KhalBali

Of Mixtures

2006-12-17T10:25:00.000-08:00

Life’s been the way life should be. Things just rolling on and you flow with the waves, unaware of where the tides may reach you. I had been dying to write but have been feeling drained out lately. Technically, they call it the burnout stage- wherein nothing interests you- love, people, food, relationships…
Ive had few major achievements to boast about. Cried lots in the process but they compensated for the tears. Edited my college magazine, n what an experience it’s been!
Debated like crazy all across the country and bagged the best speaker at the Nationals of the Frank Anthony. Lost a meaningful relationship but found love! Visited the Silicon Valley and tried being Wiz Kid India though I was too good for the L.S. judges there. Anyway, I’m going to write now for myself and not to please anyone. Nothing is going to be here by design. It’s going to be the first draft and low on style but high on rawness. (Any word like that?)
missed blogistan- joy, weedo, kaveeta mam, neo, dhiraj...n many more.

2006-06-18T22:55:00.000-07:00

THE PERFECT FAN
As I write this, my eyes are welling with tears, khushi ke aason as they are called. My dear, little, innocent, disgustingly simple sister has got through the Tata Institute of Social Sciences, Mumbai where she will now be pursuing her Masters in Social Work. It’s been a long journey up till here. I remember when she was boarding the train, she had said to me, “Baby just pray I make it worth all the trouble.”
Well she did.
It was the same story on my end when three years ago she had left Lucknow to join Lady Shri Ram College, Delhi. How I had cried! It was the first time she was going to live all by herself, far away from home. Mamma pretended to put up a brave front but I caught her weeping at nights silently. Daddy could not comprehend what he felt, so he became hyper irritable and finicky. Tears ain’t his piece of cake.
Didi told me just before leaving for Delhi that she had left a letter for me under the pillow. I returned howling and howled for hours reading that letter. She addresses me as Doggy and says that I’m perhaps the only doggy in the world who can read and write and debate and dance. But that’s her copyright and no one else dare address me that way. She hates it.
The letter contained the usual sermons. Be a good doggy and don’t cry and concentrate on your studies and go out with friends. Keep yourself busy.
But it wasn’t that easy. I, being the small kid in the house, felt too ‘big’ certainly without didi. Mamma I remember had met with an accident then and I forgot everything. It was one week of lonely desperation. Took care of mamma, missed school, supervised the household and did too the household chores.
She was growing up there, me here. We were both coping with different tones of the same emotion- loneliness.
The first six months when she didn’t have a cell were horrendous. Group rivalry, siding, envy, taunts, politics- she faced it all by herself in the hostel. It’s a difficult world out there for thinking, sensitive people and its even more difficult to face the music and not start jiving to it yourself.
Well after her three years of tryst with L.S.R., she is a changed person but for the better. Rather she has evolved-the dormant skills honed, the suppressed emotion given voice and the freedom from parochial behavior and thinking process. She was open yet simple, an intellectual jewel yet a worldly fool. These un-developed skills would probably bloom in the Maximum City- it teaches a lot as Suketu Mehta tells us.
Wonder where this journey will stop. From Delhi to Mumbai to Norway… will I be able to share those precious nothings with her again with carefree bliss? All our girly talk- cute boy stuff (though she used to just listen and baton gyan), her constant nagging- “Baby don’t hog so much junk food. You’l burst. Gluttony isn’t a virtue.” She would also remind me to put a face pack once a week, use a medicated soap for the occasional pimple season and if I didn’t listen… she would go and get it for me. This time my soap has finished as well… and I was waiting for her to return from Bombay and get it for me or better still I planned to use hers. But her session begins this 26th itself and so she wont come back up till October.
You know there is a very selfish angle to my love for her as well. She can see no wrong in me. She thinks I’m more than any teenager at 17 could be. What she says isn’t true yet you need someone with that kind of a faith …I don’t mind calling it a blind faith either….in you. Ive got my own mind to ponder on my weaknesses and my flaws. However it is when my mind isn’t functioning, when I fail to see my worth, when I doubt my very basics as a person that her faith has worked miracles for me. Ive been the naughty girl- I still go around slapping her and pulling her cheeks hard and she only complains to ma. She is ma’s gift to me… she is my perfect fan… and we all need one at some point or the other in our lives.
“I was the one with all the glory, you were behind-with all the strength…
Did you ever know you are my hero? You are everything I’d ever want to be…
I couldn’t fly any higher…you are the wind beneath my wings.”
I love you and I miss you Chilu.

2006-06-14T06:53:00.000-07:00

IroNically YouRs
“Inky pinky ponky, Father had a donkey” is what a seven year old does when choosing an ice cream flavour.
“Inty Pinty”, its Indianized version, is what I often adopt when I have to choose a dress among the many I like. Basically there are so many decisions to take at every step in life that it becomes tiresome and one relies on trivia like “out goes the naughty boy and that is you.”
The present age, my age, is flooded with options. Be it the plethora of career options, mobile handsets, music genres, cuisine, tourist destinations, relationships or perhaps even a wide range of kiddo diapers and dog food to choose from. It’s the era of options- options which provide you a base to fall back on or options which leave you confused and dissatisfied. It depends on personal experiences with your set of ‘options.’
And then again, most ironically, it also is the age of the starkest optionlessness. I know what I have to say since I have lived the emotion I voice, yet the picture is hazy. There are times when I’ve wanted to react a certain way but I’ve been held back, by peers, by my mom, by my sense donators-“No. But that’s not the way it’s done.”
“WHY?” I fail to understand.
If each one of us takes the trodden path there will be no novelty. It’ll be a dead world where we’ll walk around like zombies, reaching office at sharp nine, leaving it at sharp five, not letting our ties budge an inch from their rightful place and eating with fork and knife!
“It’s called etiquette, basic etiquette, darling,” my mom tells me with the calmness of a forlorn sunset.
My boyfriend likes to wear chappals to the mall. His mom too gave him frosty looks when he walked into one, indifferent to his footwear.
I just don’t identify with the way my school operates. The sham, the politics, the well weighed words, the conscious effort to please… it sucks. I feel drained of all energy since it’s siphoned in the effort to pretend.
I remember debating on the topic- Freedom of the individual is a myth at Bishop Cotton School, Shimla. A Sardar guy from the B.C.S. team countered the famous, “Man is born free but everywhere he is in chains,” by pointing out that though he was supposed to keep his hair long as per his religion, he could chop it off, if he really wanted to do it. He could chop it off even at the cost of his family’s contempt, his religion denouncing him, his folks ostracizing him. He could do it even if the price was death.
It sounds dramatic but that was just an example. Its not that we don’t have sardarjis without pagdis but just that ultimately the choice lies with us. Its with our consent that we live in a state of optionlessness. But again on retrospection, what use will it be to buy my individuality if I don’t live to enjoy it? My mom tells me that I welcome only the bouquets and not the brickbats of being in the limelight and being different from the rest.
I fight; I argue but eventually take the path traveled by many and bearing their imprints. However there is this constant struggle to do my thing and I may end up doing it my way, you never know.
Meanwhile as I sit in Barista and type this on my lappy, a cute eye candy sits on the opposite table and strings the guitar to the Summer of 69. I’ll take my coffee pick (from the very many options on the list), say hi to this sweet chap and get back home- and study…option less again. I’m immune to this burden yet each time I go against my instincts – it doesn’t feel good for sure.

2006-06-04T21:13:00.000-07:00

Hitler’s Democracy

“It is better to deserve and not get than to get and not deserve"-Mark twain
Fifty percent reservation and cent percent politics- that is how I view it.
The policy of divide and rule once again stares us in the face. The perpetrators this time however, are not the fair skinned Englishmen… they are our own people and rather unfortunately, men and women whom we ourselves have given power. At times I am forced to question if a politician is just a politician or is he human as well. The latter stands doubted today. Everything after all is pursued by a sole motivation – Votes.
Eat votes, sleep votes, drink votes … and let the aspirations of your country men die a slow, painful death.
The U.P.A government, apparently elected democratically has acted in the most autocratic manner. I understand now as to why Aristotle called democracy a perverted form of government. Is this the true essence and spirit of a democracy? We are the citizens of the country but do we have a say in anything that happens in the Parliament?
The country’s youth are on fire. The shameless government refuses to bow down. Every possible attempt is made to keep things back from the tentacles of the press.
Innocent students acting on their basic right to agitate peacefully are ruthlessly lathi charged and that too with few to stand up for them.
Governments come and go but what they pass by means of resolutions solely by manipulation and design, stays on to plague the country. Our welfare perhaps is the last thing on the mind of these petty politicians.
Academically speaking, there are umpteen ways in which this quota system threatens the very fundamental unity of Indians. Not only is it divisive in nature but it is a prime challenge to merit. We risk merit, we discourage excellence and we de-recognize genius. We place an un-deserving candidate on the same pedestal as a deserving one. We create two classes in the society – a class which has to burn in the fire of competition to make a mark for itself and another class which can sit back and relax with the ‘label’ of backwardness and the ‘warrant’ to forwardness.
The field of medicine has not been spared either. They don’t mind playing with public health. There will come a time when reading the surname on a doctor’s clinic board, the patient would take a u-turn and get going, knowing that the doctor isn’t efficient enough to be one.
This brings us to a very crucial juncture. Will not the society’s mentality get caught in this stereotyped rut where even the deserving backward candidates will be refused their due?
Do the backward classes feel the need for quota? If yes then why? They say it is because they do not have “the resources” to reach to the I.I.M’s and I..I.T’s. Well, then why reservation on the basis of caste and not on the basis of economic status? Is it not true that there exists in our country a large section of people who belong to the poor strata and have no caste whatsoever? What about hundreds of Brahmans in Amarvati and Aurangabad who have applied for the job of sweepers? Is it not a fake battle against a learned minority of 2%?
We have had the reservation system for more than fifty years now and the results are yet to be seen. How long and to how many members of the same family will this privilege be rendered? The child of an O.B.C. I.A.S. officer deprives a truly backward child from the village background.
Affirmative action is adopted by America against the long lasting practice of Apartheid. India too should go for it. The idea of development has to holistic and not divisive.
The politicians have carefully ignored the option of strengthening primary education and bringing about reservation on that front or even a fee subsidy. Make the foundation strong dear politicians and let there be a fight of equals for the best things. The politicians would never choose to act in this direction since children don’t form a part of their vote banks. Serving golden things on a golden platter has done little good. Complacency on the one hand and dejection on the other will be its only far reaching consequences.
As Atticus Finch had stated in ‘To kill a Mocking bird’, the court is the only institution where all men are equal- a pauper the equal of a Rockefeller, a stupid man the equal of an Einstein.
Let it just be in the court and not in real life. Let each man get his fair share and do not forcibly distribute equal shares.
Saddened as I am by the state of affairs, my only apprehension is for India as a nation. No country, I believe, has the power to survive the wrath of its youth.
And if social justice is really our objective…let us start by introducing reservation within the Indian Cricket Team and the Indian Captain should be from backward class. The team of Indian representatives to Olympics should also have backward reservation- After all winning or losing is not our concern – our concern is social justice!

2006-06-02T18:34:00.000-07:00

GENIUS
It so happened that I had to represent my school (La Martiniere Girls’ College) at a Quiz Competition. The school lacks expert quizzers in the sense that we don’t have girls mugging Derek O Brien’s Bournvita quiz book series. I had to do this the day we qualified in the preliminary round into the finals. It sucked- the rote learning bit I mean.
Well it did pay off and we won the Runners’ Up Trophy but more than the trophy I am grateful for the thinking process that this experience triggered off.
If one recalls there was a program called ‘India’s Child Genius’ hosted and compiled by Siddharth Basu which was aired on Star World. It was for children between the age group of 11 to 13 and it guaranteed to find by its season finale episode – the first child “genius” of India.
Now my basic problem here is with the definition of “genius”. I have great respect for the man Siddharth Basu as a quiz master but somewhere I don’t identify with his idea of a genius.
The program highlighted how Boy A’s room was filled with tons and tons of dictionaries, extended dictionaries, encyclopedias, atlases, thesauruses and others of the ilk. The ‘prospective genius’ swelled with pride on narrating his trysts with ‘burning the midnight oil’ and topping his class five internal examinations. He was also applauded by Basu for studying from the text books of classes eight and nine for reference! Even this is acceptable. Now comes the rather rude shock.
“Which is your favorite book?”
“I love to read Archies Comics.”
“And your favorite author?”
“The woman who wrote Pride and Prejudice!” (Jane Austen turns a complete 360 in her grave)
“Now tell us about your favourite sport.”
“Love playing computer games.”
Now readers don’t mistake me for a frustrated duckling that couldn’t get through the program and is therefore sounding moronic. I didn’t qualify for it for I was 16 – the age barrier. Moreover with the kind of questions that were being put up –
“What is the speed of sound in air?”
“What is the refractive index of glass, water, light?” (Dunno if light has a refractive index)
I just couldn’t have fit the bill.
But does it mean I ain’t a Genius in my own right? Aint we all ‘Geniuses’ in are own special spheres? Is it not incorrect and unfair to define Genius (a term with such a broad range) by such limited parameters?
Why measure genius with the height of the book piles on a child’s study table? It seems something like--Genius is directly proportional to the number of pages learnt per day and inversely proportional to the number of classics read, outdoor sports played and life skills.
I am a genius because I can think; I can fly in my mind’s airways. I can write (passably). I can communicate.
The girl sitting next to me can embroider the most beautiful kerchief. She is a genius.
Boy B has the most wonderful collection of books in his library. Philately is his hobby. (A very aristocratic and intelligent one) He by “my” definition of genius is a genius.
A car mechanic has genius. A mason has genius. So does Bill Gates and Sabeer Bhatia.
The point that I am trying to make here is that the myriad combinations that exist in us as individuals make all of us special – that is why the word – Individual.
Let us hone the good in every child. Encourage him at what he can do best. Siddharth Basu did manage to find India’s Child Genius but the child soon disappeared into thin air after his moment of glory.
In my opinion and I understand that it is solely my opinion reading classic literature, experimenting in the broad range of human experience, learning life skills ( the soft ones and the hard ones) is all so crucial to make a genius in the true spirit of the term. It is more than a shame when a thirteen year old’s favorite author is the ‘woman’ who wrote Pride and Prejudice. (Jane Austen nods vigorously)
Genius is a state of the mind which has little to do with text books...
Hope we all can just see the God in ourselves… and we don’t need a Siddharth Basu to acknowledge us for it.

2006-05-29T06:09:00.000-07:00

Dunston eeeeeh… Daddy Checks in!!

My daddy’s got a huge bird cage made in our lawn. No birds live in it. The trouble is that who will go and get the birds…
The washerwoman, on a daily basis washes the clothes of only three family members. Daddy’s are usually washed by mamma. The trouble is daddy’s argument, “But I only wore it for 6 hours!” Mamma is speechless. The shirt can serve as local anesthesia to a patient proceeding to the operating theatre; As for me, I literally collapse if its brought anywhere near me in a range of 100 mts.
The problem with daddy is that he should’ve been born in the royal family of England. Plebian life is not for him. Everyday before he leaves for office, the whole house has its wits scattered. I can be seen bending under every nook and corner looking for that precious shoe which plays hide and seek with me rather irritatingly. Didi looks for the lost sock, mamma for the car keys and wallet. Mamma takes on the task of finding the last two since they are beyond me and didi. As normal human beings, didi and I search the saner places which would include the drawers, table tops or perhaps as a last option the top of the refrigerator. Mamma finds the keys on the bathroom mantelpiece, on top of the cooler or in the shirt which is finally going for a wash after considerable nagging.
Daddy carries two five hundred rupee notes in his wallet, one to use and one to generously drop.
Daddy also loves to sleep in the a.c. no matter how bad a cold is afflicting him. Mamma explains, “It may go worse dear,” but daddy is too cool to listen to grandmotherly advice. Now it goes without saying that the next morning on the dining table we are supposed to hear (read endure) the bullish snorts of daddy.
The house swims in books. We have a wide range from On Safari to Stanley’s Darkest Africa, from Suketu Mehta’s Maximum City to Edward Said’s Orientalism. All this I acknowledge is courtesy daddy.
Every room in our house is virtually reduced to a study room. The study room still remains the study room of course. Papa walks in front and mamma walks behind picking up the books and placing them at their rightful positions.
Daddy drives a gypsy king. It is kingly on the exterior (extremely) and on the inside it is simply ganda. As a policy, I do not let my friends step into the car. “Samridhi can your father take the school debating team to the venue?”
“Sorry Ma’am. He is out of station.”
Just recently daddy’s Tiffin box opened accidentally in the car spilling the yellow arhar dal all over which further mixed with the dirt in the gear box and the remnants of the oranges relished by daddy.
The servant makes a face when asked to clean it.
“It will take a man without the sense of smell and sight to do the job,” I tell daddy.
Dad’s a Leo and can be hoodwinked by easy appreciation. Tell him how cute he is looking and he will take you for a treat to McDonalds. He loves McDonalds more than Ronan. Mamma has brought up three kids and brought them up well. Daddy is a special credit to her.
Daddy sings too. Lovely voice I must admit just that the rhythm of the song is immaterial to him.
My daddy… he can beat Dunston when it comes to eating bananas and playing antics. He can beat Muhammad Ali at boxing and Schumacher at driving. His daughters are his first love and tigers the second. (I am not sure if the order is correct)
Daddy read the honours I have bestowed on him through this post and uttered just one word – “Beautiful!”
Such is my dad, if only you know what it means!

2006-05-20T07:40:00.000-07:00

At home in No mAn's lAnd

The valley of Kashmir smells of scented flowers, fresh apples, citrus limes and blood. I add the last word since now Kashmir without blood doesn’t qualify as Kashmir.
It was a breezy evening in the picturesque hill station of Gulmarg. I ventured out alone to absorb whatever little my mortal senses allowed. An Indian Army jonnie accompanied me to the outside of the cantonment where we were putting up.
Gulmarg is untouched, unadulterated. It remains ‘unmixed’ and that is its chief merit. The walk was a breather. It was like moving within a painting created by the divine artist. The snowy mountains with the dying sun’s rays glistening, the pine meadows and the tiny wooden bridges which stood over the light indigo waters… it was humbling.
I didn’t realize when I had moved out of the specified 2 km range from the unit. The jonnie I had cleverly warded off.
I’m the perfect ‘Alice in Wonderland’, my peers tell me. This was the wonderland and so the Alice syndrome took over. Thinking of Tom Cruise on his Harley Davidson, humming the enchanting ‘Take my Breath Away’ and indulging in the chillness of the breeze… I went ahead.
It was sevenish when I realized I must get back. There was a sudden suspicious movement around the tourist centre and the random sound of bullet shots. I had a hunch- Lady you are in trouble!
What happened then I fail to register since it was all so quick. The only thing I know was that I was held tight by someone in the arm and we were running… running like anything. My limbs were giving way… the arm where he held me had begun to hurt... in fact it was numb and without sensation. There was a panic rush with the sound of magazines reverberating in the suddenly stalled air. He pushed me down on the grass.
“Keep low and not a word.”
The hoarseness in the voice was striking.
“But what’s happening?”
“You have a clue what you’re into?” he screamed.
“No but then you tell me.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“Yeah. Kashmir, of course.”
“And it’s a highly sensitive, insurgency area where you stand?”
“Yes… But…”
“You foolish girl! You’re roaming around, all alone. Who do you think you are? Now keep shut and stay put. I’ll be back.”
I did as was told although I generally don’t. I felt stupid. Really stupid. He treated me like a silly girl and I hated it.
I saw him run back. A sturdy gait, well built army officer with that same Tom Cruise haircut. Eeks! Grow up Bunu, I told myself.
There was something about him…or may be it was just me who felt it. The familiarity in the touch…it seemed so personal. He thrust me into a dilapidated jeep and I surprisingly conceded to every move. And then he was gone…
He was gone forever. Somewhere inside I wept. For that rare moment the kisses of my loved ones around me didn’t matter. I wanted to be there… to be with him. It was an alien feeling. May be a fool again- the little me.
Who he was, I am still to know.
I don’t believe in love at first sight but if there is something like that, it was then.

P.S. - My first tryst at short story stuff.
P.P.S. – Only appreciation is welcome.
P.P.P.S. – Don’t call it foolish or I’ll… cry.

2006-05-17T16:35:00.000-07:00

COMpliCaTeD

Feeling a bit bogged down. Happy for my pals but apprehensive for myself. The board results are out and speaking to my friends I could relate what I had felt when I was in the same shoes.
It weighs me down. Societal parameters, expectations, yardsticks… I don’t identify with them. It’s my board class again and this time I don’t wish to miss the bus. I sound cynical to some when I say I missed the bus at a hefty 94.2 but then that’s my reality. The reality of my state of my mind. It isn’t that I was ungrateful for what I got in class ten but that I thought that I was capable of better work.
This time want to do it for my mother, not for myself. Want it badly and don’t wish to settle for anything less than a …hmmm… 96???
The urge, the desire… that one look of pride on papa’s face… ma’s glimmering eyes.. they are motivation enough. But somehow why is it that the motivation fades when tested with implementation?
I get up late every morning. I procrastinate like anything. Get up from one place and sit at another. Watch television, listen to music and ya for a change I do pick up my books once a day and stare at them. That ritual done, I go back to sleeping and eating. Long telephonic conversations, blog posts… all are means of running away from the sucking reality. BOARDS !!
Mathematics --- can somebody tell me how to do it? It scares me. I feel like a demented person when I study parabola and the ‘hyper’bola. Its not for me… mathematics.
But I love economics and the irony is … no economics without maths baby !
So even here I make uncomfortable compromises. Have to pay a price for my love of economics !
I’ll get back… to doing something more ‘conventionally constructive’ now… and I promise this day onwards… I’l try…
And may I get back a happier girl this 17th day of May, 2007… when my life’s course will be decided by a bundle of marks…
Amen

2006-05-16T03:02:00.000-07:00

HaKunAh MatAta

It means no worries for the rest of the day!
My maid servant’s son is a handsome lad of three. He is the sweetheart of the house and my favourite pastime. When I’m ‘vela’ I call Amit and he runs into my arms flashing that ever charming smile. The thing with him is that he knows he’s cute. He isn’t permitted to enter the bedrooms and so he’ll come and stand at the door and keep smiling or making weird noises till your heart melts and you ‘invite’ him in.
He is pretty tiny and takes the liberty of lying around anywhere in the house. There have been times when I’ve almost stepped on him simply because he isn’t visible. I blame his size for it and not my sight.
Last night he managed to shock me yet again albeit differently. The brat had managed to procure a pataka or firecracker (the red ones which blow up like bombs but come in a series) and he lit it up and was apparently “smoking”. When I saw the pataka in his mouth and his effort to inhale in the smoke from the ‘cigarette’ I was zapped. I screamed my lungs out at him and he dropped the pataka just in time for it to go off. A narrow escape for him and perfect timing on my part!
Now what did he do is the million dollar question?
Well, he smiled and he smiled and he smiled.
Guess he wanted me to reward him for the wonderful antic or rather his feat. I came in the house angry with him and reported him to his mother. She too laughed. I felt like a fool. Everything is so funny now but what would have happened had the little fellow’s face turned to coal tar…
Anyway my ma told me not to get hyper and that I didn’t know what I was upto as a kid. She said babies cry when they get hurt and then smile again. To be precise, they have this in built mechanism of recovery, god’s gift where only the good stays and the bad is too irrelevant to be remembered.
What is it in the psychology of a child that the pain remains and yet he is able to smile?
Has fearlessness got to do anything with it? Is it that ignorance is bliss? Or is it simply Hakunah Matata?
Well still looking for an answer but I’ve realized that there’s a lot to learn from Amit… my love of sorts!

2006-05-10T18:13:00.000-07:00

Growing uP 2b mE
***Its one of those days yet again… confusion is a glorious state to be in but then how long is the question. Its been this ‘same glorious state’ for over two years now and with the way im stagnating, it will last for another decade or two. I don’t know where im going but im on my way- my favourite one liner! It aptly befits my present condition. Somehow, it is not something to be very proud of when your seventeen and moving onto eighteen. This is the age to ‘know’ your road, to be confident of where you’re heading. It’s the age when the confusion has been or ‘should have been’ sorted out. Yet, most ironically, it forms the pivot on which my life continues to turn. Probably, im not doing what I love to do… and what I love to do, who can tell, for I cant …
Freedom at midnight- is a masterpiece. Freedom was given at midnight but it took a considerable 100 years of struggle to ‘buy’ that invaluable freedom from the foreigners. I want my freedom tonight too. Boo. Want it without struggle… dreamer that I am…
When I read the book, I feel I grow with every written word. I feel equipped with that much-spoken and less-discovered ‘power’ of knowledge. I love the rush it gives me. Wish I could write well if not ‘as’ well. Lets leave it at that.
Too much of conscious effort is making it worse for me.
Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhh ! life’s like this…
Just cleaned the potty and bathroom. Feeling good ! feels like its meant to be… well, at least there’s something im good at…contributing in my own small way.
At times its good to just exist… not thinking …
In fact im lying. Im thinking… too much. Hope it just reaps results this time. Good or bad, I want to take decisions and feel responsible for them. Want to shout, scream, dance, hog, bathe in the waterfall, go trekking, drown in the sea, feel the wet sand… want to just do it… this life sucks…
Going now… music and some food for thought…or thought for food ?? dunno.

2006-05-10T00:13:00.000-07:00

“ kitney ajeeb rishtey hain yahan pe” …
this song from page 3 is so simple yet so profound. Ive experienced the very same emotion umpteen number of times but could never express it so aptly. There have been so many instances which probably I cant even recall now but instances where ive just thought of this very line, lingering in some intimate airways of mind… smiled to myself and moved on… but it also makes one feel a bit empty. At least I do..
cant be ‘on the stage’ and performing 24*7… but that’s needed. Ma tells me… the faster you learn the ways of the world… the better … good advice but hard to implement on a bull head like me.
U c there are two ways to look at it- I say im great the way I am… daring, bold, outspoken ( somewhere I enjoy my status as well)/// if I be someone else, id be cheating…
Ma says there is no age for learning….
Neway was listening to this song so just felt like writing. Im back though not with a bang. Got so many tasks up my sleeve… but ya want to write now… just anything… even at the cost of not making sense.. im ok with it !

2005-11-07T09:40:00.000-08:00

IT’S A HAPPY HAPPY WORLD

If all the grieves I am to have
Would only come today,
I am so happy I believe
They'd laugh and run away!

Hi! I'm only sixteen years old and those who think that sixteen-year-olds are inexperienced, frivolous non-entities may not read this article. Now those who have resolved to read further will be enlightened human beings in the next few minutes.
I'm here to let you know the secret of happiness- now you'll wonder, ha! A kid is here to tell us what happiness is all about but the truth is that it is only we who know it, it is buried deep within our hearts, very often unknown to us.
The secret of our happiness is that nothing on earth is worth our fret and worries or for that matter even a frown- FORGET tears, forget them, forget that you can cry. Nothing is more important than yourself. You have to protect yourself from this world and the formula is easy- allow nothing to shatter you. Do not depend on time to heal you because time takes time and you don't even deserve to break down for that time- just don’t let it happen. Its not a matter of determination or courage, its only a state of mind. When you learn to value yourself more than the rest of the world and what they do and what they think (all trash!), you'll grow up. You'll rise above all that nonsense. This state of mind has nothing to do with being "cool" and "bindaas" as most teenagers would say or with being "thick skinned" as most adults would say. It is a very balanced approach towards life, an equilibrium to be achieved. It's about retaining your identity and being sure of what you are. Happiness depends more on the inward disposition of mind than on the outward circumstances. Remember that a hundred cartloads of anxiety will not pay an ounce of debt. Learn to bless your uneasiness as a sign that there is still life in you. To live dangerously is the best recipe of happiness that I have ever heard of.
So if all the aforementioned prescriptions fail- then build your cities on the slopes of Vesuvius and send your ships into uncharted seas but be happy!

2005-11-05T11:48:00.000-08:00

If life is a battle it must be won

Whatever may life be but all battles must be won . We associate life's battle with material gains, high positions and promotions against those less resourceful or less capable than ourselves .With determination and hardwork or with treachery and hedeousness we win but where we lose is within ourselves . Have you fought back the conflict within yourself and won? Have you ever forced a smile on your face when you felt like crying? Have you ever decided to climb again when you have not just fallen down but also hurt yourself ?Overcoming low self esteem ,striving and struggling against grave circumstances and paving your own path is nothing short of a battle won .Striving to be happy and cheerful when the people around you are selfish ,stone hearted and do not respond even to love and care and accepting the fact that more than half the world comprises people such as that, is winning the battle .Believing in your existence an realizing that you are a child of the universe ,you deserve to live ,not wanting to change because then you'll doubt him who made you and determining not to change yourself because you are the best .We win or lose life's battle within ourselves. Winning or losing is a decision that we take at different steps of our life. Participation in the affairs of life is not by our choice but is forced upon us because we live .God has granted us this life but the world we live on does not allow us to take it for granted .All those who choose to win are the ones who set trends. They the ones who set the world the world around themselves. Darlings and dandies do rule the world but not for nothing. They rule because they know who they are . Believe me it is neither the rich nor the erudite .It is you who can win life's battle and all alone.

2005-11-05T11:41:00.000-08:00

The convincing touch
My sister and I grew up on stories which our father made sure were food to our young souls. Every night as we sat in the open courtyard below the milky moon, he took us to a world of fantasies. A character called Mary fairy was our favourite. She was imprisoned by a dragon and papa told us that she now lived somewhere in the Himalayas. We planned day and night how we would free her from the dragon. Both of us spent hours making the list of luggage we would carry with ourselves when we went to the Himalayas to free Mary fairy. The land was harsh .It demanded great determination he would tell us. We would experience the thrill of a hundred roller costars in the very imagination of our pursuit to free the fairy. Any amount of dolls, trains, drummers or teddy bears could never compensate for what was so complete and mesmerizing. When we had nothing to do and papa wanted to have his own time to relax we were asked to prepare a detailed list of items and people which kept us engaged for hours. We even discussed the list with the guests pouring in the house and could never comprehend the bewildered look on their faces. I have never been to the Himalayas and I am 16 now. This world of reality tells me that the fairy does not exist but I am not yet convinced. As I grew up, the world around me made me skeptic of what I had learnt till now. They pulled me towards what living in a society was and my father drew me towards his fairyland. We had heard this tale for years and had got so habituated to it that any amount of sensibility could never overshadow it. He wanted us to be children forever. Whenever I questioned his tales and tried to reason them he did not like it for they were his charming secrets and he would not share them. Just one morning when we got up rubbing our eyes, we were brought to a sudden alertness when papa told us that last night a golden chariot of a dwarf called Sevender had landed on our roof. He told us that it was driven by seven swans and that Sevender dwarf was short and fair in a blue frock. He had green eyes, tiny feet and golden hair. He told us that the chariot flew away when a black cat that often haunted our house for food had tried to attack one of the swans. We hated that cat then onwards. My sister continued to chase her with slippers in her hands, till the poor black creature, the innocent convict, preferred to work hard and live on mice rather than opt for the occasional milky treat that she could earlier afford.
My father's stories were so alive that he never gave us a chance to disbelieve what he had said and even today he speaks nothing but the truth. One may call this the art of convincing but I still dream of fairies and dragons. I can still see before my eyes the river of fire and the parrot with the red ring around its neck which contained the soul of the dragon. When my father spoke, we listened intently not just believing but affirming every word he had said. His face would light up when we suggested some additions in the list and the twinkle in his eyes was the gleam of truth. Today I pray that may no child be devoid of this for it is a feeling of pure joy. I still have few of those lists with myself.