Of Christmas, sandwich spread and solitude

Eleven days to Christmas! :)

It's that time of the year again - fairy lights, holly and mistletoe, cottonwool snow and tinsel. Tree ornaments glinting merrily in candlelight and warm, reassuringly sonorous brass bells. Candles that burn all night and faith that insists on re-asserting itself. Plum cake! A rotund, red-faced Santa who shakes his belly like a bowlful of jelly. Ho ho ho!

Christmas makes me think of chapels with choirs singing in perfect co-ordination. It makes me think of wreaths secured with ribbons, and of poinsettias in vases. Christmas is about carols at midnight, and the most vibrant shades of red and green the imagination can conjure. It is about believing, even at 23, that I will find something in my stocking on Christmas morning. :) It is about the beautiful message in Dickens' A Christmas Carol (I end up re-reading this book every Christmas, somehow). It is about decorated trees and lots of streamers in every store window. I have never really been sold on bling...but I can never have too much tinsel on Christmas. I can't get enough of the warm, spicy smell of pine cones. I can stare endlessly at a little church with light streaming out of its windows; and sit for hours inside cathedrals. Christmas is probably one of the coldest days of the year meteorologically - and the warmest in every other way imaginable. Why do I love Christmas so much? Because everything about it is about giving...and about belief. On Christmas, you believe.

Of course, the fact that it is just the beginning of a week of festivities and anticipation is the icing on the (plum) cake. :D

Talking of warmth and belonging, there's something incredibly wholesome about the friendships that spring up amongst an assortment of people thrown together by chance. Friendships that are cemented over late-night chats over everything under the sun; study sessions that, surprisingly, often work out as planned; meals had together - at conventional mealtimes and otherwise; heartbreak and tears that stand a very bleak chance against comforting by buddies; laughter and shared inside jokes and running gags that only the aforementioned assortment of people knows about; tiffs with and without rhyme and reason - and the way they melt away so soon, nobody knows or cares what they were about. Friendships that go beyond the ambit of the ordinary and become relationships. Bonds that, delved into, would reveal intuitive understanding, shared confidences, bars of chocolate and jars of sandwich spread, and the blessed security of the knowledge that things will definitely start looking up once you get back to the gang.

I have, on different occasions, celebrated Christmas alone, and with friends and family. This time, it will be with family. I'll miss the enormous wreath outside my school principal's residence, though, and the sight of lights twinkling within and outside the college chapel (and I can't ever forget Dr. Wilson's Christmas parties!). And I'll miss the impromptu Christmas bashes thrown in the hostel, when our supplies included five bottles of Coke, one big eggless cake, and multiple packs of Maggi. Ah well, we can't have it all.

Except that sometimes we do...and Christmas is one of those times when we should thank our lucky stars for it.

Merry Christmas, World...Happy Holidays! :) Ho ho ho!

P.S. This post is dedicated to all the people I have ever celebrated Christmas with.

P.P.S. This, Blogger tells me, is my 99th post. I like the sound of that! Maybe my New Year post will be my 100th! That would be doubly nice. :) :)

Picture Book

On most days, I'm a rubber duck. The sort you find in children's bathtubs. Yellow and tubby and cheerful and incredibly, annoyingly unwilling to stay under for too long. That's not resilience, much as I would like to think it is. It amounts to resilience, maybe, but it's not the original thing. It's just a constitutional incapability to remain in one state for too long. Sooner or later, I'll bob out and float away to some other corner of the tub. When I get fed up of being on the surface of the water, I'll duck down to see what it's like among the suds. And when I've had too much of the tub altogether, I'll tip myself off the edge, land in the laundry basket, and go and see how things are by the washing machine.

On some days, though, I'm a stress-ball. Willy-nilly, I mould myself to the moods of the person holding me. If they're mad at the world, I start to feel a little mad too. If they are exhausted and don't have the energy to hold a stress-ball properly, I tumble out of their grip and find myself lying somewhere under the couch. It's dank and musty and, frankly, I hate it.

And on other, different days, I'm a seashell in a trinket box. A lot like the thousands of others on the beach and in the ocean, but with my own unique markings. I'll probably chip if you're bent upon getting me to crack, but then, I got here in the first place because I survived the ravages of the ocean, so maybe I'm not as fragile as you think I am - or, more importantly, as I think I am.

And sometimes, I'm a random blogger, talking about children's toys and crustaceans' shells.

Image Courtesy: Google Images

"This can't be happening! Undo. UNDO!"

So I wrote a long, long post – about three pages, if not more - about my love of travelling and why I find train journeys particularly entertaining. I rambled about how we live slices of different lives as we travel through the country from one city to another. I talked about the joys of being address-less and unreachable. I rattled on about how humanity is at its quirkiest, idiosyncratic best when 72 random people are thrown together for 10-odd hours, sometimes more. And I wrote and wrote and wrote. And because I am compulsively neat and organized and a darned perfectionist, I had to justify the alignment of the paragraphs. Of course I did. How else could I rest easy? So I selected all the text, and then Murphy decided he needed entertainment, so my finger slipped and hit the spacebar.

And Blogger, which usually spends about a minute thinking things through when I want to save my work, promptly, efficiently went ahead on its own, and saved a draft that contained nothing. Not even a label.

If I didn't write about this, at least, I'd never get any sleep tonight. So think about me while I'm away - I'm going home for a few weeks :) - and I'll spend some time on the train thinking about the post that almost got published.

Between Lives - II

Blink.

She was standing outside a shrine in the midst of towering mountains. Something that looked suspiciously, wonderfully like snow lay in haphazard patterns on the slopes. All around her, people huddled under blankets rented at a hundred rupees a night. The air was thick with smoke from wood fires, the crisp fragrance of pine cones, mild wisps of incense coming from the direction of the shrine and the chants of a million shloks. She had never felt this way before...utterly calm, completely at peace. She closed her eyes, breathed in the night air. A drop of something cool and wet dripped gently onto her cheek. Rain? Dew? A teardrop? Who knew? She stretched her arms wide, trying to hug the universe, the mountains and everything in between. Her fingers brushed a passer-by, startling him into exclamation. She smiled, a little embarrassed, a little apologetic, and inexplicably free. She would come here again. She would.

Blink.

The monastery did look out of reach. No, out of bounds. But that was not because it was situated right at the peak of one of the highest hills in the region. The trek, she could manage. She enjoyed the rush of thrill and peril that a trek gave her. No, it wasn't the height. It was the peace. The way the monastery was completely at home amid the fourteen shades of green - she could see at least that many from where she stood - on the hillside. Beyond it all, the sky was the colour of a baby's eyes. There was something about the monastery that whispered absolute peace and pure simplicity - the simplest sort, the most difficult to find. She knew she would feel welcomed when she stepped in. She only wondered if she deserved the peace. Well, there was only one way to find out. Flinging her satchel over her shoulder, she began the trek. And every time she faltered or hesitated, every time she felt she had lost her way, she would accidentally glimpse the glint of sunlight off the ancient brass bell over the door, or the vivid red and yellow of the bunting against the emerald of the mountainside. She knew she was meant to go there. She knew.

Blink.

She had been here before. She had been here so many times, she had lost count. She knew the pale blue and mild purple of the mountains. She knew the tiny shack at the beginning of the trail. The wizened little man there, who sold tea for six rupees a cup (milk and fuel were hard to come by, as he often explained in defence of his prices) also insisted on selling her a ticket. She couldn't get there without a ticket, he warned her. She wouldn't be allowed in. She wondered which place he was talking about...but she never wondered too hard, because she knew, just knew, that she would get there in due course, ticket or no ticket. Sometimes, she gave him a hundred-rupee note in exchange for a crumpled square of paper with illegible writing on it, just to humour him. At other times, she would head on without bothering to reason or haggle. She knew of the lake at the centre of the mountains. Deep, blue and placid, the lake could only be reached via a steep precipice whose nuances she sometimes found herself familiar with, and at other times regarded with vague dread. And she knew she would have to wait at the ledge for the others to catch up. So she waited.

Blink.

She looked down the ravine and into a page out of Sleeping Beauty. The castle rose out of the dense green foliage - the densest she had ever seen - its turrets gleaming in the moonlight. Tall, arched gateways and curving stairwells. It ought to have seemed sinister, she supposed, but it had too much of the touch of the fairy-tale. Parts of it protruded from the leafy lushness of the valley, and the remainder played hide-and-seek. Even from the edge of the ravine, it was difficult to miss the marble smoothness of the walls. Somewhere close, a waterfall gushed down the slopes and snaked past the castle, disappearing into nothingness beyond. Suspended over it all was an eerily perfect, buttery moon, bathing - literally bathing - the scene in shimmering, creamy silver. She wondered how much of it was fact, and how much she should credit her imagination with. All fact? All imagination? She wondered.

Blink.

She closed her eyes, opened them and closed them again. Life, as they knew it, was waiting to be resumed. Life, as she knew it, was busy weaving mysteries. It scared and awed and thrilled her. She couldn't wait to see what it was. Meanwhile, she continued to live life as they knew it. She lived.

Blink.

She smiled.

A Question Paper Called Life

"If you've written all you can in an essay during your exam, and can't think of anything further", my favourite teacher in school, Mrs. Moss, used to say, "move on! Don't just sit there waiting for divine inspiration! There are other answers to be written!"

Advice that I took seriously. It was difficult not to, given how animated she became whenever she talked - whether it was about history, literature, life or just general examination advice. Her eyes would sparkle with enthusiasm and genuine love for what she did, her hands did some explaining of their own...and her smile was one of the loveliest I had ever known. It still is. When Mrs. Moss taught you, she played Cupid between you and the subject...and you fell for it for life.

Coming back to moving on instead of sitting around waiting for divine inspiration, well, that's a great approach to life. When you've done all you can about something and cannot think of anything further, no matter how hard you push your gray cells - who knows, it is time to move on. It made a lot of sense to me back then. The question would read, "What is your stand in the Nature v Nurture debate? Elaborate with special reference to Caliban in The Tempest." And even when you're as obsessed as I am with literature and its layers of meaning, there's only so much that you can think of when you are asked to pen your thoughts within, ideally, 20 minutes, for 12 marks. I could argue this all day with a friend...but put me in an exam hall, with a clock tick-tocking away at eye-level and three unattempted questions and forty remaining minutes staring me in the face...and you'd have a literature-loving, well-prepared twelfth-grader grappling with an impossible mix of surfeit and spacing-out.

It still makes sense, though, doesn't it? For every crisis, every decision and every situation that life hurls at us with its mercilessly regular playfulness, we fall back on what we know already; we rummage for past experience, wisdom, knowledge or plain facts and figures that can help us make a decision or find a solution. Sometimes, we have the luxury of thinking our decisions through. More often than not, we improvise and hope for the best. On other occasions, without a single clue about what we're writing, we fill seven pages. All the time, we're hoping we will fetch ourselves a 12/12. When we know the answer isn't so great, we hope for a 7 or an 8. And there are still three answers to write, and only 40 minutes to go.

But it always works out in the end. In fact, it works out better than you imagined. But for that, you've got to complete the paper. And to complete the paper, you've got to move on once you have written all that you can in an essay. No use sitting around waiting for divine inspiration, as Mrs. Moss put it. There are other answers to be written.

Conversations with Me

Why the dolour, Murphy asks.
I'm hard at work on a million tasks.
Try some more, he says, just focus,
while I perform some hocus pocus.

Your mumbo jumbo, I tell him
and all your crazy vigour and vim,
and all the ideas with which you're toying
are a waste of time, and quite annoying.

He takes offence, walks away in a huff;
pouts, looks mournful, tries acting tough.
Then he yields helplessly to habit -
starts loping around like a li'l jackrabbit.

You waste time yourself, he says with a smirk.
At least I never ignore my work.
My laws, they're sensible and terse -
and look at you, writing rubbish verse!

Your antics, I say, with increasing asperity
are nothing but heirlooms for lame posterity.
You have such a way of goofing up -
causing unwarranted slips 'twixt lip and cup.

And your prose, he goes on, unheeding;
now, that's hardly worth any reading.
Beg pard'n- he twirls daintily on his toes -
you're boring, stupid and verbose.

That'll be all. And I firmly rise.
He looks up with innocent eyes -
Did I do somethin' to tick you off?
Oh yes, I say, I've had enough.

You'll miss me, he insists, as I shove him out.
Oh no I won't, I hear me shout.
Why don't you get lost in the wilderness ,
and spare me all the extra stress?

I return to spinning random tales,
but the Muses elude me. When all else fails,
I stare in dismay at my efforts...
he's right - and this is rubbish verse.

I hear a chuckle, and an illusion crack.
Dear old Murphy is, obviously, back.
Go write tosh. He's warm, indulgent.
I'll render the rambling redundant.

Step back, take a look.

Why is there such a blue pall over my blog? I need to do some serious shaking-up of the self!

All I Ask

I'll believe with all my heart

till I break it believing;

and then I'll believe some more.

I'll keep all the faith

I can keep, and then some -

I'll keep it like never before.

I'll give it all I have

and do all I can,

and fulfil every arduous task...

I'll walk as far as it takes -

sunshine and rain don't matter

So long as I know where I'm headed.

I'll fight all the fears;

be as brave as I can

and face every demon I've dreaded.

I don't mind waiting

forever and for always.

A promise is all I ask.