Of Closed Chapters and Open Endings

This is my last post here, on Thought Experiments. My thought experiments have been my sanctum, my refuge, my shell, my window and my bridge. And they deserve better closure than being abandoned at random. But what with logistics and logic getting in the way, abandonment is exactly what they've been relegated to these last few weeks, and the future doesn't look too promising either. So this is one last post from Crossworder, just to say goodbye. It was wonderful knowing you, World! I'll see you later, hopefully. Where, though, is the question.

All in good time. :)

A little lost, a little incomplete.

I feel like I left a part of myself behind. And it will always remain right there, where I left it, even as I travel new roads and walk, stumble, grow and learn afresh, the way life is meant to be lived.

I lost my heart to the city. It's the kind of thing you can't really help doing, and can't really undo.

Leaving Home

There's so much I want to say right now...which is why this isn't going to be a long post. I just had to put this in here, though, because it marks an inflexion point of sorts.

This is my last night in Delhi.

Yes, I know I'll probably spend several days, even years (who knows?) here some time in the future. But it won't be the same. It will be good, of course.

But this has been special. It's been a very special six years that nothing can come even close to approximating. Tonight is the end of a phase.

So much has changed...and so much set to change. It leaves me breathless just to think about it. Who would have thought?

Who would have thought that whatever I was six years ago would turn into whatever I am now, for better or for worse? Who would have thought that life and its geography would change altogether?

My last 10 hours here. And a lifetime of lessons, loves and memories. No, there's no way this can be a long post.

Till next time, then.

Of Money and a Muddled Memory

...and hello to you!

What have you been up to all this while? How are things?

Me, I've had a very eventful two weeks here. Here I am, two papers away from a postgraduation degree...and tentatively about to begin another trip, a new one entirely. And this evening, with the latest Mani Ratnam-Gulzar-Rahman masterpiece in the background, I am going to write about a few things.

Here's a revelation: I can actually understand Finance!

(If you're wondering why that is a revelation, well...Hi, I'm Crossworder. Nice meeting you!)

Getting back to the point, I discovered yesterday, to my utter astonishment, delight and alarm, that I am actually capable of making sense of all those concepts and calculations. Nothing very fancy or complicated, you understand, just basic Finance. But it stunned me to find myself following all of it last evening. Of course, one has to take into account the fact that I had a paper this afternoon, and I am one of those oddballs who perform best under pressure. Maybe it wasn't me, just the exam looming large. But, for a change, it made sense.

Does that mean I had a good Finance paper, then?

Nope.

I went a little mad during the paper. The first five minutes, I thought I could answer all the questions pat. Then, euphoria gave way to reason, and I picked my five questions and began the paper.

Ten minutes later, everything began to slip away.

Formulae rearranged themselves in my head. Capital structure blended itself inexorably into cash management. Theories and their assumptions and propositions melted into an unidentifiable mass.

No problem, I thought confidently, ignoring the ominous cackle somewhere in my head. Can't do these questions, will do the others. I know all of this.

No, I didn't. Not any more.

So I took a deep breath and sprinted out for a glass of water, the whole classroom's eyes following me. If they had all chorused, "What's with you?", I couldn't have heard it any clearer. Nobody voluntarily leaves the room during a paper like this. But I was suddenly thirsty, and it wasn't helping my convoluted thought processes any.

To cut a long story short, I did finish the paper. Was it good? No. Was it bad? I'll have to say, not very. Where the formulae and my memory were being uncooperative, I simply applied some homespun logic and doggedly got to the answer somehow. Not bad. Only, I'm not sure it was the right answer.

What next, do I hear you ask?

Why, Marketing, of course! I can't wait to get started. :)

Mellow Fruitfulness :)

It is a beautiful, beautiful day. The afternoon was pure poetry...and now, early evening, it is all I can do to prepare for a paper on Strategy tomorrow without running out for a walk on the Ridge. Just thinking about the Ridge in this weather makes me want to throw everything aside and take off. The sky is clear and blue; there's a very soothing, cool (yes, cool!) breeze blowing; the world is bathed in mellow golden light; everything is just...perfect. Almost too good to be true. Honestly, this weather begs a walk. Know what, I think I'll give Strategy a break.

:)

p.s. If this weather makes me want to borrow Keats' words, just how beautiful must the English autumn have been, to inspire them in the first place? Sigh.

Image courtesy Google Images

What I'll Miss About Delhi - Part I

How's this for absolute randomness: In spite of wanting to do some writing, I just didn't feel inspired enough to come and post a proper entry here in days. Now, out of the blue (quite literally!), just as I made a conscious decision to return to my hermit crab ways for a bit, there's a volley of posts and I'm seized with an overwhelming urgency to write about all that I'm thinking of. Life, I tell you. :)

Anyway, it rained today - almost. Actually, it did...but it didn't last long enough for anything - not to offer any respite from the heat, not to permit at least one rain dance, not even for the earth to get thoroughly soaked and quenched. Instead, it has left everything in a limbo of sorts. The leaves are undecidedly wet and dewy; the sun is drying itself off before it returns to work; the air is still choosing between dragon breaths and minty freshness, droplets and vapour almost visibly suspended in the atmosphere. Somwhere, I'm sure, a paper-boat is lying half-folded, and a family of sparrows debating the wisdom of venturing out once again today.

But it was good, even if it lasted only ten minutes. The world does look freshly-laundered. :)

Walking back from the department this evening, I couldn't take my eyes off the riot of colours that the trees always become at this time of year. Every conceivable shade of every imaginable colour. It was with a pang that I realised that I don't quite know when I'll set eyes on all this beauty again, after a few weeks. Yes, I'm glad I'm leaving Delhi, and hopeful that it will be a year or two, at least, before I return. But the fact is, I've spent six formative, very eventful, memorable years in this city...and I love it (which is why I'm looking forward to going away for a bit...but haven't I written enough about that already? :)...

...and now, in no particular order, here are the things I will miss about Delhi, and the University in particular. I know I'll never manage an exhaustive list on this one...but here's an attempt:

1. The greenery. There's no two ways about it...there could be trees and vegetation galore in other cities, but it won't be the same. It's lush, soothing...and very, very beautiful.

2. The history. The city breathes it. It's grand and old and hoary and proud...and in many ways, it deserves to be. And this isn't just about the Jama Masjid or the Red Fort...it's also about all the little alleys and broad avenues, old localities and older names.

3. The freedom. It's the Capital. There are all kinds of people here, from every place imaginable. And they're all welcome to stay, explore the place, study, make a living...just be, because no one owns the place, really. Delhi will embrace you, no questions asked. And that is its biggest beauty.

4. Haanji. The all-purpose magic word.

5. The food! While I will have to admit that my experiences here are solely responsible for what now seems to be a lifetime's worth of aversion to rajma and dal makhani, I will miss all the other food. Period. Delhi loves its food, both the street and the exotic variety...and there's "planty of it, ji". :)

6. The bookstores - and Daryaganj. The bibliophiles' paradise. Enough said.

7. The Delhi Metro. I was thrilled when it began running from Vishwa Vidyalaya to Kashmere Gate (yes, I was here that long ago :), have consistently counted it amongst my biggest blessings in this city, and appreciated it even more fell even more thoroughly in love with it after a two-week brush with the Calcutta Metro. The crowds may have seen an exponential increase, and the legendary precision of timing may have taken a small beating...but my gratefulness and affection will remain an incontrovertible truth.

8. Summers and winters. Six of each, and I know I'll handle any kind of weather, anywhere. But I doubt I'll find as feisty and authentic a summer, and as poetic and picture-perfect a winter in another part of the world.

9. This strange mix of laid-back luxury and total chaos that this city is capable of. It's a living, breathing mass of contradictions, in this way, and in many others. I'll probably go into that later.

There's more to come. This list is incomplete. It feels incomplete to me. Next, the University.

QED

This weekend has been a weekend of conversations, memories and some serious thinking. It didn't just rain, it poured - in the best sense of the term. Some wonderful things happened - as sweet and touching as they were unexpected. And, as I was telling a friend a little while ago, this is probably the Universe telling me that it isn't such a bad life yet. :)

Deep breath. Broad grin. Big whoop and jump. Yay! :)

About another Gandalf :)

Sometimes, when the wanderer in me takes over, I find myself in one of those frames of mind where I'm more than willing to leave the entire world behind and take a trip on my own, even if all of it is inside my head. If I could take only one thing from this world on these jaunts, though, it would have to be Gulzar's poetry. And if a benevolent genie materialised before my eyes and asked me to name a wish, I would ask to be given a mind like Gulzar's.

I have talked about my love for his poetry, and where it comes from, before. The love of words runs in the family, but in being completely besotted with Gulzar's poetry, I take after my father. Sometimes, it takes my breath away to see how simply he states the most convoluted truths, how perfect his poetry is. And then I wonder just how intelligent, original, eccentric, sensitive, quirky, perceptive, playful, innocently irreverent, whimsical, imaginative and, above all, free, must the mind be that yields those words. Everything just right, never more, never less. Gulzar's poetry is like the river - it has a mind and life of its own; it will be only itself and nothing else, and it will do so measuredly, only in amounts it deems fit. It makes me smile, forces me to think, keeps me going, makes me believe. And that is why I consider his poetry a religion greater than any sort of institutionalized entity.

Gulzar is always in his element, no matter what the subject. Wry humour, melancholic rumination, searing sadness, sprightly cheeriness, unbridled lunacy, haunting recollections, passionate love...there is no emotion he isn't capable of handling, no shade he is unfamiliar with.  It makes you wonder how deep his feelings must run, and how astute his knowledge of human nature is. This man is an artist: he effortlessly paints whole murals and tapestries in your head. The words flow with an ease that belies the all-encompassing imagination and originality fuelling his poetry. The best part of it all is the utter magic he can work with words. Regular, everyday words start talking, building landscapes, creating people. His poetry, as simple as it is rich, could be a self-contained course in Urdu or Punjabi literature. In an interview that I read years ago, he talked about an imaginary childhood friend of his. There weren't too many children in his village, he said, so he simply made up a little boy called Tunna, and talked to him constantly, worrying his parents into believing he needed help. Once he created Tunna, he said, he was never lonely again. Apparently, every time Gulzar needs inspiration, Tunna comes calling. No wonder there is a touch of the other-worldly in Gulzar's lyrics...that imaginary little guy must be quite an influence!

So here, in no particular order, are excerpts from some of the songs Gulzar has written. I have no idea how many I am going to list...but I do know that I couldn't enumerate all of them if I sat all night. Here's some sheer beauty:

Jal gaye jo dhoop mein toh, saaya ho gaye

Aasmaa ka koi kona odha, so gaye

Jo guzar jaati hai bas, usmein guzar karte hain...

Aaina dekhkar tasalli hui

Humko is ghar mein jaanta hai koi...

Nainon ki mat maniyo re, naino ki mat suniyo, naina thug lenge...

Nainon ki zubaan pe bharosa nahin aata, likhat-padhat na raseed na khaata...

Jiska bhi chehra dekha, andar se aur nikla,

Masoom sa kabootar, naacha to mor nikla...

Yaad hai, peepul ke jiske ghaney saaye thhey,

Humne gilehri ke jhoothe matar khaaye thhey,

Ye barkat un hazrat ki hai...

Hawaa chale, sar pe liye

Ambar ki thandi phulkariyaan

Hum hi zameen, hum aasmaan,

Khasmaanokhaaye baaki jahaan...

Jitne bhi taye karte gaye, badhte gaye ye faasle

Meelon se din chhod aaye, saalon si raat leke chale...

Hazaar raahein, mudke dekhi,

Kahin se koi sadaa na aayi

Badi vafaa se nibhayi tumne

Hamaari thodi-si bewafayi...

And, of course, the theme that Indian childhood has consistently identified with for the last 25 years...

Jungle-jungle baat chali hai, pata chala hai... :)

We have any number of people in the world who'll tell us that life is beautiful. Gulzar proves it. It's that simple, really. :)

Philosophy at Ungodly Hours - I

It's one of the curiosities of life, I think: the most important things - the ones we really cannot do without at the end of the day - aren't rocket science. And because they are not rocket science, we don't know what to do about them.

Because, honestly now, who can't handle rocket science? You may know all about it, or something, or nothing at all. But even if it is devilishly complicated, it can be done. In fact, the more complicated it is, the more fascinating it must be. Simply because there is a pattern to follow, and a result to expect. You can get someone to teach you, or you can go the trial-and-error way. What do you risk, at the very most...a damaged workstation, maybe, or a laboratory that exploded in on itself?

And then there is the irony that characterises our species: we long for simplicity, but we positively adore complication. Unless something wasn't achieved in a complex, convoluted way, it simply doesn't seem worth our while. We've collectively elevated complexity to a form of art...to the extent that we are either scared of simplicity, or we simply don't understand it. There's this old adage about how we are afraid of what we don't understand, so maybe we are scared of simplicity because we just don't comprehend it anymore...not unless an electronics major puts the term into its catchphrase as part of its marketing strategy. Then, we're willing to pay a pretty penny for stuff that will uncomplicate freezing, cooking, heating, cooling and driving for us. There, we appreciate the need for simplicity, but in the things that really matter, there's only one credo: The more complex, the better!

That bear hug you crave. That friend you haven't spoken to in months and miss terribly. The high you get from listening to your favourite song in the still of the night. That long, soul-searching walk that you promised yourself ten weeks ago, and have put off every evening since. The 'I'm sorry' that will set everything right between the two of you. The spur-of-the-moment trip to the bakery. That music you've been meaning to work on. That unfinished chapter from the book you intend to publish some day. The spontaneous call to a parent or a sibling, just because. The decision to watch your favourite old comedy on late night TV, and class tests the next day be damned. The freedom to laugh out loud, right from the pit of your stomach, till your sides hurt, the way Nature intended laughter to be. The thrill of a family outing. The decision to do not that, but this, because this the kind of work you like even if it pays less and won't seem as scintillating on LinkedIn. The acknowledgement that, at the end of the day, beneath all the degrees and designations and impressions and frequent flier IDs, we're just human, and we want to be happy in whichever way we define being happy.

And that is the irony of it all. For all these things to happen is a one-step process. Just go ahead and do it. But we are strange creatures. We may acknowledge what makes us happy, but we'll never just do it. We like to complicate our relationships with mindgames; our work with an unduly strong sense of competitiveness; our lifestyles with constant comparisons with the Joneses. We delight in the hassle of being too busy, and take pride in not being carefree enough to head out for a walk, a drive or an ice cream when we feel like it. No thought that isn't accompanied by a dozen ifs and buts and whys and wherefores is considered worthy of being thought at all. Unless we make excruciatingly detailed plans, nothing is worth doing; and unless we factor twenty highly improbable scenarios into our plans, they don't deserve to be labelled 'plans'. At the end of it all, when we've covered a long, circuitous route, we're convinced that we're happy...and, what's more, that we've earned the happiness! But when we're alone, or fighting insomnia at 3 a.m., for the fifth month in a row, we think about life and how complicated it is, we miss having someone to talk to, we miss being able to do whatever we please, and then we admit to ourselves that, well, we could, maybe, be happier, or more relaxed, or simply more at peace with ourselves, the past, the present and the future.

There's a reason why there is security in rocket science. A ruined workstation or exploded laboratory can be rebuilt. There's a pre-defined method for that.  But the problem with a weary mind, bruised spirit, broken heart, arms that are too tired to be raised for a hug, or a face that has forgotten how to break into a grin is that they defy all pre-existing methods and demand that we look within, take stock, and simply do what we really, really want to. And then, faced with demands from our own hearts and souls, we are at sea.

Now if being happier were rocket science, we could all do it. Because it would please us no end to be able to whip out a lab manual and a slide rule and begin a process that requires endless measurements and immense brainwork. We're all good at rocket science, really. But there's no rule book, no measuring instruments and graph sheets for what we truly want. It's pure simplicity, and nothing else besides. And so we're foxed in our pursuit of happiness. The wiser and/or more fortunate amongst us decide to sit and do some rethinking. The less fortunate simply decide that more complex rocket science is needed, and dash off on a fresh hunt. And all the while, the little things we're looking for are sitting put in a corner, staring at us in wide-eyed astonishment, genuinely puzzled at all the frenetic activity.

Just a Little Ranting...

It's been a while, hasn't it? And so much has happened - dissertation, unbalanced equations, assignments, random realizations, a million second thoughts, exultation, anxiety over scores of things, unbridled laughter, more assignments, sleep deprivation.

Why, then, am I up at 2.47 a.m., with nothing in particular to write about? Tonight, of all nights, when I finally have no deathly-urgent deadline that I must meet tomorrow, why am I not curled up in bed, dreaming of the mountains or of distant islands as I am wont to? In my experience, chronic sleep deprivation leads to chronic insomnia and vice versa, till you really can't tell one from the other and end up sitting up all night, thinking of nothing in particular, wanting to say something but not sure you want to talk.

I'm angry, I'll confess. Angry, and hurt and fed up. Feeling shortchanged is alright - at some point or another, I assume we've all been there (to those who haven't: I envy you) - but this has happened one time too many. Oh, I know I asked for it, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. :)

Now that it's out in the open, I feel a little foolish. Strangely enough, I am also sleepy.

On another plane...

Poltergeist. A ghost that goes about knocking things down and creating a racket.

I like the sound of that. :)

If I were a ghost, I would be a poltergeist. Not a spectre or a wraith. No offence, but spectres are sad, and wraiths are just plain spooky. Poltergeists sound like fun, though.

Many Happy Returns!

For being one of the primary factors in my discovery, at age 5, of my biggest passion,

For teaching me to empathise, to exult, to imagine,

For introducing me to the company I love the most,

For being my first favourite author,

Thank you, Hans Christian Andersen.

Happy Birthday. I hope you are in a world as vibrant and beautiful as those you painted in your books, where wishes come true, nothing is impossible, and everything is right in the end.

Epiphany

It was like this: I went down to the chemist's for toothpaste. When I went to make my payment, I saw this big jar sitting on the counter. It was filled with candy bars of some sort - candy bars in bright, electric pink wrapping, and a trippy cartoon on the label. I squinted through the plastic - these were Jam Treat biscuits coated in chocolate.

Second to scurrying into my room to solve the daily crossword without so much as changing out of my uniform when I got back from school every afternoon, Jam Treat biscuits were the biggest bone of contention between my mother and me. "Why must you have half a pack at one go?", Ma would say, annoyed and incredulous at the same time. "It isn't exactly healthy. And all that jam and sugar and cream! You'll lose all your teeth by the time you're fifteen." Then, turning to my father, "What's wrong with crackers? Or even Bourbon? Why must you get these?". My father would placate my mother, or distract her with stories of how he had run into an old colleague, and my sister and I would solemnly promise to eat no more than two biscuits a day.

Ma had a point, though. In the fifteen years since, I have had two root canal treatments and three times as many cavities filled. I still think it couldn't have been the Jam Treat biscuits. Not those.

Jam Treat. I hadn't had one of those in years now - not since I came to College. It's one of the countless changes 'growing up' made to me, I suppose. (It happens to everyone at some stage or the other. Or does it?) Somewhere along the way, an old habit fell away, like a dried leaf off a branch on a warm March afternoon. There were so many alterations - some bewildering, some through concerted effort, some stemming from the need to protect myself emotionally, and the rest involuntary, as complete as they were quiet - that I never had the time, till that afternoon, to acknowledge a small, insignificant change like the complete absence of jam biscuits from my life. Change, alteration, metamorphosis...so that I don't quite know who I am anymore, on most days. I'm on a constant trip of discovery. There have been more discoveries than usual these past few months. I assume there is some growing up left. It isn't always pleasant, but it isn't bad enough for me to start complaining yet.

So I stuck my hand in and pulled out a bar, holding back the urge to buy the whole jar. Back in my room, I eagerly tore the wrapping open.

Two biscuits sandwiching strawberry jam looked up at me woefully. The chocolate was all over the inside of the wrapping. So much for 'delicious chocolate biscuits with a jam filling, enrobed in chocolate'. The Indian summer can deflate the fanciest product description.

I bit into the biscuit, anticipating the thrill that accompanies the first taste of jam from between crisp biscuits.

It didn't come.

Instead, my first thought was, "This jam is too sweet. Why is the biscuit so hard? This isn't really worth even ten bucks. Who put this thing together?"

It made me sad. Of course, people can outgrow things, especially something like food, especially jam and biscuits and sugar. But I still found myself wondering what the world was coming to if I didn't love even jam biscuits anymore. I worked my way through the biscuit pensively.

The last crumb gone, I began scrunching up the wrapper to throw it into the bin. Molten chocolate rubbed onto my finger. Reflexively, I licked it off. It tasted good.

It still tasted good.

Tentatively, I wiped some more chocolate off the wrapper and tasted it again. A little more...and then, with a chortle, I found myself licking the chocolate off the electric pink wrapping.

It tasted of cocoa, innocence, childhood, and an all-guards-down, uncomplicated happiness.

24

Hmm. Decisive, completely sorted out and raring to go.

One hundred per cent. Well, almost. Rounding-off is a scientific mathematical practice.
(But didn't Lorenz say it's responsible for the butterfly effect?)

Oh wait, this is my 125th post.

Now I'm happy. :)

Moving On

It was on a March morning similar to this one that a classmate said something that I have, since, given more than occasional thought to. We were both standing outside the cafe, where we had bumped into each other at a late breakfast. With the Univs less than three weeks away, we had ended up talking mostly about this chapter and that reading. But on our way out, I stopped under the Dhaba tree, mesmerised, for the millionth time, by the sight of the Cross against a clear, blue sky. So perfect, it seemed unreal.

"You're going to miss College, aren't you?" he asked.

"Yes. Yes, I will." I replied, still overwhelmed by the enormity of the simple fact that I was about to end three years in three weeks.

"I will, too. But I'm glad I'm leaving now", he said, and I turned to look at him.

"You know it's time to leave when people and things that you have always liked begin to annoy you just a wee bit, don't you think?" he said, frowning absent-mindedly as he leafed through his notes, checking for a CED tute. Then he looked up. "Even for College, which I love so much. Especially for College, which I love so much."

We were friends, but not exactly bosom buddies. It was more a cordial acquaintance, a natural result of studying in the same class, living on the same campus and running into each other in the Dining Hall every now and then. Inevitably, we fell out of touch as we moved on and got busy with our lives over the years that ensued. But the closer I get to each finish, and the more I think of his words, the truer they seem to echo.

I'm at the end of several phases at once. I may not have loved every bit of it as much as I loved College, but I'm glad all this happened, I'm glad I learnt so much. But I'm also glad I'm leaving now.

I've rattled my brain about, turned it inside-out, and scoured every inch. No inspiration. Absolutely none. If you're looking for some place to wander to, Muses, right here would be wonderful. Thanks.

It pays. Or does it?

Now here's something that made me sit up and take notice. With a total of five years of economics behind me, I am, academically, considerably acquainted with the concept and the mechanics of taxation. There's a faint personal acquaintance, too - the sort engendered by eleven months of paying taxes and a week of running around like a headless chicken when it is time to file returns. And, of course, there's Marketing, the other love of my life. But this is the first time I have seen the two coming together, and to call the phenomenon merely interesting would definitely be an understatement.

The first thing we were taught about taxes was that there is no quid pro quo involved. Taxes are unilateral payments made by households and firms, which are meant for the government's coffers. That they form a substantial portion of the government's revenues goes without saying. And while it is implicit in Public Finance that proceeds from taxation are used for the benefit of the economy, no individual is entitled to ask for anything specific in return for the taxes he pays. That's what theory says, and that's exactly what is borne out - more emphatically than is needed, if you ask the average citizen - by the actions of the government.

So I'm sure we have all either been - or seen - the person who wonders exactly where his hard-earned money is going, every time he drives over a potholed road or glances at literacy or health-related data in journals and papers. There are ways of questioning the government about its measures and policies. But if Household A paid Rs 60,000 in taxes this financial year, they cannot go asking for benefits worth that amount, or even question the use of the funds.

Which is why I did a double-take when I first spotted a half-page ad in a national daily, reading "Have you paid your taxes yet? You pay - the country pays back!" Of course, there's absolutely no implication that there is any quid pro quo. But what is fascinating is the attempt to address the cynicism that has come to characterise the attitude of the average tax-payer, some of it justified, some not. There have been attempts and platitudes before...this one is a novelty simply because it has been put down in black and white. Positioning taxation as an activity with moral and patriotic appeal - that's a first! Undoubtedly, there are several reasons - the moral and patriotic included - why one should pay one's taxes. There is also, by corollary, an equal number of reasons why that money should be put to honest use by the exchequer.

That is what makes this campaign intriguing. One hopes to goodness that those who designed the campaign will also remember that the job isn't complete till the promised value is delivered. If, after a colossal exercise like this one - it must have cost them a pretty penny; guess where the money came from! - tax-payers don't get to see exactly how the country is "paying back", the campaign will backfire on a similar scale. Public memory, usually notoriously short, is not equally forgiving when money from its pockets is involved. One recalls a certain campaign that claimed India was shining. Appalling people with the enormous wastage of taxation money, it succeeded only in eroding goodwill away from the ruling coalition. So, yes, while it is great to be told that the country will pay back, some evidence that the promise is being kept will go a long way. Do I sound cynical? I'm afraid that's how I feel. :)

For the Love of Beans...

I fill a saucepan with water and set about looking for matches. There's no time for anything fancy today. Everything dumped into one big mug is how I'll have to have my coffee. I begin to tear open a sachet of dairy creamer. Something makes me pause midway.

It has been a while, hasn't it, since I had black coffee?

Black coffee. For a person who thinks in terms of pictures, there can't possibly be a more powerful stimulus to the imagination. The last three months of twelfth grade, I woke up to a steaming mug of black coffee every day. My aversion to milk was the stuff doctors' (and mothers') nightmares are made of. So mornings found me hunched at my desk, reading or doing the daily crossword, black coffee at my elbow. Months later, the beverage was to become a habit an addiction. If I didn't know this then, the kick I got out of sniffing at my mug every morning should have given me a hint.

The water begins to bubble. A quiet, familiar, comforting hum.

This is a sound I would know anywhere, this low humming of water being brought to a boil. It used to echo over the staircase in Allnutt South when I went to use the hot plate to make coffee in the middle of the night, or at two in the morning, when the entire block was silent. Coffee calmed me down, cheered me up, was the perfect accompaniment to Systems or Policy, made Micro II bearable, and was the best company I could ask for on breezy, rainy evenings, when all I wanted to do was to sit on the ledge of the verandah and stare at the sky.

The water bubbles louder, more insistently.

It makes me think, for some reason, of the rich, bitter black coffee in the white ceramic pots that sat on our breakfast tables in the College mess. If that didn't wake one up for an 8:40, nothing could. Because the marmalade was both sweet and tart in a way only marmalade can be, it accentuated the bitterness and strength of the coffee that I washed my toast down with. And I know I can tell that coffee apart from a million other brews any day.

There's something warm and homely about a good, old-fashioned cup of coffee made the traditional way, I think to myself as I take the pan off the flame.

The process of making it is as therapeutic as the beverage itself. Not that the 30-second method - set water to boil, empty sachet of instant coffee into mug, take now-boiling water and pour into mug, enjoy! - is a bad substitute. Vending machines - now those seemed like an insult to coffee.

An outrage, I thought, till I found myself employed 10 hours a day researching M&A transactions. Looking back, I realise I owe my sanity to the 8 cups of espresso I helped myself to from the dispenser in the pantry every day. I breakfasted on espresso practically every morning for about 10 months. It isn't the healthiest lifestyle option, but I was too young and always too hassled to know any better. By the time I left the place, though, I'd kicked the habit, coming down to two cups a day, refusing to allow myself to depend on anything that badly in the long run.

It's been a while, but the smell of espresso still automatically triggers a small attack of nerves - will I finish all that work before noon? Is that report error-free? Why isn't this godforsaken transaction making any sense to me?...you get the drift. :) And black coffee and economics are married to each other in my imagination; through eight years of association, and of one accompanying the other, I now instinctively think of demand curves, inflation and development (in that order) each time I smell black coffee. I suppose it will remain like this for a while, if not for the rest of my life. Truth be told, I hope it will.

I tear open my sachet of Nescafe, smiling at the memory of a kindred soul from College, whom I share a love of coffee, economics, EcoSoc, books and Asterix (among several other things :) with.

Ruch insists that Bru makes for better black coffee than Nescafe does. The coffee table in D-8 was always piled with ribbons of bright green, and the occupant of the room always more than willing to make giant mugs of soothing black coffee for friends going cross-eyed over the Phillips curve or Public Finance.

I stir the instant coffee into the water, all these images in my head coalescing into one glorious, earthy ripple as the smooth brown powder dissolves into a mugful of the best thing in the world.

The dairy creamer doesn't belong here. :)

Breaking Spells

When the veil has fallen
and the mists have cleared
there's nothing but disbelief;
endless, incredulous laughs.

Another new experience,
a new lesson learnt
another long recollection
for vacant, querulous hours.

Moment of Truth

Today, I have realised something. I have realised that I have become nothing, done nothing, achieved nothing in my 24 years, because I was powerless to do anything about that man on the road. Good upbringing, a degree in a social science from one of the country's most hallowed institutions, and another in Human Resources - and I couldn't help that man in the brown shirt, couldn't do anything about the humiliation he was being dealt so unfairly. That I wanted to is immaterial - I didn't; and so my good intentions didn't make a difference to his situation. I have failed, and I feel ashamed of myself.

It happened rather suddenly, at the juncture where Chhatra Marg turns right to become Bungalow Road. From about fifty metres away from that point, I only saw the road curving right, and the usual stream of traffic. The next second, a motorbike and a rick had collided at the turning. It wasn't, technically, a particularly ugly collision. The rick and the bike both fell on their sides. The bike-rider was a portly man - from a well-to-do background, if the sunlight glinting off his gold chain and expensive watch was any indication - and the rickshaw-walla a scruffy man in a brown shirt; fairly young, thirty maybe.

Our rick had drawn abreast of the site of the accident by now, and I could hear and see everything clearly. As was inevitable, a crowd gathered there in under five seconds. A couple of people helped the men up, and then the passers-by stood uncertainly on, looking undecidedly from one to the other. Honestly, I suppose I could say I'd seen the whole thing happening, and it really was impossible to say whose fault the collision was. And seeing as nobody and nothing was particularly damaged, I entertained, for half a second, the foolishly sanguine idea that they would dust themselves off, maybe shoot each other a couple of annoyed glares, and then go their separate ways. It didn't even occur to me that what followed was capable of happening.

The owner of the bike got up, reached over his bike, grabbed the rickwalla by the collar, and began a succession of blows, punches and slaps on the man's head, face and shoulders, shouting abuse after abuse of the filthiest variety in English, Hindi and Punjabi. Ten slaps, twelve, fifteen...I lost count when I realised, with a shock of disgust, that I was still on the rick and my rickwalla was slowly circling his way past the spot. "Ruko bhaiya", I said, digging money out of my bag and thrusting it at him as I leaned sideways to jump off the rick, already sticking an arm out in a reflexive but useless attempt at holding the violent man back.

"Nahin, Madam!", the rickwalla hissed at me, pushing my hand away, "yahaan mat utaro. Dekh nahin rahe ho yeh bheed? Aur us sahab ko? Aap rickshevaale ke liye kuch nahin kar paoge Madam. Chalo yahaan se. Aap khud bhi phasoge aur main bhi phasoonga."

His warning didn't make sense to me. Of course I could do something. I could talk sense into that man's head, pull his hand back. I could ask the others - now standing like so many statues, witnessing the incident with a fascination borne partly of horror, and partly of - this sickens me - entertainment, to help. I could do something to halt the mindless beating, the stream of profanity.

Or was I just another well-meaning, but entirely impotent, witness on a rick?

Maybe that is what I was. As my rickwalla pedalled furiously into Bungalow Road, I found myself turning around to stare at the two men. The rich man with the bike was still yanking the other guy by the hair, still delivering slaps and blows left, right and centre, still shouting things that made my blood boil. And this man in the brown shirt said not a word, not one word. His hands hanging limply at his sides, his eyes lowered and back stooped, he looked up at intervals only to stare contritely at his attacker. Apologising, as it were, for the accident that was, technically, nobody's fault; apologising also for having had the audacity to use the same road as his well-to-do fellow-human being; for his audacity in existing, in all his poverty and misery and lack of influence, in the same world as this other man, who, clearly, had the greater right - the only right -  over everything good that life and the world have to offer. The sunlight that had glinted off the rich man's gold chain now glinted off the wetness in the rickwalla's eyes, the one sign of protest by his body that he didn't have the power to suppress.

There was this man, this violent lunatic, beating this guy up. And there was this guy, submissively taking every blow, every cuss-word. And there was the crowd, watching silently. And there was me, on a rick, looking at all this from a steadily-increasing distance. It made me physically sick.

There was no point in going forward like this, so I asked to be dropped off then and there. Now at what he assumed was a safe distance from the site of the trouble, the rickwalla pocketed the fare and pushed off. I ran back to the spot. By the time I had elbowed my way into the middle of the circle, two of the posse of policemen who patrol North Campus had arrived there, too. It didn't take the crowd long to disperse after that. Both men were led away. I turned back and walked home.

And that is when I realised how completely and utterly I failed today. What great things have I any right to aspire to if I can't pull a hapless victim of road rage away from his attacker, whose sole right to attack stems from the fact that he is burly, knows enough English to be able to abuse in the language, and rides a Hero Honda? All my good intentions notwithstanding, how was I any different from the forty people who stood there watching everything in stony silence, the forty people I had stared at in shock, disgust and disappointment? Didn't I just let down every person and institution that has had any hand in the building of my values? I let that man down. I have never, in all my life, felt so angry, so helpless, so useless. It makes me want to cry, but I'm not sure I deserve the privilege of release.

What I learnt this Holi:

1. There is such a thing as too much good food. Yes.

2. There is, on the other hand, no such thing as playing 'a little' Holi. You either play or you don't.

3. A chubby, curly-haired eighteen-month-old dozing off in your lap, her fists clutching your sleeves - the biggest rush of affection on the planet.

4. If you are given to dancing in rage, do not do it on the staircase.

5. Wilde had a point. People are not to be classified into good or bad. They are either charming or tedious.

6. I have more willpower than I credit myself with. Hooray for me. :)

7. I have developed a propensity to talk in bullet-points. I'm going to have to tone it down.

Hope you had a great Holi, World! See you in a bit.

Method for Madness

It won't take a Holmes to see that I've been in a bit of a funk recently. And, of course, that I have made valiant efforts to pull myself out of it. How successful the attempts were is a story for another day. :)

"Now, young lady, one reason for the long face and the intensely crabby manner...and a categorical one, if you please."

"Eh? Reason? I'll give you reasons."

"Go ahead."

"It's like this", I pause to moisten my lips, and Sense can see that I am beginning to quail. "Like this", I pick up where I left off, only I have nowhere to go with my explanation. "I'm low and blue and disorganised and cluttered and thoroughly muddled", I rattle off defensively. Let's see if she can fault that. If you ask me, those are substantial reasons for as long a face as anyone can choose to make.

Sense is not impressed. It won't take a Holmes to see that either.

And that is how I find myself standing at my desk, pencil and Post-It in hand, ready to draw up a to-do list. Sense tells me four-fifths of the funk comes from being behind schedule on practically everything - stuff I'm supposed to do and extra stuff that I've taken on in fits of enthusiasm.

"It would help if you restricted hobbies to after you finish urgent, deadline-driven work", Sense says pointedly, glancing at my oil pastels and the three books I recently picked up.

"But I like these bet-..." Off her expression, I allow the protest to peter out. [What?! You wouldn't want to mess with her either, when she looks like that.]

"Right". I dutifully put my dissertation material and a couple of other books (which, in all fairness, deserve a lot more time than I have given them so far, seeing as how I took this up - it wasn't forced on me) on top of the desk, aligned neatly in the centre, one sharpened pencil, a new eraser and a blue ink pen lying beside them.

I tack the Post-Its onto my cupboard and determinedly put everything else away. Taking a deep breath, I laugh scornfully at the blues in my head. That'll show them! Congratulations, I smile beam at myself in the mirror.

Then I pull out a Wodehouse, and begin reading.

.

Pffrt.

Take a look. Take one look at the entries all over this page.

Blue, blue, blue. And then some.

I'm fed up already. I shall stop being blue.

:)

Bring out that geometry set.

Like a ball of blue wool unravelling. Or bits falling out of a mosaic. Why, in the name of all that is straight and simple, would this decide to happen now?

Questions, questions. Or a storm - make that several storms - in a teacup.

Maybe you could tell me why...

1. ...our firmest resolve is only as strong as we are in our greatest moment of weakness.

2. ...we think twice before talking to a friend sometimes, but don't hesitate to trust a total stranger.

3. ...we secretly believe in things that we're cynical about aloud.

4. ...I'm here thinking profound thoughts when I have a paper I must necessarily hand in tomorrow, waiting to be begun.

5. ...all wisdom comes three days too late.

6. ...we feel gelatinized, as it were, somewhere between the past and the future, even when we're actively living the present.

7. ...there's a disconnect.

8. ...and it happens when it is least convenient.

9. ...writing a letter long-hand still feels more satisfying than typing an email or writing on somebody's wall (or pillar, or post. Whatever.)

10. ...we're reluctant to admit to feelings, half-afraid that acknowledging them will make them more important than they already are. Or even that they'll actually come true. Makes sense for things we fear, perhaps. But for things we wish for...?

11. ...with every new person we meet, and every addition to the list of networking sites we're members of, alone-ness becomes more accentuated, and solitude more precious.

12. ...people think it is sacrilege to disturb someone playing a videogame, but don't think twice before barging in on someone reading or taking a solitary walk.

13. ...we come away feeling like we didn't talk about all that we wanted to, from people we like spending time with.

14. ...parallel realities - that of the head and that of the world - fall into synchronization sometimes. They shouldn't. It throws things out of gear.

15. ...we overanalyse.

Incompleteness

A series of fractions will sum it up the easiest.
Question marks, half-measures
and the odd, half-bright spark.

A systematic sequence of etcs and et als;
one ellipsis after another,
everything in an untiring loop.

Like a mathematical derivation gone awry midway
and refusing to make sense
in spite of covert adjustments.

Or an essay that winds its tedious way around the point,
or along it, or beyond, or close
without ever really getting to it.

One picks up the threads easily enough, doesn't one?
But before they can be woven in
they usually tend to run out.

Dancing in the rain...

...is reclamation of the self.

About Them

I'm a child of the seasons. The elements are my best friends.

The rain, and the rain alone, knows all my secrets. It gathers in my palm and slips out of my fingers, tinkling like a musical note. It runs playfully down my nose and bounces off my cheeks. It tickles the soles of my feet as I stomp recklessly, deliberately into puddles. It comes when it wants to, never mind the calendar - an unpredictability that I adore. It laughs and whispers and cleanses, keeps time as I dance in uncompromised freedom. It leaves me whole and alive.

The wind shares my wanderlust. It unravels memories and makes promises. It throws windows open and shut. It blows away the dust and brings stray petals and blades of grass in. The wind is chatty and communicative. It reads my mind and cackles in delight at foolish ideas, reprimands me when I'm stupid, sighs meditatively at profundity, and has made a ritual out of its goodbye hugs.

The sky is my canvas, my very own book, my own silver screen. It indulges my fancies and whims, allowing me to trace faces, trees and giant koalas among its clouds, to wink back cheekily at the stars that peer out every night. On stormy days, when enormous blue-grey and black clouds billow by, it hurries them along sometimes, so that the moon is visible to me. And it remains there, faithful to its promise as only a best buddy can be, blue and endless and full of love.

The sun knows its way around my moods. It gets ever so slightly warmer when I'm shivering; just a teeny bit milder when I am hot and bothered. It plays tricks on me and gets away with all of them, because it knows it is one of my weaknesses. Trust a best pal to be so affectionately annoying. I don't remember ever having wished for anything that the sun didn't grant. I don't know of anyone else who blends so much power with such gentleness.

And the earth...the earth grounds me, allows me to spread my roots even as it encourages me to explore. It is warm and loving and stable. It squishes between my toes when the rain comes visiting...the rain lingers on in that invigorating smell long after it has gone. It blows playfully into my hair when the breeze drops in. It takes inordinate delight in baking under the sun and making it impossible for me to move barefoot in my own garden. It allows me to nestle, to roam free.

And that is why this time of the year, when my best friends congregate as one season gives way to another, owns me completely. I belong to it, no questions asked. I belong to the musky mornings, the golden afternoons and the coffee-and-cinnamon-flavoured evenings. To the fresh green leaves making a tentative appearance on every branch, and as much to the golden-brown ones underfoot. To the sky, still choosing between baby-blue and slate. To spring, poking its head around the door, almost as if to ask, Is it time yet? And to winter, packing up after an especially fierce visit. To the summer that has probably begun to stir, the monsoon that isn't due for another four months, and the autumn that knows it can afford to rest the easiest.

If it were physically possible, I would give them all a gigantic bear hug.

Blended. Molten.

How is this blue so blue?

I'm on a palette, somewhere between green and  turquoise in a whirlpool of no particular colour. So I can take my pick. I can choose to be passionate magenta dabbed with yellow. Or earthy brown with a hint of cyan. I stretch my hand and dip a hesitant finger into the vortex, spinning all the colours just a wee bit more. Like ribbons and bunting bundled into old brown bags after a fete. A lone wisp of red escapes the blending, falls out of the bundle and onto the freshly-mowed lawn, startling a millipede into faster, more fluid movement.

Grass, trees, roads, people, traffic. A page in a book. A roll of film.

A blur.

Twenty-four.

The paint is creamy - soft, multi-hued ripples collapsing in on themselves, melting into one gigantic drop of being.

Voices meld into each other, competing to be heard; some striving to hide. They coalesce into one confused babble - the opening bars of Hey There Delilah, a semi-familiar 'Hey!', echoes not entirely identifiable, and the click-tick-tock of a fan overhead. Voices and faces that match, and others that don't. And so there are two worlds operating in parallel timezones, in twin realities. Living, breathing, walking noisily, busily by. Finishing unfinished business. All of it in soft focus. Like sunshine filtering in through foliage.

Like creamy, multicoloured dollops of paint. Dollops that fall onto paper with a convincing plod. Plod. Like a raindrop on a leaf.

Tilting lazily towards the tip. Elongating to cover distances, shrinking back to move forward. Like quicksilver, or a snowflake. Dancing along serrated edges; a cascade or a shower, all in one drop. Off the leaf, into a puddle below, in a ripple that melts into one gigantic drop of being.

Twenty-four.

Strange. The ripples swirl and disappear. Like mildly acrid wisps of smoke from a candle just blown out. Allowed to drip into a bowl of water, the freshly molten wax shows up as miniature pearls. Creamy white, convex, flawless.

Flawless, unending, perfect, clear. Just the same as an April sky. Or the colour of a baby's eyes. Like rivers and oceans in kindergarten finger-paintings. Like bell-shaped Majorelle flowers that are hard to tell from butterflies.

How is this blue so blue?

I lift my finger out of the palette and rub the paint into my palm. Decidedly smudged. No colour in particular. Then I dip my finger into the wayward wisp of red and dab on some of that, too.

Twenty-four.

"Yes, Ma'am". I sit up straight.

Slow & Sudden

You take a while
getting accustomed to.
Strange,
As familiar

As you are new.
Teasing. Throwing challenges
My way.
Daring me, gently

To get used to you.
I meet your eye;
Wonder
If I chose you, or

The converse is true.
Like black coffee,
Bitter chocolate,
And ungodly hours.

Tentativeness that
Melts into habit
Halfway
To eternal addiction.

Damned if I let you
Grow on me
Unfettered.
Damned if I don't.

Before I know it, you are
An acquired taste.

Serendipity

One doesn't get to watch much TV these days. What with one thing and another, television isn't really high on my list of things to do. But am I glad I was sitting in front of the TV with my mug of coffee this evening! I came across one of the most effective commercials I have seen in a long, long while.

This one is for the Bajaj Discover DTS Si. Now, I don't know the first thing about bikes, but the basic premise of the ad is that one litre of fuel will take you about a 100 km on this one. It has been positioned as the best way to 'discover India': apparently, it isn't just a bike - it is an experience, and a chance to experience.

A young couple sets off on their DTS Si, duly wearing helmets, with the woman carrying her handbag. As they ride deeper into the heart of what we soon realise is Maharashtra, the woman begins to enjoy the ride, albeit with city-bred caution. She is extra careful about her bag and their helmets, insisting on carrying them wherever they stop for a rest. Thirty seconds into the ad, they find themselves in a strange town...every house is sans doors! She enters one of these to ask for directions to the temple...and this is where we are told that at a distance of about a 100 km from Aurangabad - or one litre of fuel on the DTS Si - is Shani Shingnapur, where no house needs doors because the people believe they are protected by Shanidev [the equivalent of Saturn in the Hindu pantheon]. As the couple gets ready to enter the temple, this young lady finally lets go of all the extra caution, leaves the helmets on the bike, and runs into the temple smiling with faith - of more than one sort.

Brilliant concept. Exceptional execution...and truly unique positioning. There are ways of telling the target audience about the USP, and there are other ways...but this stands out because it builds trivia and the discovery of India into the concept. True to its name, the product promises to allow you to discover all that you didn't know about your own country. Take a bow, Lowe Lintas!

It's been a while now...this commercial served as a reminder of how much my first love - Marketing - still means to me. Maybe I should start watching more television. :)

Video courtesy YouTube

Smaller Fish

It's one of those Sundays. The kind I like once in a while, just to get myself back into that warm, familiar groove. I have nowhere I must go, nothing that must be done. Everything is optional. And I choose to give my room a thorough cleaning, finish a pile of laundry, pay some bills, sit and research a project, and then round the day off reading and munching on a bunch of bright red carrots I bought on my way back from college yesterday. I like carrots, especially when they are crisp and sweet.

But I digress. I'm talking about the kind of Sunday I like. This kind.

There's something reassuring about being able to finish laundry and all the tidying up...the things that ensure that some semblance of order finds its way into the next few days. It isn't really urgent - my room is neat and organised as a rule...and all the woollens and linen that I have just cheerfully dumped into that bucket full of Ezee could easily have waited at least another week. The shirt at the dry cleaners' can be picked up anytime till the 30th of this month. Airtel and Reliance won't, till the first week of February, feel the need to send me a not-so-subtle reminder of their bills.

And I could choose to do all this another day, but I'd rather do it now. It's fresh and sunny outdoors, with just a hint of breeze. It's the sort of time when  I know I will revel more than I usually do in the froth and bubbles and the smell of detergent on my hands; in the merry disorder that my room gets itself into when I am in the process of straightening things out good and proper. When I go to bed tonight, I'll have four things checked off a Post-It somewhere in my mind.

Also, I will have spent some time with myself in one of my favourite ways. :)

Maybe that's why it is so rewarding to finish these little odd jobs. Routine, which generally tends to get annoying in most things, brings comfort and familiarity in these small chores. I don't really have an explanation for it, except that every now and then, they lend my life some definition and purpose. Sometimes, right there in the moment, these little accomplishments make the bigger, fancier goals seem closer, more real. In good time, those will be achieved too...but for the moment, life is sorted out in finer detail.

And life laughs with you as you wipe a soap sud off your cheek, or when you misjudge spaces on your bookshelf and your dictionary falls back on you with an emphatic thud.

:)

Monkey Business

"Whoa! What? Wait! Wait!"

He took off, waving three A4 sheets in my face. Three sheets that I had scribbled furiously on since dawn, driven by the sort of urgent creativity only a deadline looming large can inspire.

My tutorial assignment on Foreign Trade in India between 1920 and 1945.

There was no escaping them in Residence - and in Allnutt South in particular. The backyard shared a wall with the Ridge, and Allnutt Gate opened onto it. Monkeys were not just a part of the general landscape. They were the landscape.

What a rotten, rotten way to begin the week.

The tute was already three days overdue. [Why else do you think I rose at 4 a.m. on a dewy October morning?]

The monkeys owned the place. No two ways about it. They would brachiate into the backyard with abandon, timing their entry with that of the first ray of sunlight. And then they occupied infested the trees, the grounds, the staircases and the corridors. In all fairness, they didn't do much to bother the Residents. Not much, if you didn't take into account the shrieks that rang through the block every time a girl suddenly found herself face-to-face with a grinning monkey around a corner, or the regularity with which T-shirts and dupattas went missing from clotheslines.

But a tute? What monkey wants a tute?

Come what may, that assignment had to be handed in that day. The next two days were University holidays, and for all the credits that the tute was going to fetch me any later than that Monday, I knew I might as well not bother finishing it.

It had taken me the better part of three hours, frenzied rummaging through my notes, and vast amounts of imagination to produce about 1200 words on the topic. Because it was so eminently an eleventh-hour job, I didn't have time for the draft I usually made before writing my assignments. It was okay, I thought, busily highlighting key points. The tute would go in today. That was all that mattered.

I unscrambled myself out of my armchair, yawned, stretched and breathed in the morning air. Fresh. Good. Now that the job was done, maybe I could take a nap before class began at 8.40. Sleep was catching up with me again. It is interesting to recall that I smiled as I thought that it had been a good idea to choose the verandah over the room to write my tute in. Because it was the last time I smiled that day.

And, of course, because I thought it was a good idea.

Every time you ran into a monkey in Allnutt South, you were guaranteed to be left wondering exactly how the creature managed to make you feel like an intruder in your own block, outside your own room - assuming, that is, that the panic at seeing those teeth bared in a rude sneer left any room in your head for wonder.

I left my tute, glasses and pencil on the window ledge, and went into my room for some water. When I stepped out, it took me a moment to register that the ledge looked different. Figures, I thought, still sleepy. The monkey hadn't been there when I had turned to go into my room.

The what?

All sleep fled.



What was a monkey doing here? And those sheets it was clutching couldn't be...they weren't...

"Whoa! What? Wait! Wait!"

He took off, waving three A4 sheets in my face. Three sheets that I had scribbled furiously on since dawn, driven by the sort of urgent creativity only a deadline looming large can inspire.

My tutorial assignment on Foreign Trade in India between 1920 and 1945.

Mothballed

Now, when I wrote last March about the winter gone by, remarking that it hadn't quite been the real thing, the season probably took it to heart.

Because this year, it seems eager to hell-bent on outdoing itself.

The sun appears and disappears at will. Fog appears - and does not disappear. Chilly winds go tearing down the streets at sixty miles an hour. Every time I uncap my little jar of Vaseline, I end up digging my finger into petrified petroleum jelly. And last evening, my roommate spent twenty minutes on the terrace, and returned to the room sporting a dewy halo around her curly brown head.

The first couple of times that the mercury dipped to (below?) record levels, the media took to prowling the streets and accosting already-harried passers-by with questions on how it feels to live in a cold, cold city like Delhi. Then, as the mercury stayed put where it had fallen, the microphone- and camera-wielding folk lost interest. At least we have been spared the chagrin of being reminded of our North Pole-esque circumstances on national television. Brr.

But I'm still in love with all you seasons, Winter, so, try as I might, I can't hate you.

Basant Panchami slipped by in a haze of fog and muted sunshine. Saraswati Puja. Pushpanjali, sarees, marigolds, camphor. A silent, fervent prayer to the deity of Knowledge and Music. A trip with friends to the Bengali School grounds at Civil Lines. The remainder of the day spent at the Book Fair at Pragati Maidan, or somewhere on campus.

This year, the prayer was the only part of it all that happened. Memories followed.

I have nothing to say...

...nothing, really.

I was talking about decisions and discipline a while ago. Well, they've been made. There is a semblance of order now...a rather tentative equilibrium. It's a start, at the very least.

Now that that is out of the way...

Ever had one of those moments when you've just known? No hard facts to sift through, nothing to work out...heck, not even enough time or the inclination to do any sorting...just the sudden, absolute, complete moment of clarity? When you know that you know?

No?

Oh come on!

I'll tell you about one of mine. It may sound silly, but it is important to me because it was my first instance of sudden, absolute clarity. My first I just know moment.

This happened in fifth grade, when we were learning to negotiate that minefield called algebra. There's something known as 'splitting the middle term'...the sort of thing you do with 2x+6xy+3y=7 (I'm not sure I have even that sample equation right...I'm not what you would call a natural at the subject). Of course, the teacher spent hours trying to show us how to do it, and of course I struggled with my first 20 or 30 questions because I just didn't see why I should split the middle term - or any term at all, for that matter - leave alone how I should do it. Mechanically, I would try one thing, and then another, till my answer matched the one in the key at the end of the book.

And then, as I sat poring over the book one evening, willing the middle term to split on its own, I suddenly knew.

Don’t ask me how. I have been puzzling over it for over ten years now, and I don't have an answer. The teacher made every effort to teach us the method step-by-step, but all I remember is everything falling into place like a jigsaw in one sudden moment of inspiration. So the best explanation I can come up with is, I just knew.

A psychoanalyst might be able to explain it to me scientifically...but then, I'm sure psychoanalysts have better things to do. All I know, even 14 years later, is that I never had a problem with that bit of algebra again - at least as long as I was doing it. (I will refrain from talking about the present. My skills in algebra - such as they were - are now a little, er, rusty ;) How do I summarize my knowledge of how to split the middle term? I just know. Not mathematical, hardly scientific, heavily intuitive...there it is.

Was it different from gut feeling or pure intuition or instinct, though? I am still pondering that...but all of these do have something in common: the "I just know" at the end. Intuition and instinct, I am familiar with. They're old friends. I rely a lot more on them than I do on facts and figures, anyway. Truth be told, I guess prior knowledge of facts and figures does influence your instincts to some degree. I don't think the effect is strong enough to drown the original thing out, however. If, for instance, intuition tells you to head left in spite of the road sign (literal and metaphorical) with a rightward arrow, it probably has a very good reason for doing so. Which is why I'll cheerfully turn left without a second thought if the quiet insistent little voice at the back of my head directs me that way.

In my opinion, you can't go very far wrong if you trust your instincts. The more I rely on intuition, the stronger and surer it gets...and the smaller the likelihood of a false step. I trust it on everything - situations, decisions, people, choices...you name it. And that is why, 7 out of every 10 things I say or do have no concrete explanation, no mental If-Then-Else flowcharting done in real time. Till some time ago, if I was cornered into explaining myself, I would drivel - unwillingly and unwittingly - like there was no tomorrow. Now, I simply grin and say "I just know", or "I just wanted to", or something along those lines. Sure, it doesn't do much towards clarification...

…but then, that is usually not my problem. :D

The Last Thought Experiment

This is just to say goodbye. For now, that is.

This blog isn't only a hobby or a record of all my thought experiments - it is a best friend of sorts, my own little window to the world, and one of my biggest addictions. I depend upon it in a way that I depend upon very few people or things. And right now, I need some time off. There are difficult decisions that I have been putting off for a while now, citing real and imaginary (mostly imaginary) reasons to myself. I have to tell myself some home truths; chide, love and coax myself into doing some things. Not sure exactly what this entails, and it doesn’t look easy from where I stand...but I have to get all this out of the way so that I can work towards a long-cherished dream with a clutter-free mind. It may not all be sunshine and oranges - but it will get me halfway there. :) If there is the option - however remote - of recourse to my blog, I'll never get around to thinking and doing all that I must necessarily think and do. Even if I do, it won't be the best I'm capable of. Some things are meant for us to handle on our own, no matter how many people or things we can fall back on.

So I must disappear backstage for some time. I will come back, of course...but I have no idea how long I will be gone. I could be back tomorrow; I could show up next in June. It feels imperative to say goodbye, because I know that there's more than a fair chance I won't be back here anytime soon.

For now, this is my last thought experiment.

Running Notes: Life 101

Morning's here. Either that, or my dream is suddenly a lot brighter and noisier. I half-open an eye and glance at my phone.

7 a.m. So it is morning.

I had better get out of bed, hadn't I? Even if it is wonderfully warm and cosy and snug and...no, really, I must. There's work to do. That application I began last week - should I finish it before I begin on the second chapter of my dissertation? Actually, given that I'm fresh and rested right now, getting some serious studying done is a very good idea. But I can't possibly do that unless I clear my table...and if I'm going to put away all the loose A4 sheets and reference books, hadn't I better finish that second chapter first...?

...Or I could burrow back under the quilt, turn over so I'm facing the sunlight filtering in through the blinds, and go back to sleep for another hour.

No contest, I think with a sleepy, dopey grin. It’s a rare privilege…let’s take it this one time.

Sometimes, the fact that we can choose to take it easy means a lot more than everything else put together.

It catches my eye as I'm sprinting down Bungalow Road to the department, late for yet another class. A pair of woolly, fuzzy, lime green-and-white socks. It's sticking out of a basket of gloves and socks and caps, guarded by a heavily-mufflered man holding a steaming glass of chai. Should I? Shouldn't I? Don't be silly, Pragmatism hisses in my ear. Aren't you late for class already? And lime green socks? Seriously, now? Grow up!

Torn between wanting to take a closer look and making it in time for attendance, I finally give in to temptation and stop by the basket. Pragmatism throws her hands up in disgust and walks into her room, slamming the door behind her. Ten minutes later, I am in proud possession of the fuzzy green and white socks. My feet are warm as toast, and I'm grinning for no apparent reason. Sometimes, I look away from whatever it is I am doing and glance at my socks and smile.

Go ahead. Do the goofy, unwarranted thing once in a while, just because you want to. Happiness sometimes comes in the strangest, most unconventional packages. Like a smile from a toddler on the street. Like chocolate for dessert. Or like lime green woollen socks.

She hasn't been herself for more than a week now...not since they had that huge fight. A minor disagreement that blew out of proportion because neither was willing to let it go. She thinks no-one knows. And he hates to think they won't talk to each other again - she isn't just the love of his life; she is also his best friend. It is killing him, but he won't say a word, and he thinks he'll get away with the charade...but he doesn't. Everybody in the gang notices. Everyone tries to convince each to talk to the other, and it is no good because each of them believes that the other doesn't care, that there is no chance of forgiveness.

One morning, several miserable days later, they bump into each other in the common room, where all of us are studying for a test. An uncomfortable silence fills the place, then he bravely steps forward and says, "I'm sorry." That simple. "I'm sorry, too", she responds. And, just like that, all the bitterness melts away.

Don't hesitate. Go on, say it. The attempt to make up may fail. On the other hand, it may not. But if you don't say it, there'll definitely be failure - of more than one sort.

The Awakening

"Darn these mosquitoes!" she mumbled to herself, flinging her pen onto her notepad and hauling herself off the couch. Slipping into her blue carpet slippers, she stepped to the window and thrust her arm out to pull the window shut. "And I'm going to make short work of this thing one of these days", she muttered darkly, as a thorn from the rose plant on the window sill scratched her bare arm. Again. Glaring balefully, first at the plant and then at her notepad, she sighed. As if it wasn't bad enough that she couldn't, for the life of her, think of a decent script, she fumed. The Head of the Department didn't just trust and encourage her to produce the best script the film school had ever seen - he had practically bulldozed her into it. The expectations were getting to her. It was very unfair, she thought, not sure what she meant by "it".

Irritated and worn out, she cast a glance at the window sill. Stupid rose plant, she decided. Why was it taking forever to bloom? When she had admired her friend Pat's beautiful pink roses, Pat had all but bullied her into taking home a cutting. Everyone gets their way with me, she sulked to herself. And here was this rose plant, resolutely refusing to blossom even three months later; serving no purpose, even ornamental; only getting in the way when she wanted to shut and open the windows, and demanding to be watered twice a day.

Heading to her kitchenette, she began rummaging in her shelves for coffee and sugar.

Two weeks later, she presented her Head with her script. Because the subject was close to her heart, she had put in every last bit of effort. As the Head ran his eyes down the first page, she crossed her fingers hopefully behind her back.

The Head had been curt. No, this wasn't good enough. It wasn't even good.

Back home, eyes burning and tears choking her, she shredded the script into a hundred pieces. It didn't matter...nothing mattered, she thought, looking around to see where she could stuff the script so she would never have to see it again. Spotting the rose plant on the window sill, she walked up to it and savagely pushed the crumpled ball of paper into the very depths of the soil. Angry, hurt and lonely, she flung herself onto the couch.

She opened her eyes to a million dust particles dancing in the ray of sunlight that slanted straight across the room and onto her face. She felt strangely at peace. As sleep left her little by little, the previous evening flashed before her eyes, and even though she had been the only spectator to her tantrum, she felt silly and ashamed of herself. Of course she could do better than that, she thought. She could - she would - write a better script.

Wide awake and very hopeful, she took a deep breath and went up to the window to open it and let the sunshine in. Two steps short of the sill, she stopped dead.

There, on a stem of the plant that faced the sun directly, was a little, pinkish-orange rosebud.

Tracking Thought

Hi there. I'm back.

I've had a good vacation, rounded off with a rather, er, entertaining train journey back. You have to hand it to the Rajdhani - whatever it does, it does well. If it is on schedule, it is on schedule. If it decides - or is forced to - run late or take a detour (blame it on bad weather, Naxalites, Maoists, U.P.'s rivers flooding over, what have you...), there will be a delay you won't forget in a hurry. So, yes, I did reach 7 hours later than I was supposed to, tired, hungry and limbs cramped. But you can't possibly hold a train any grudges. Besides, I like trains.

I half-thought I would sit and rattle off all that I have been thinking about in the last few weeks, but that doesn't seem like such a great idea now. I can't plan my writing - it's got a mind of its own. So I'll write about something I've been ruminating over since last evening.

Now, I know there are more serious things to ponder and philosophise about, but really, what happens to us after we've waited out scheduled waiting periods and things take even so much as a minute longer? On the train, for example, we all knew, to begin with, that we would reach Delhi at least three hours late - at 1.30 p.m., instead of 10.30 a.m. It couldn't be helped - one peep through the windows and anyone could see how thick the fog was. It made sense to move slowly, didn't it? And everyone was okay with everything right up to ten o' clock or half-past. And then, suddenly, people began to get cranky. Suddenly, the air conditioning was pronounced inadequate, the linen unsatisfactory, and the washrooms intolerable. By eleven thirty, three passengers around me had snapped at the coach attendant for no apparent reason, and several had complained about the delay to friends and relatives over their phones. I know for a fact that I began to get restless soon after eleven. For some strange reason, sitting up became too uncomfortable, my Wodehouse omnibus not interesting enough, and lying down for a nap too difficult, because of my listlessness. When the train finally pulled in at NDLS at 5.15 p.m., the general consensus was that it was an enormous hassle to have to spend 24 hours on a train.

I wonder why it was such a big deal.

Don't get me wrong, I know several passengers were on tight schedules. Many may have missed important appointments or connecting trains. Many others may have been unwell or upset for other reasons. And true enough, better planning and improved technology and control on the part of the Railways would have meant less trouble - to the extent that the weather's whims can be worked around, that is.

But that is not what my question is about. The frequent traveller to and from Delhi is bound to be familiar with the Purushottam. Stolid and dependable as ever, it seldom takes more than its stipulated 23 and a half hours between Delhi and Jamshedpur. If an entire day spent on board the Purushottam is not a problem, how come 24 hours inside the Rajdhani - with plusher berths, cleaner interiors, electrical points and fancy meals to boot - is such a trying experience? More intriguingly, how did everything become so hopelessly insufferable an hour into a delay we were already informed about? What happened to me and to 63 other passengers in B6 (and in the rest of the train, I have no doubt)?

It isn't about us on the train...it's about us and delays. About hating to wait even a minute longer than we have to, even when it cannot be helped by us or the other party. What is it?? I'm terribly curious! I am doubly keen to know because it is just not like me to find extra travelling a problem, and yesterday was one of the odd occasions when I did.

On a slightly different note, it's beautiful in Delhi right now. Freezing, yes, but also breathtakingly beautiful. If you'll just let your imagination take off for a bit, you could actually find yourself right in the middle of a fairy-tale, or inside a picture-postcard. Try it. It's worth suspending serious business for a minute or two. :)