Reflection.

When I was seven I fell into water once. The water pulled all of me in.
Literally and otherwise too.

The swimming coach managed to bring me up and back but not in entirety.
A part of me was left behind in the depth of the dark shadows of the water.

When I was seven, I was split into half.

I am terrified of water even today, especially from a height. I know what it is capable of.

When I was seven, I learnt what incomplete meant. And I did not have to look into the dictionary.
Life teaches you things that the dictionary doesn't have space for.

And then, I grew old. I trembled with fear each step of the way up.
The water seemed farther away but it was still calling unto me. OR, was it the water that was calling?

I haven't made my way down yet, I am scared of the depth. No matter how far I am, when I look down I still see the other half. I try to give it a hand and pull it up  back but I am unable to reach.
I guess I need to go down further.

But, I am very scared of slipping in. It's tricky you see.
Incomplete, is a little better than nothing.

Second Thoughts

Guest post by Rekha Kamath

Introduction: This is an account of what happened when four of us (all women), decided to go to Goa on a weekend. Events during our return journey prompted this write-up. Reflecting on this trip brought to my attention a staggering number of moments when I felt anger, exasperation and sadness.

“Why do you need feminism? Why that word?”

“You have all your rights. Why do YOU need to be a feminist?”

“Women like us don’t need to call ourselves feminists.”

“You pseudo-feminist. You don’t have to face half the trouble some other women have to, and you call yourself a feminist?”

Time and again, questions like these get thrown at me. Time and again, people try to convince me that I don’t need feminism. That it’s Wrong (yes, with a capital W) to call myself a feminist. Feminism has become another f-word that shouldn’t be uttered out loud.

Today, if you were to ask me why I need feminism, I would tell you this- It is because I have a meek but compelling voice inside my head, which constantly utters second thoughts. My actions are outcomes of constant tussles with this voice. I shall elaborate.

“Let us go to Goa,” suggests one of my roommates. Long weekend, why not. We decide to bundle up our battered work-stressed selves, and start planning. Trains are booked, buses are expensive. “Let’s hitchhike or figure out as we go!”, suggests N. Sounds exciting, until the voice inside my head pipes up. No, what if we get raped/molested on the way? No way. I book the tickets.

Friends suggest we book our stay when we get there. “I have asked four people already, they all say the same thing.” Okay. Fair enough, people seem to have done this already. It is cheaper for us, and you can’t always trust online reviews of places. Wait. Maybe these people travelled with male friends. Will these places have good toilets? I might be menstruating. Let me take down phone numbers of hotels, just in case.

We get to Goa, finally. We find a hotel, close to the beach. N wants to wear a bikini top to the beach. Pretty, and comfortable. What if someone heckles? Very likely. Indian, wearing a bikini. Well, we don’t care. Screw them.

Later, at the beach, a group of 18 year olds call her Miss. Sexy and try to ram their car into her. I told you so.

Men are clicking photographs of bikini clad women on the beach. I hear comments made on us, on other women. I see cameras phone cameras turning our way too, occasionally. Turn your body. Don’t let them get your face. Warn your roommates. Someone sings a suggestive Bollywood song. Ignore them. Confrontation will lead to ugly defensive fights and eventually labeling you a slut. Attention seeking b***h, they will call you.

Rest of the trip is spent frolicking on the beach, and dodging/tuning out hecklers. She is proud of me. Tired and rejuvenated by the sunshine and sand, we forget the heckling, the “Happy Holi *wink wink*!” remarks, and make our way to the Goa-Pune bus.

Chaos. Where’s our bus? Nobody is picking up our calls. The name on the ticket and the names of buses don’t match. Finally, one enterprising ticket checker helps us. Turns out, Christopher travels possibly had a religious epiphany, and sent Mahakali travels instead. Alright. We made it just in time. The cleaner of the bus is visibly annoyed. He looks us up and down, decides he could afford to yell in disrespect. Forty pair of eyes judge us as we walk in, mumbling apologies for not turning up ahead of time. Notice those eyes darting to your legs? Where’s the wrap-on I wanted you to buy? Oops. Rest of the journey will be spent ignoring stares and remarks.

Men are staring, says A. Ignore. Let them judge. We have practiced and perfected the art of ignoring.

Bus stops at a drive-in hotel. Those eyes again. Ignore this time. Don’t react. Hunger soon shuts her up, and our tired bodies contort themselves back into the rickety bus.

Everyone soon falls into tired slumbers- a bus full of potential contortion artists. A loud bam wakes everyone up, and someone groans about a punctured tire. The painful wait for a replacement bus starts. A group of men station themselves outside our windows, speaking loudly in Tamil. They assume nobody understands their obnoxious remarks, ignorant that yours truly and N speak the language. “Can I ask them to shut up? They are too loud.” True. I cannot sleep, and I desperately want to. But they are a group of men. What if they abuse you, call you names? There are different ways they could make your journey difficult. Let us not mess with strangers.

The replacement bus arrives, and forty adults run towards it, as though the seats would vanish. Everyone is probably occupying the previously allotted seats, I think, following the same serial numbers. We walk in to see a crowded bus, with people occupying any seat they pleased. There are people occupying the seats allotted to us. A woman holding an infant is pleading with a young man for her seat, and he casually remarks, “I wasn’t the first person to change my seat.” His voice progressively gets louder and angrier, and he storms off to the back as I stare in surprise. How easily can you adopt and adapt into someone else’s mistake?

The four of us struggle to find seats, and refuse to sit. The cleaner comes in, as per our request. “This a 45 seater Ma’am, there are 48 of you.” Men push me, to make their way to the back. I voice my refusal. Why isn’t anyone else expressing their annoyance? Forty adults in the bus, and maybe seven of us calling for common sense.

“Why aren’t people in their seats? Please ask them to go back to their allotted seats.” “Ma’am, aap log hi settle karo, humein nahi pata,” the cleaner promptly replies. (Ma’am, you figure that out yourself, I don’t know) “Fine, what happens to the fourth person? We have four tickets and three seats now.” “Driver ke saath cabin mein aa jaayiye!” (You can travel in the cabin with the driver). Alright. My brain mumbles a yes, and I am ready to grab my bags, when she wakes up. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Cabin in the front with the driver and three strangers? NO. If you get groped/molested/raped/abused, you will be called a slut. Your clothes will validate it too. She wins, again. I refuse, take up a seat with another woman, and sit down. The men outside our window are now behind me, being obnoxiously loud again. They snigger at my meekness. It’s okay. Safety first. Ego can wait. A and N struggle to put their heavy rucksacks on the overhead shelves. One of the men remarks in Tamil, “Somebody ask these girls to shut up and sit down!” Giggles and sneers follow, along with loud laughter. Very funny, of course. By passing a veiled comment snidely, you have proven your machismo.

She wants to pipe up, but instead I turn and scream, “I perfectly understand Tamil. Please stop commenting. Please stop commenting.” “Huh?!” “Yeah, please just stop.” Someone repeats my remarks in Tamil, along with a mumbled “They speak Tamil.” Even she has had enough now, for second thoughts are replaced with the oh-so-familiar feelings of anguish, exasperation and disgust. Around me, the obnoxious men have gone to sleep. Am I the only person sleeplessly pondering questions of self-respect? How do you have any amount of self-respect left, after having caused anguish?

For anybody who asks me why I need feminism, this is my reply.

I need feminism because I live in a world where all my actions are governed by second thoughts. Second thoughts that have perfectly internalized sexism.

I need feminism because fear for my own safety has become second nature to me.

I need feminism because if anything happens to me, it is because of my clothes, it is because of my face, it is because of MY actions, it is because I was reckless.

I need feminism because consistently, people tell me sexism is no longer a problem-that women are equal now. That because I was an “equal woman”, I had no right to talk about sexism. That every day, I had to take disrespect flung at me, in whichever form, and shut up. That if I dared to speak up, I would be called pretentious, phony, bitchy.

I need feminism because I am tired. I am tired of fear, disrespect, being judged, being called names, of having to learn to tune out and ignore these.

I need feminism because character depends on one’s actions, not on one’s clothes.

I need feminism because I deserve to feel safe everywhere, in spite of what I am wearing.

I need feminism because everyone deserves to be respected, and sexism needs to be called out.

I need feminism because as a woman with “equal rights”, I shouldn’t have to explain why I am a feminist.

I need feminism because I shouldn’t be spending sleepless nights in anger, while perpetrators of sexism sleep peacefully elsewhere.

I need feminism because I don’t deserve being called one of “those girls”. I need feminism because I shouldn’t have to write three pages on this.

I need feminism because clearly, the society is facing a crisis, where women’s lives are unfairly fraught with disadvantages of varied nature. If you could fix that and then tell me I don’t need feminism, I would gladly agree.

Disclaimer: I don’t mean, in any way, to sound misandrist. If I have come across that way, I sincerely apologize. There is no intention of portraying any one category of people in bad light. Whenever I have used the terms people/society, I have meant both women and men. While much anger has been vented out in this piece, I also fully am grateful to all the good people I have met.

Rekha Kamath is currently a Teach For India Fellow in Pune. She teaches second graders in the PCMC Corporation School. She describes herself as a Development Studies Student and feminist.

This is the link to the original article:

https://www.facebook.com/notes/rekha-kamath/second-thoughts/10151974183846987

I Am Not My Gender.

I asked my class today, how many thought Barbie Dolls were only meant for girls. A number of them put their hands up. Except for a few of them who had neutral or no opinions, everyone cumulatively agreed that boys shouldn't be playing with them. In fact, when Om confessed to having played with them, they laughed. The class also cumulatively stated that girls can't (/shouldn't) play football. When I asked them why (I think they call me 'Why Didi' behind my back), the responses I got, disturbed me. Girls are not strong enough, Bhakti said. Therefore they can't kick the ball, Ekansh added. Krishna said he knows that girls can't run fast. About cricket, Swaroop told me, girls can't lift the bat because the bats are heavy.

A couple of days back, Aditi came crying to me. Harshada had apparently scorned her for having worn 'shorts' one day. Aditi also doesn't go out to play because there aren't any other girls in her colony and the boys won't play with her.

Rohan wants to play with Harshada but is asked to go and play with the boys instead. Om's best friend is a girl and he often complains about how the class is mocking him. Krishna won't wear leggings (a part of the annual day costume) because he thinks only girls wear it. Bhavik won't hold Meenakshi's hand because she is a girl. The class sneers each time I mention how well Pranjal Bhaiya cooks. Boys cant cook, they tell me. They approve of me hugging Veda Didi but hugging Pranjal Bhaiya results in either high-pitched 'HAWWs' or sneaky smiles.

As much as this disturbs me, I dare not judge them. My kids are 7 years old. Some maybe 8. They are unaware of the boxes they've been in and/or have built around themselves. Already. Unaware that this where it all starts - Gender Stereotype.

I don't want to answer the million questions about why I've been talking about these. I am scared. It's difficult. Very. Rather, I don't want them to build more boxes. I don't want to tell them that boys also cook. I don't want to tell them about girls playing football. I don't want to tell them that girls can do 'boy things' and boys can do 'girl things', This is not what I want them to take away.

What I DO want them to learn is that it doesn't matter. That there are no 'boy things' and no 'girl things'. That I am not my gender. That they are not theirs. And while on one hand I am determined to do this, there is a lot of my faith which is being put to test.

It bothers me so much. To anybody who asks me how rape, sexual harassment and Violence against women have anything to do with upbringing and family, this is my answer.

This is my answer as to why I don't believe in capital punishment for rapists. This is my answer as to why rape is more cause than consequence. This is my answer as to how patriarchy is as oppressive on men as it is on women. This is my answer as to why I felt pity more than anger when a fellow biker lurched at me today and broke into a song while I was on the bike with Veda. This - is my answer as to why I feel guilty each time I feel extremely fearful of men around me.

I want to teach my children to make correct choices because of their will. Not because of their gender.

My big plan now, is to just give them as many examples. And let them figure it out by themselves.

Amen.

Nakul.

Ma’am, woh toh pagal hai. Uska dimag kharab hai - the first feedback I get about him from one of the teachers in the school. Everywhere I go, any conversation I have about him, this is all I get to hear. Uska dimag kharab hai, he is an abnormal child. Maushis, Kakas, teachers, staff. EVERYONE. They sometimes make the gesture of pointing their finger towards their head and twisting it when they see me struggling with him in class. I’d like to think they are trying to help me - make a pitiful face and tell me, it’s not your fault, it is his.

The psychology student in me cringes in pain, at first. I do what I can, ask them to speak politely about a child. But that is not the point. Whether or not I try to get all these people to be polite is secondary. The real battle is yet to begin. Inside my classroom.

He enters my class, two weeks after I have started teaching. Apparently, all this while the school has been allowing me to adjust and adapt. I wonder what’s the big deal. He comes up to me and with the widest grin, says, Good Afternoon Bhaiyaa. And at once, the whole of my class is tumbling down laughing. That is when I realize – this is the big deal.

After much thought, I consider my co-fellows’ suggestions, and discuss this in class. It is tricky terrain to walk on, I don’t want them to have sympathy and end up differentiating him. I only want them to empathise. To understand that he has different needs and that it is okay. They are 7 years old, and talking to them about this means putting my faith to test. It takes a long time, for me to get this clear in my head, even longer for them to understand what I am expecting off them. To start with, they stop laughing at him. He is now sitting among his classmates, something very new for him and for others. It’s been a month, and he still calls me Bhaiyaa sometimes. Until one day, when he walks upto me after school and says, ‘didi, ghar pe didi nahi hai.’

With instructions, the rest of my class has started to help him and help themselves. He still shouts incessantly and loves to draw. Publishing is his favourite part of the Writer’s Workshop. By now, he has two best friends in class, and loves them to the core. My class doesn’t laugh at him, but with him. I’m starting to think we are getting somewhere.

One day, during prayer, he jumps out in excitement and manages to push his best friend down the bench. The next day, I am called into the office and told that there has been a fracture and he may be held responsible for it. The next day still I am told he may be asked to leave school. The parent comes and screams at me for having her son sit next to ‘that boy’. A week later I am informed that he has been excused and that he can continue school, though this maybe his last year over here. He needs a special school, they tell me.

I need to keep telling my class time and again, reminding them to help him and each other. This is taking too much time, I think.

Orals begin. I ask my class to revise QUIETLY while I am taking orals. Except for I can hear Ekansh read the poems aloud. I look up, he is sitting with Nakul. Ekansh looks at me, “Didi, I tell Nakul, he learn.”

I call him over for his orals. Good Better Best, he starts. Good Better Best. Om comes over from behind and gives him the book, “See and read, Nakul. Yes, didi? Okay no.”

I smile. 36 tiny little seven year olds have restored my faith in humanity.

Mauna Vratham

The first thing I realized that people always assume that everyone can speak. And once they know you can’t, it turns into pity.

What starts out an attempt to be more self-aware and articulate, turns into a harsh realization. Silence is deadly. To both sides, the one without a voice and the one comprehending.

Silence is beautiful. I walk into a busy market with a bunch of close friends who guide me through every step. In about an hour, they learn my signals and it gets easier for us to communicate. I am getting to self-awareness, I think, at least a point one percent of it. I am extremely conscious, I’d like to say it makes me mindful too. I speak a few syllables by mistake (2 to be precise) and one whole sentence and curse myself for the same. The others say it is okay. I think to myself it is the first time.  I will gradually get there.

People at the market smile at me after they find out, I can’t speak. I’d like to say it is out of kindness. And not pity, but I’ll never know. Some respond to me in sign language. Some don’t respond at all. But all of that, only after I have communicated with them first. If I did not, I wonder if they will know.

I falter. I trip. It takes three times the usual to make everyone understand what I am trying to explain. It takes me a lot of time to figure out, before I start to explain. At some point it gets frustrating. My friends try to be as cheerful as possible. They are always cheerful usually too. At some point, I start questioning myself as to why really am I doing this. It is so much more painful to be silent than being inarticulate ad speaking too much.

But I can speak. God forbid something happens, I can scream. I can call for help. I can sing. I can shout. This is just one evening. Or maybe there are more to come. Silence truly seems to be beautiful.

But is it? In some corner of the world, there is someone for whom this is not just one evening, or twelve hours. For whom this is the way of life. She may not have friends. He may be in deep trouble. She may be crying out loud without a voice. He maybe singing full of love without a sound. Every single day of their life.

I don not now if this has made me self-aware. Or articulate. I don not know if this has been transformational. But has this evening changed my life? Yes, I believe. Yes, it has.

I am loved. And I wish the same for everyone. Voice or no voice.

Peace.

A Lifetime Of Memories

Memories are tricky. To only think of all the memories that this place gave me; makes me so happy, that you can only imagine it must have been a joyride. But it is not easy, to reproduce meaning of how these memories matter to me, these tiny little scraps of paper coming out of everywhere at the most mundane of moments, reminding me of why they were written in the first place.

I have been packing these memories away in boxes now. Not only tiny little pieces of paper in actual light-weight cardboard boxes to save space around the room, but making up these boxes to be stored in tiny little corners of my mind too. Memories. A lifetime of them.

And then they begin to disappear. It scares you, but you were the one who started to store them away anyway, didn’t you? To make space for more. And you think they’ve disappeared until this one moment, you listen to this song, the same ol’ one that you sang again and again and again much to the annoyance of those who never understood how four people could never get bored of the same song despite singing it again and again and again. And there it is - a blast from the past - the cliché, but it hits you so real nonetheless.

You think of the old times and you decide you don’t want to add meaning but just to think of them the way they were meant to be.

The good old times, yes.

Like the very first time we ever walked into the Wine And Beer Shop and the sense of know-it-all-ness with which Ritika asked for ‘3 pint tuborg aur ek bada RS dena’ while Pragya and I waited with as much a petrified look on our faces as the ‘menfolk’ in the shop had. Haha, can you ever get over that feeling?

Or the night spent shivering at the beach, waiting as each minute went by, for the sun to rise. *Chal, aaj sunrise dekhte hain* was the plan, and what we did was sleep under those twinkling stars, some of us. While the rest of them built sand castles. Sand castles, soon to be swept away by those deep, dark waves, whose music you could hear while you slept. And the sun did rise, as we stood mesmerized with our feet digging deeper and deeper into the sand, taking the wind in, pausing life, and when we got back, we gave each other the longest smiles that ever existed in the face of the earth. We knew what meaning that moment bore, for each other and for ourselves.

Of the timeless moments spent in the lawns outside the very red brick walls, with Shubi making Freudian analogies on plucking grass, the countless slip-of-tongues Pragya made. (The multiples of which I did too) Of spending all the free time we had making practicals, cursing practicals yet making them with utmost care. Of when Group B stood by each other, personifying integrity by refusing to make entertainment of another’s life. (Remember that, Andy?) – Of learning how multiple relationships change our attachment style, and not necessarily distort it. Of bearing through the most generalized statements with a heavy heart and yet holding on to what we believed in.

One open cardboard box leads to the other and you find yourself staring at more images from the past. Images you thought had been washed away in time, but have managed to linger on in the midst of the storm.

Like that of the busiest morning, where I managed to sneak out of the most important department gathering to celebrate a birthday. It was difficult to weigh, the priorities but I knew my arrival was awaited by people to whom I meant something. Happy Birthday Kusum, we sang, cake in my mouth, my mind split into the thousand other things that were happening around me. Celebrations are the easiest to forget and the easiest to recall. Be it the numerous celebrations we had as a department or the ones Suversha Ma’am gave us an excuse to have. I am like your Grandmother, she said, and this is my gift to you - A gift I still hold on to dearly, the memory of a day well spent. And of course, then there are bit of papers about the everydays of life. The journals from Karuna ma’am’s class, we all resented back then, we all love to peek into now. How time changes the value of something for us! The support stories from Diana ma’am’s lectures. Her own stories. The breaking of archetypes. The breaking of stereotypes. The whole new world like it was supposed to be. And of course, fearing every moment that you entered late into your Political Sc. class, and still sleeping through it with your eyes open, LIKE A BOSS. Turning into countries to understand IR better, I was THE China, no, if I am not wrong? And Fatimah Russia and Jaya something else. Pragya the facilitator. Funnily enough, things you think you will remember better have faded memories you’re holding onto with both your hands dearly.

The tiny little things. The conversations you had. The unending evenings with Kranti at the Hostel. (Read: Pseudo-home). Trying to hug Shibani every chance you get, apologizing thereafter. The cooking food and cooking up stories with Pragya at HER apartment. (Read: Pseudo – conquered home) Studying for exams together but no not really, rather sleeping through most of it. Watching mundane episodes of The BBT and laughing our heads off. Our affinity to end up in the reference section despite our hate for it. Our first night stay and the conversations we need not remember because what matters is that we had them. Stalking people endlessly. (Baaaani, remember this?) The unplanned for, frivolous train travel and dirty feet at the end of it. Cribbing through PMS, cribbing after PMS. Cribbing all the time. And yet being the joyful lot. Being frontbenchers, being hated by the back ones for it. Clicking pictures ALL THE TIME. (Ishti, we made a deal!)

The difficult times. Getting through the difficult times because of sheer love from the people. Samagam. Montage. Trying yet not giving up. Falling down yet holding each other through pieces. That conversation the four of us had sitting in the lower Foyer. Remember that, the day Samagam got over – Anahita, Sandy, Tvish? The Award. The Dilemma. The Sacrifice.

The places. Café. Nescafe. The red-bricked building. The lawns. The mean cats all over the place. 900 photographs. The college Magazine and the Visitor’s Room (What a memory, ah!), The auditorium, room no. 67, the foyers, the empty corridors. The place I used to call home.

The memory of yourself. Careless. Ambitious. With big dangling earrings and a huge purple file. Surrounded by people who loved you to no end. And by people who loved them too.

The memories are too many. Too diverse. All over the place. The cardboard boxes refuse to shut, even when forced. Tiny bits of paper from everywhere, fly around, settle down on your eyelashes. Waiting to be touched again.

Into Thin Air.

The blemishes are too many
To fade, to forgo
To be forgotten.

She wants to break open
To run free and wild
To write poetry
And have someone read it out to her.

She wants to understand
The song the bird hums each morning
The message the breeze carries within
To capture the dewdrops and store them forever
To save the memories from dying.

She wants to seek comfort, to find solace
In the joy of a baby's laughter
In the tinkling of the wind chimes by her window
In the pitter-patter of the raindrops on a cold winter night.

She wants to wrap the spirit of a shining star
In her scarred and wounded palms
And keep holding on to it
Till the end of eternity.

But the blemishes are too many
To fade, to forgo
To be forgotten.

Twitch your nose. And laugh. Now

There is a sad sad song I just heard  and couldn't help but think about the many things in life that we take for granted. No, we don't do it deliberately, or do we?

When was the last time you hugged your mother? Or danced in the rain? When was the last time you bought your pet gifts? And laughed with your nose twitched at a cheesy joke? Or cooked for your best friends? When was the last time you remember remembering all these things?

When will we learn to value that which is ours, without focusing on acquiring that which is not ours? When will we learn when to be satisfied?

Don't you mistake me. I am not trying to establish dictatorship. AND, mind you, there are SO many things I take for granted myself. I am so used to, it had turned into an emotional construct. But I am trying to not. Before it is too late.

Go, curl up in your bed with a cup of hot coffee and a book by your side and listen to your favourite song and watch Kung Fu Panda later. And when it rains, don't forget to count the drops. Haha, dance, I mean.

Sheets Of Empty Canvas

"I believe that believing that we survive, is what makes us survive."

- Dr. Izzie Stevens, Grey's Anatomy

You know, I want to take a road of my own. Yes, be famous and all that shit. But that's secondary. YES, it is. This post is non contextual and introspective. And broken, in pieces. Like I am.

I want to take the journey. I think I am already in one. I want to walk. The endless path. I want to travel and not arrive. No human affiliations, no material aspirations. Just go on.

I want to feel the wind on my hair. Listen to the trees sing. I want to see the grass greener. I want to cross over. I need to cross over.

Whats on your list?

Have you ever gazed at the stars for so long that you know one from the other? If you haven't, get a life, do it tonight. Stare at the starry starry night. You're worth it. Trust me.

This space talks to me. The world tells me I am no different, but the twinkling stars have another story to tell. They shine on to me. I am not different, but I am special. You are special, too.

I am not different. But I am the difference. And I make a difference. I know I do. Just the way you do too. Our aspirations may be different, but we are all bonded by them. I am a dreamer. And so are you. And nothing else matters.

I want to hold on the dreams. Never, NEVER, give up on them. No matter where they take me, no matter what is at stake. 

I have so much to learn. So much left. Still.

But I won't give up.

I believe I survive. And I won't give up.

Tiny little things.

Of late, I realise, I have stopped writing for myself. Like totally. I don't know whether I have been inhibited, or practically busy or both, it cannot be used as an excuse. And I'm sorry. So this, is my official comeback to blogging, for the time being at least. And I shall try to be as frequent and punctual as possible.

There is so much to start with. SO much.

The last years been super complicated. 2nd year. Phew! I scraped through and that's about it. But the best thing about your past is that it has passed. :D So, coming back to now, I'll just have to say Yay! I don't how much this makes sense but it is 4:03 in the dark and dirty morning and I am supposed to be free writing so please bear with me.

I watched Barfi! and laughed and cried along. It is incredible how tiny little things can bring sheer joy into your life. Tiny little things like a song. And something someone said. An  insignificant moment. A gift we remember from childhood. Tiny little things like characters in a movie. Jhilmil. :') 

I can't tell you how much I loved every bit of her. Every single bit.  

"Itni si hasi itni si khushi, itna sa tukda chand ka
Khwabon ke tinke se, chal banaye aashiyan..."

I tutor a group of autistic students as a part of my NSS, and there is SO much they add on to my life. 2 hours for one day each week becomes a lifetime for me. Tiny little nuances. Gaurav laughing out loud for no reason whatsoever. The mini heart attack you get when Yash approaches you with all his superman energy. Shubham's endless rants, Aditya's endless stories. How stomach aches are directly proportional to homework for Shivam. And Sahil's adrenaline rushes. And Amit's sudden bursts of artistic enthusiasm. And Priyanshu. His naughty smile followed by a puppy face. And his jooosh. How all of them unanimously turn to the window when they hear a plane pass. How playing ball means the world to all of us. How they can dance to the music I can't even listen to. 

Tiny little things. Like little drops of water.

P.S. - Thank you, wirewilltangle. My blog is alive again.

Yet.

Silence speaks to me

These words

They talk to me of a yesterday

Of the changing times, days good and bad

Of the life passed, past killed

And of the memories

Gone, yet not forgotten.

Silence speaks to me

These words

They talk to me of love

Of the stranger, met, loved and lived with

Of the kisses, blushes and walks

Of the sweet nothings over the phone

Lost, yet not forgotten.

Silence speaks to me

These words

They talk to me of life

Of the life entangled in a permanence of insanity

Of the life filled with divides and fears

And Fairy tales, only dreamt about

Not fulfilled, yet not forgotten.

Silence speaks to me

These words

They talk to me of a tomorrow

Of a yesterday repeating itself

The killed past. the saved memories

The dreams, the hopes and reality. And love

Untouched, yet not forgotten.

The Inheritance Of Thoughts

My eyes reflect the colour of the sea. The black sky is not dark but full of light. Full of shining hope. It is raining. Mumbai is beautiful.

The sound of the waves, hitting against the gigantic rocks, take me to a distant land. I find peace amongst hundreds of other people in one of the noisiest and busiest roads of Mumbai. The sea, just brought me back to life.

I let my hair open as the strong wind hits my face. Walking on the gray footpath, there is too much I am thinking about but nothing on my mind. And I go back to yesterday. I have no regrets. I am glad I have lived enough to be here, to breathe in this sea. Raindrops wash away the tears streaming down my face.

I walk as if there is no end because I know there is no end to this. There is a sea inside of me, mighty and fearful, turbulent and vulnerable. And never-ending.

And I pause to look over the heavenly path, past the treacherous huge rocks, my eyes travel along the entire stretch as the waves come together to hold hands and create a white wall. I, pause life.

A pen in my hand. A tear in my eye. Music in my soul.
Just as I start to create the life, as I've wanted it to be.

This is Absolute happiness.
 This, is God.

  Photo Courtesy - Internet
*Marine Drive. 13th August, 11*
I want to be this sea forever.

She.

“I miss you Sweta.
I don’t need to look for an opportunity to say so.”

I saw her in a doctor’s coat today. I think that’s what you call it. *a doctor’s coat*

She’s never looked more beautiful before.

YOU KNOW, I miss her. Yes, telepathically (and telephonically), she’s right there. But it’s been some time since we’ve talked. Like yes, we’ve spoken. But still.

And when I saw that photograph of hers in a coat, I cried. *yes, love. I DO cry about everything*

She has made me proud. And everyone else. And she’s only going to make us proud further.

She inspires me. To live.
*To write, even when I think I’m having a block*

She inspires me to move forward in spite of the failed consequences and unfavourable consequences.

She inspires to, well, inspire.

And also to non-fearingly hit on guys. ; )

She is living a hard life. Whether or not she accepts it, it is the truth. She inspires me not to complain. And to be happy with what I have. And still keep trying to get better.

Her stoical silence speaks to me. And well, it inspires me to speak.

I’m jealous though. Of the fact that she has a free MMS service and I don’t. How Sweta, how?

“My wallpaper is infested with that picture of your bunny. Well, it IS cute”

Yes, now I’m sleepy.

Oh wait, song -

She just changes her mind.
She is frequently kind and she's suddenly cruel.
But she can do as she pleases, she's nobody's fool.
And she can't be convicted, she's earned her degree.
And the most she will do is throw shadows at you,
But she's always a woman to me. :D

To start with, rather to *never* end with, she is this frikkin’ awesome person and I’m lucky to have her in my life. She, is genius.

She, Sweta, is my best friend.

That Place Called Home - Revisited Part II

 10^th April, 2011. College. Last day of First Year.

16^th April, 2011. Nine months. New home.

And while we keep sitting in empty spaces, procrastinating, thinking about tomorrow, today flies past. And we hardly notice.

With first year over and nine months spent in a new place which is not new for me anymore, as I look back, there are things I want to correct and things I want to relive. I don’t regret anything. Yes, the fact that I want to rewind does not imply that I regret my decisions, some of which have been hasty and childish. Life is not perfect. And it is definitely not about taking the right decisions but making your decisions right. Right?

The irony is, even as I sit here today, running fever with a splitting headache, I’m thinking about tomorrow. My first  exam. Psychology Practicals.

I’m not prepared.

Nine months. First year over. I’m still so overwhelmed.

Looking back, LSR was the best thing which could’ve ever happened to me. I might be getting detained while I say this, but it is true.

Yes, I have been disappointed with a lot of things. With the crowd. But probably because I have not found the crowd I could be at comfort with, yet. With not getting an honours. Three extra subjects are definitely a pain and Pol. Sc., I don’t like you. Ma’am. Sweet she is. But I don’t want to study psychology anymore. Period. Expectations I haven’t fulfilled. People I haven’t been able to get along with. I have been disappointed with myself, but I don’t regret coming here.

Unless you’ve been inside these Red-bricked walls of LSR, lazed around in the front lawns fooling around with your friends, day-dreamed amongst the Bamboo-grooves, introspected sitting in the back lawns and written to your heart’s extent, future-talked with the beautiful pansies and chrysanthemums, unless you have breathed the air in LSR, you won’t know what it is like to be here. What it is like to be home. :’)

THE cafe. The cats. And the faces they make. Jaya and her absolutely abusive rant. *thats my way of showing lurrvve* and not to forget her teethy smiling poses. *I Luurve you, Jayaa* Fatimah and her constant effort to prove to us that she is jinxed and slow even though she is not. And of course her all-of-a-sudden hyperexcitement and vice versa. *Stop sulking, baby. :)* Shibaaaaani, Shibaani ki Jawaaaani *courtesy – Vasudha* or should I call her Taadddy Beear. And Shubi. Isn’t the name enough? She can, Rajni ‘Kanth’. Haha. *don’t worry, I won’t disclose our secrets ;)*

And all of you call me a Fuckface. Hmph. :/

The classes. Reaching late, to EVERY-SINGLE one of them, full of stupid excuses. *On the 2^nd of April – Ma’am, Fatimah pranked me by telling me college was off, I just came to know, it wasn’t*

Texting each other from under the desks, or from above them. *Ma,am I don’t have paper, I’m taking notes over phone*

Asking for a free period every other English lecture. Coming to the first lecture in pyjamas. Clicking photographs. Sulking about attendance. Abusing DU. Hanging out with our amazing seniors. Blah blah blah.

Well, thats JUST first year. Looking forward to two more awesome years in this home *not three, please.Not three. Just two*

Well because, ALL’S WELL THAT DOESN’T END. :D

That Place Called Home - Revisited Part I

27th October, 2010

It fills me with reminiscence. With memories – The very smell of the Gulmohar. It fills me with thoughts of the past. The life lived and not forgotten.

LSA. I miss YOU.

Yes, very contradictory but true – I miss home. Or rather a place I used to call home. More than anything I miss my favourite haunt, those evening walks with Sid and Mini, spending 14 hours with Shal glued to the Idiot box, the constant arguements and ‘conversations’ with Mommy, the bickerings with Dad, the four-hour long calls and night-stays with Sweta, the crushes and the psycho classes, the stairase conversations with Shreya and Pragati and Shrishti, the South city visits with Avarna and Riddhi, birthday bashes with my gang, coffee with Shreya and Shivi and Sritama, the events, Arpita di, Hanging out with Prateek and Maneet, The TTIS challenge – Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. I miss all of it. Home, School, Office.

Life is more about ‘getting used to’ than ’moving on’. Not that I’m missing out in Delhi. Factually, staying here has got me closer to those who I’m away from. Besides, College’s awesome. Friends are even more awesome, Evening walks are more frequent and coffees are an everyday affair. Life, is not better, not worse, but not the same either.

Thats why, I like to sit, next to YOU

It makes me sad very rarely because I cherish all the memories rather than regret not reliving it. But sometimes, nostalgia strikes my tear ducts and it strikes hard. *Little things you do for me and nobody else makes me feel good. Little things you do for me, making me smile like no one else could*

They say, the past always haunts us. I say the past haunts us for good.

To keep us alive. To keep us in touch with what we used to be and what we are now. To keep us in touch with ourselves

And then there’s the Gulmohar. Which has an equally intimidating fragrance back ‘home’ here also.

Miss you Kolkata. Love you Delhi.

Break free

Crossing the line, didn't seem difficult. It was living on the other side, facing the reality which was hard. The truth was, that I didn't want to move on. I wanted to stay exactly where I was. But once on the other side, I realised, letting go of inhibitions was easier than I thought.

Moving on, I realised, was definitely a better option that getting used to the life I had been living.

I had to learn to take responsibilities. To take risks.

And when I broke through the wall of ignorance and convinience I had built around myself, I realised the other side was much better and brighter. I felt free.

I, had finally, learnt to live.

I've Been a Bad Girl

I write this, with no regrets, none at all. For what I am, I'm proud of it.

Yes, I've been a bad girl. Many a times. Before. And now. I've broken promises, made mistakes, maybe unintentionally betrayed people as well. Maybe intentionally.
I'd like to mention although, that guilt and regret are two majorly different things. And I've been wanting to say this for a long time.

A li'l personal this one is.
Note : The situations are limited to the word - 'sometimes'.

I haven't attended phonecalls or replied to messages. Why? Because I'm always pre-occupied with some work. No. Not at all times. The truth is, some very rare times, I have intentionally avoided people. For no rhyme or reason. Just because I wanted to.
Disloyal.
I've been a bad girl.

I've promised things to a lot of people and not delivered them. Sometimes, because I feel they don't deserve it. Because I feel I've already given them enough. I don't intend on fulfilling them anymore either.
Broken Promises.
I've been a bad girl.

I've escaped from work. In the most urgent of cases, I've restrained from doing work, just because I'm lazy and didn't feel the need to do so. Because I think think there's always someone else who'd be finishing it anyway.
Irresponsible.
I've been a bad girl.

I have a record of letting down people, having faith on me. And, disappointing myself. I have a record of not doing things at the right time. Of delaying things at my own disposal. Of totally not considering the famous proverb - 'Time and tide wait for none'.
Procrastinator
I've been a bad girl.

This might come as a shock.
I have intentionally kept away from helping people because I have felt that they deserve to suffer what they've suffered from. Because they don't deserve help. Because I have suffered the same and no one has helped me.
Jealous.
I've been a bad girl.

I've confused myself. Confused people. I've enforced my opinion on others, plenty of time without being sure of it myself. I've considered to have taken advice given by others, without even paying a heed. Strong opinions apart, I've been diplomatic about many an issues at hand.
Indecisive.
I've been a bad girl.

I haven't clarified many a misunderstandings just because of not wanting to confront. I haven't bridged many gaps just because I've wanted a particular person to stay away from me. I've kept quiet because of not wanting to argue.
Misleading.
I''ve been a bad girl.

I've laughed heartily on the outside, in spite of tearing down inside. I've put up a smile on my face, hiding the forceful tears in my eyes. I've been nice to people I've never liked. Blunt to people I don't want to like.
Pretentious.
I've been a bad girl.

I have today what I have done to others.
I have relatively seen the same that I've been to others. You might consider it a tit-for tat.
I don't.

I'm sorry for the times I haven't been there. For the times I've said a Yes in spite of knowing that a No would do better for you. I'm sorry for the times I've disappointed you. And me. I'm sorry for the times you've had to pay for the mistakes I committed. I'm sorry for the times when i have not helped you in distress. i'm sorry for the times, when i did not put aside the differences. I'm sorry for the times, I accepeted your apology, even though my heart had completely not forgiven you. I'm sorry for what I have done.

But, I'm not sorry for what I have,
I'm not sorry for having been a bad girl.

Yes. I've  been a bad girl.

Inception.

I sat staring at the blank wall
Woven dreams, at my threshold

A pen in hand, hundred thoughts at work

As the life I knew, I give up.

The pen in your hand is what your dreams are.

The thoughts vying to cross that threshold and bloom into life.

The life that you just gave up.

Along the corridors I walk by,

Along the sands of time.

A leap of faith, a baby step,

As the life I knew, I give up.

The corridors hold the key to your memories.

The sands of time with our footsteps.

If you look you may not leap..

Leap into the life unknown.

Bound in the blind prisons of reality

My eyes reach out far seeking freedom

Repressed fantasies compel me to have trust

As the life I knew, I give up.

Take a step, find a key. A key to your reality.

Freedom is close, not that far.

Its an illusion of your  fantasy.

The fantasy of a life you just gave up.

And I drift away to yesterday

To a life I'd never have again.

For tomorrow, my past, I close shut

As the life I knew, I give up.

And the life I  knew, I give up.

Why drift into the past? You've lived it long enough.

Its a life that has lived you well enough.

Bask in the sunshine of today, not in the shadows of what could be.

Coz what will be, will be. Even if the life you knew, you give up.

Even if the life you knew, you give up.