointed with Beyond Boundaries- I’d been hoping it would be a light account of an Indian’s experiences in a foreign country, something in the style of Ruskin Bond, but it’s more about philosophy, business and politics than simple anecdotes. Autobiography, on the other hand, is extremely compelling.

I try not to accept beliefs without questioning them. Indeed, some instances mentioned in Autobiography seem rather incredible to me. But I am not inclined to write them off as exaggeration, because I know very little of the powers of meditation and spirituality, and I cannot let my ignorance come in the way of learning. I have been curious about the powers of cosmic sound, and the idea that every single sound in the Universe has a positive or negative effect on the cosmic sound is rather intriguing. If this were true, then we might be giving an impetus to a lot of evil with all the negative talking we do. Is that why we should always think before we speak, not just for decorum, but for the good of the Universe as a whole?

I have a few questions. Is it necessary to be a yogi or a sannyasi, give oneself up entirely to the contemplation of God, to be free of the cycle of rebirth? In that case, will there be such a life of renunciation for every one of us, so we can attain salvation? If everything depends on karma, who guides our actions?


Rain

The sky is heavy with grey clouds. I think there’ll be rain. This seems to happen everytime I get contemplative and go rambling. Is that an omen? I don’t know. But right now, I just can’t wait for the rain.

Chronicles III

The brief winter is over, and summer has arrived in unnecessary hurry. Spring is not for us; the flowers don't bloom slowly and burst into a riot of colour, filling the air with their mingled fragrances. There is no mild breeze, no gradual change in temperature. The sky is blue, streaked with long, squiggly lines of white cloud; sometimes the blue is replaced by a blazing white. The sun has shaken off its winter slumber, and is burning down in full glory. The floor is hot against the feet, vapours of heat rise from the earth at midday. Summer has arrived.

The 'slam books' are out. (Question: Why are they called so?) I was given one to sign this morning. The same set of unnatural questions, answered with ostentation, sometimes dripping with insincerity. Are they just trying to be nice by asking me to sign, for they are not really my friends? That the semester is coming to an end is evident, of course. What I cannot understand is how people I haven't known for three and a half years are suddenly opening up to me. Are we trying to get to know one another, for fear we might have missed something in the time gone by?

I shan't miss college. There is no reason to. Four years is a pretty long period for something that is not exactly a great deal of fun. Not that it has been a bad experience; I enjoyed the delicious hours we spent talking in the scant shade of the few trees that survived the onslaught of expansion, meeting with a few interesting people, and some of the learning. Notwithstanding the emotional bond that does crop up as a result of a long time spent in one place, and the inherent resistance to change and to getting out of one's comfort zone, I am looking forward to whatever comes next. Life will probably not be as cosy and secure as it has been all these years, but looking at it another way, I'm getting a step closer to doing the things I want to.

Things change suddenly, don't they? Life is all smooth and simple, when something happens out of the blue and disturbs this tranquillity, throwing everything into disarray. Questions are asked. Obviously, they have no answers.
Most things about life are inexplicable. But where would we be without mysteries?

I like watching the sea. I've seen the Bay of Bengal in quite a few colours and moods. I've seen foamy waves being churned out of turbulent yellowish-brown waters on a cloudy evening. I've seen the almost-black pools far from the shore. Sometimes the sea is a cross between blue and green, mostly it's a colour that doesn't have a name. The sea looks divine early in the morning, when the sun breaks out of the clouds and casts a thin funnel of light on a small portion, embellishing it with silver. That is when the fishermen set out, their boats bobbing gently on the waves, minuscule objects against the vastness of the sea. The sea isn't a single entity. It's a community.

I haven't written for a while, and I can see how rusty I have been today. But I had to do this, to make a beginning again and rejuvenate my brain (tired in more ways than one), and hopefully I shall make more sense next time.

Chronicles of a Busy Mind II

My day today began on a self-deprecatory note. Last evening, I opened a big fat Java book that I'd borrowed from the library (which doesn't stock fiction- can you imagine?!), and skipped Servlets (assuming I knew something about the topic) to go straight to JSP. I ended the evening confused, and not a little bit wiser. Which brings us to this morning. I was not very pleased with myself, stubbornly disjointed terminology from JSP still in my head. On the bus, I found a classmate of mine immersed in a Cryptography textbook. She said she wasn't able to make sense of it. And that made me feel better. I know it's wrong to feel satisfied at others' misfortune, but it doesn't really matter when you're in the same boat. It just makes the burden more bearable, and you can once again sink back into the imaginary world you had inhabited before a confounding computer language dragged you out into reality.

I can't wait for the Formula One season to begin. I have said this earlier, weekends are extremely insipid without motor racing. I also want to see MotoGP back, watch Valentino Rossi battle with the youngsters, and hopefully win the championship this season, after two years of disappointment. ForceIndia or not, my loyalties will of course lie with Ferrari. Heikki Kovalainen is already doing extremely well in McLaren Mercedes, and the season can only get more interesting than the last, with the top three drivers in three different teams. Renault might have to rebuild themselves, but with Fernando Alonso in the team, they cannot be written off. The experts made the mistake with McLaren last year; as for me, the heart says Felipe Massa, the mind says Kimi Raikkonen/Lewis Hamilton.

I have never lived more than four years in any single house, I think. This, of course, keeps my brain rather busy accumulating thoughts and memories from various places- how summers, winters and the rains have passed, where I have had the best view of the hills and the sky. I am reading a book called 'Rebecca' by Daphne Du Maurier, in which the protagonist wishes memories could be bottled up so that they can be released whenever we want to relive certain moments. They'd never grow stale or fade. I don't think I'd like it that way. Nostalgia wouldn't be the same if memories were within reach. Life would lose some of its charm if we could always have whatever we wanted. There is a strange kind of pleasure in being able to torment ourselves and laugh or shed tears at memories. I might think differently another day, but today, this is the way I feel.

Every night, I slip out onto the balcony to observe the watchman of the neighbouring block of flats prepare for bed. Most of the time, he is stretched out on his dusty floral mattress on a folding cot, by half-past eight. The gates are wide open, but he is in bed, wrapped in a dark grey woollen blanket from head to toe. There is something comforting in this sight. He is an old man; his work for the day is done, and he can give his tired bones a rest. I sometimes watch his four grandsons play. They roll a tyre along the concrete floor of the parking lot, then climb onto a single bed and cover themselves with a huge bedsheet. They giggle and shriek and throw themselves around, blissfully unconcerned about the racket they make.

Talking of play, here is something which might sound really absurd, but at that moment it really felt that way. Two evenings ago, the girls from my building played in the parking lot, singing, "London Bridge is Falling Down...", with the refrain of "My Fair Lady". Their voices were so much in sync, so sweet and lovely- quite like voices reverberating in the awe-inspiring sanctity of a place of worship. Their singing was, in a strange way, uplifting. Perhaps because it bore innocence and joy, unencumbered by any knowledge of tomorrows, school and studies. When we play as children, all that matters is that particular moment of fun and frolic. Everything else is history, or else relegated to the deepest recesses of the mind from where it is drawn only when absolute necessity demands it.

The mango tree across the road is in bloom. The Royal Enfield motorbike, for a few days conspicuous by its absence from the parking lot, is back in place. I have an assignment in Cryptography to finish, due tomorrow. There is a presentation coming up. From what is seemingly unimportant I am forced to come back to (overrated) reality. Now I'm off to work, leaving for bedtime the rest of my soliloquy, when the lights will be turned out and the television sets stop blaring. The watchman will switch on his radio and Telugu songs from a few decades ago will float through the air, punctuated by the relentless calls of the insects of the night. I shall pay my nightly visit to the balcony and make my weather prediction for the morrow. Then I can betake myself to bed, my thoughts for company, and probably another diary entry in the offing.

PS- I have decided that it is sacrilege to call the mind idle when it is always busy concocting new schemes or drinking in every bit of joy visible, or simply contemplating, when it is not working hard at what we think of as useful work. Is there anything more powerful than the mind? I wish there was; anyway, I am going to give it the respect is deserves, and call these the chronicles of a busy mind.

Chronicles of a Busy Mind I

Creativity and necessity do not often see eye-to-eye. Not in my head, at least. So when my mind is in a whirl and unrelated thoughts clamour against the bars of their prison, I am forced to let them loose. The laws of creativity and decorum in writing shall now go for a toss as I let my long pent-up thoughts tumble incoherently over one another, forming a jumbled heap. Confusion in the head is more acceptable than in writing put on public display; extricating a thought from the giant heap in the head is easy enough, thanks to the aid of stimuli in the form of a gentle touch, a known but forgotten voice, or a familiar fragrance, that somehow find their way home and unleash a flood of memories.

Seldom do I allow my diary entries to be read by anybody else. This is one of the exceptions. My diary is a record of my most private, intense feelings. My conscience is laid bare in all its honesty, shorn of even the most trifling embellishment. For there must be some foil to vanity and egoism. Even so, the inanimate nature of the diary makes human contact essential. Perhaps I just seek the assurance of the existence of people with similar disjointed ideas; maybe I am trying to appease my vanity, imparting to my being an importance that only I can give it.

The night sky is beautiful. The moon has wrapped itself in layers of cloud, and makes its presence known through the silver threads that flow like streams in the dark, rolling meadows and hills of dark clouds crowned by lighter clouds. The clouds do look like hills, if you can will yourself to make them appear that way. It's all in the mind. I cannot perfectly describe what I see. I reiterate- it is beyond human ability to describe certain displays of Nature.

A cousin of mine was married last week. It is sometimes hard to believe that we have all grown up and moved forward with our lives. The summer vacations of schooldays are a distant memory. The games of hide-and-seek, the clamour for a spot in front of the cooler on one of the long, lazy afternoons, movies, amusement parks- all the childish frolic has come to an end, and will pass on to another generation. Our relationships haven't changed- only the priorities have. When I was nine or ten, I wanted to grow up quickly so I could share in the secret conversations the older girls had behind closed doors. (Whatever is taboo is always tantalising, and the truth of the actual thing not being quite so impressive as expected dawns only later.) Now, I'd give anything to stop the passage of time, or better still, to take me back to those days of innocent fun. It was nicer to want to apply makeup than to actually be able to apply it.

I have just finished another Ruskin Bond book- 'Our Trees Still Grow In Dehra'. I shall never outgrow my fascination for Ruskin Bond, that is for sure. I owe my interest in writing to him, and more importantly, my love for nature. He makes writing look simple, glorifies small-town life and advocates respect for Nature. I once admired writers who wrote in such a manner that they couldn't be understood easily. I have long since begun to believe that the aim of writing should be to talk to the reader, and make one's ideas clear. It is nice to have a challenging author to deal with once in a while, but flounces and complexity are not necessarily the hallmarks of a good author. I also owe my predilection for horror stories to Ruskin Bond. He has done a tremendous job in his omnibus, picking out some of the most memorable ghost stories. I have tried my hand at writing a few, perhaps fudged them up, but one of these days I'll come up with one that will make Bram Stoker and MR James come back to life for a nice, spooky read.

Coming back to Ruskin Bond, a friend once told me that I should marry the author's son, not being aware of his single status. I don't think there can ever be another Ruskin Bond. He stands in a league of his own; his books make me feel like he is talking exclusively to me. He is gifted like nobody else, and makes full use of his powers.

The unfaithful clouds have gone away again. For a day and a half, they hovered in the sky, gradually darkening, and all of a sudden they have parted to let the sun through. They come with numerous promises of rain, bringing along the wind, and then slink away quietly. They are in danger of falling out of favour with me. Another betrayal, and I'll despise the rain clouds forever. (And I know I don't mean it.)

The Sky & Other Things

The afternoon light is gradually fading. Winter will soon be at an end and the days are longer than they were last month; so why is the room dark at four o’clock in the afternoon? Could it be possible that the rain clouds are approaching?

I go to the balcony and look up at the sky. It is vast and high, and as blue as can be. There is something about the hues of the sky- it cannot be perfectly interpreted in word or picture. But then, few of nature’s glories can be. Masses of clouds float across lazily, brushed by a surprisingly nippy breeze. The sun has gone into hiding. In the distance, a thin layer of grey seems to have spread across a considerable portion of sky- a promise of rain?
It is not all clear overhead. Among the seemingly white clouds lingers a single, detached, flimsy wisp, almost imperceptibly grey. It blends with the white and the blue, but is nevertheless there. It flits about, an ugly duckling among the swans. There is no discrimination here, however. Some day, it will serve its purppose, by being a blessing to some parched bit of land. As of now, it floats endlessly in search of its destination. Take your eyes away from it for a moment, and it is gone.

School hasn’t yet let off, but a handful of young children are already out on the road with their mothers, walking homeward. But can they ever walk straight home? They wander about, picking up twigs and pebbles, shouting out to one another, casting alternating glances at the candy shop and their mothers. Empty water bottles, heavy bags, plastic baskets with empty lunch boxes- now that school is over, these things are the mothers’ burden, perhaps rightly so. For what is of more importance to any soul than the delicious feeling of new, hard-earned liberty, more so when it is the soul of a child who has just been released from the fetters of insipid lessons in a gloomy classroom? Surely, there is much more to learn under the open skies, with the wind, the sunshine and the rain for company.

I try looking for birds. A terribly bad idea in the city, among garishly coloured boxes of concrete. All I manage to see is a flock of five crows, flying up to perch atop the branches of a tree in a courtyard across the street. Why don’t they choose the trees on the hill, where the clouds sit, the wind sings and there is more freedom than in the midst of human settlements? I heard the welcome sound of birdsong the other day, in a street rather well lined with trees on both sides. The sun peered through the branches, green-touched rays shining warmly through the foliage. Few sights are as brilliant as that of soft sunlight carving its way through the branches of trees and kissing the earth. I like watching slivers of sunlight on the roof as it makes its way through open windows; the play of sunlight on water reflected in small, rippling waves on walls.

The sun is capable of much beauty, but my loyalties lie with the rain. It is inexplicable, but a gloomy day outside raises my spirits and gives me hope. It is probably a result of living in the tropics. I’m not sure a person living in England or the northeast would subscribe to my opinions.

The wind has died down and the sky doesn’t seem to have darkened much as yet. I shall wait for the rain, however. It gives me hope, something to look forward to; much needed respite in a world where everything else talked of is sickeningly controversial or ugly.

Getting Whimsical

Oh, to be 11 or 12 or 13 again!

Or even 10. Any age before 14, because after this the board exams, the entrance exams etc. come along and ruin the peace that has reigns long over the period of innocent happiness- childhood. Whenever I read books featuring young girls, I feel like going back to those times. I’m not so grown-up now that I cannot imagine what it was like when I was a little girl, but I do miss those carefree days of playing in the park till dusk and doing homework. School was often fun, though holidays, of course, were welcome. I actually liked writing examinations because of the challenge they posed, and the delicious days when the report cards were given away.

Much has changed. Exams are no longer as charming as they were, and I think the word ‘homework’ is blasphemy when used in the context of college. Responsibility grows with age, and so does confusion. Life gets complicated, and while certain joys can be felt with a greater degree of satisfaction than they once were, some others have to be given up.

What triggered these thoughts in my mind was my third reading of the book Little Women. I was in school the last two times I read it, and so this session brought back vivid memories of those days. Meg and Jo March are now younger than I, and I found it a wee bit difficult, to my astonishment, to look at them as the grown-up, responsible girls I once believed them to be. I have always liked the protagonists of a book to be older than I- just an irrational, crazy thought. But that’s the way things were (and are, I guess), and I worshipped these characters born out of some brilliant people’s imagination. I still do. I know they’re all fictional, but I have the same fervent faith in them that I once did. I used to fancy I was Jo March, while my friends took the parts of Meg, Beth and Amy. I enjoyed writing, I got into tiffs with the boys, I took on the seniors at school. I sorely longed for a brother-friend like Laurie, and to use the ‘slang’ (words that would be considered rather respectful if compared to the slang of today) that Jo did. Now, sadly, I am more sensible, but I do have this little world tucked away somewhere in my heart, peopled by the kinds that everybody wants for friends and family but doesn’t really have. A good imagination is an extremely useful thing to have, as Anne Shirley might have said.

When we read What Katy Did, we were seized by the desire to play the ‘Game of Rivers’. So there we were, thirteen-year-old girls, running up and down the aisles of the classroom during recess, looking like absolute geese (to use one of the bookish words). But what chance does pretentious dignity stand against harmless girlish fun? We turned a deaf ear to the sarcasm of our classmates and played our silly games, even after the boys got tired of us and made a childish complaint to our class teacher. Such ninnies! (Okay, the complaint might have been made to retaliate to an equally preposterous complaint that we girls made- but why rake up past differences now!) I wanted to be a tomboy and tear my clothes. Never was, and never did. This comes of being born with an innate sense of orderliness.

I cried over books. I felt terrible when Beth died. I felt quite a void in my life when Anne Shirley grew up and got ready to go to college, as Marilla realised her beloved Anne would never be a little girl again. I sympathised with Katy Carr when she had to spend years in bed after hurting herself in a fall from a swing, and when Aunt Izzie died. When Captain Crewe died, I was upset for Sarah. Is it silly to cry over books? I don’t know.

Every one of us can probably write a whole book on the memories of childhood. However, I must make sure I enjoy every moment as it comes and not spend all my time thinking of the days gone by. Who knows, one day I might wish I were in college again!