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. :)

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! :)

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.

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. :)

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.

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.

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.

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. :)

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

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.

Truth - and closure

Dear ______,

I write to you today because I'm never going to be able to tell you this in person. Don't ask me why. It is very obvious why!

When I first met you, I didn't really care. You were just another new face among the tens of others I had recently met. The circumstances we met in didn't do much to get things off to a particularly rosy start either.

When I began to spend more time with and around you - purely because I had no choice - I actually found myself wishing either you or me out of the place. I concluded that I didn't like you much.

So I have no idea why, the first time you didn't show up like always, I was unable to enjoy the sort of day I'd been wishing for. I have no idea why it would put me in a bad mood to find you in one, and I certainly do not know why I began to go about with a silly grin on my face on the days that we talked about this, that and the other.

I have no clue when you began to matter so much. I still don't know why. You're wrong for me. All wrong. You don't fit my ideal combination of Roark and Darcy and Wodehouse. I don't know why you still mean more than that combination ever did, and I admire and dislike you in equal measure for turning that paradigm on its head for me. Who gave you the permission?

I reasoned with myself that it was yet another teenage crush coming two years late, and I knew it would bide its time and cease to exist afterwards.

I was right. It did behave like a crush. Long after I'd bid you goodbye, I found myself so engrossed in the present and the future and everything in between that you became just another hazy memory. You were different from the other hazy memories, though. Those others are never accompanied by a smile or a pang, or both, sometimes.

Something happened recently that brought you back into sharp focus for me. You're just another name on my phonebook and Facebook account now, and I am, thankfully, far enough past the 'lovestruck' stage to be able to talk to you like I do to anyone else. I'm also far enough past that stage to be able to smile and shake my head at everything. Quite the wise woman! :)

There's less than a one-in-a-million chance that you will ever read this...and there's absolutely no chance whatsoever of you getting to know that it is addressed to you. But if you do read this, do glance at the post just below this one, and you'll know why I chose to write to you today :) This is one of my moments of truth...and what is a moment of truth without acknowledgement?

Thank you for the memories, and for teaching me to look beyond Darcy and Roark. I'm still hung up on Wodehouse, though. Did I ever tell you you have a great sense of humour? :)

Love,
Crossworder

Schoolgirl Poetry I : November Rain

Deadlines, in all their urgency
loom large and menacing over me
I smile and gaze out,
blissfully.


Memories, ever rushing by -
restless, like a school of fry
From the present,
my alibi...


Tomorrows playing peekaboo -
promising. Foreboding, too.
I love them golden
and in blue.


Winter chill beneath my feet,
wind and rain and hail and sleet
Where the elements part
and meet.


Silly grins for no real reason,
brought on by mysterious treason
wrought suddenly by
the season.


I'm free, I'm flying north again
I'm wandering down memory lane
Blame it on
November rain.

Of this, that and the other

There's a nip - more than a nip, actually - in the air. The sort that skims lightly over bare arms and raises goosebumps. The cold is just new enough to be pleasant, and just sudden enough to take you unawares. And when you hug yourself, trying to huddle up against it, you feel warm and cosy and snug, and break, instinctively, into a smile...Old Man Winter remembers us, after all!

Just as you remember him. Just as you remember the shaft of sunlight that stole into your room every winter morning with delicious warmth. Just as you remember the thrill of being allowed to sleep till seven because school began at nine in the winter session. Just as you remember drawing trees and smiley faces - and graduating to signing your name - on the bathroom mirror when hot water baths steamed it up. Just as you remember New Year's Eves at home, when the warmth from sweaters and shawls paled before that of togetherness. Just as you remember scooting across your room barefoot to get the slippers you forgot somewhere else in your house, giggling as the cold floor bit the soles of your feet. Just as you remember marvelling at the first rosebud of the season, so tender and timid and beautiful and brave. Just as you remember wondering, from November to February, how you could ever have needed electric fans and refrigerators (and, for the rest of the year, how you could have done without them). Just as you remember cuddling up to an indulgent parent or sibling, enjoying the blessed warmth that relationships bring.

Just as you remember consistently missing 8.40s all through third term, the firmest determination notwithstanding. Just as you remember the sense of achievement that came from lugging a bucket of hot water all the way from the boiler to the first floor with minimal splashing. Just as you remember becoming a permanent fixture - with or without your books - on the College lawns every afternoon every day of the week, and all of Sunday. Just as you remember the fragrance of orange peel on your fingers every lunch break. Just as you remember the walks to Nirula's and the moongfali-wallah's after dinner every evening, recognising friends in hooded and sweatshirted figures passing by, and greeting them with a smile and a "Hi" that was invariably accompanied by a spiral of smoky winter breath. Just as you remember huddling with three other friends under a blanket meant for one, watching Pretty Woman for the fourth time and swapping notes on Mr. Right, then burrowing in with books and notes, shameless guilt for unprepared-for tests written large on every face. Just as you remember how completely you fell in love with the city no matter where you saw it - Daryaganj, the Red Fort, the University, CP, South Ex...Delhi's soul is never as beautifully consummate as it is in winter.

Just as you remember walking with friends to the nearest dhaba for hot, butter-soaked parathas and milky tea. Just as you remember lazing in the living room, spending whole Sundays doing precisely nothing. Just as you remember laughing as you tried, unsuccessfully, to block a chink in the window pane with newspaper. Just as you remember being, just being, with people you may or may not have been the closest pals with, but who were an undeniably integral part of your life. Just as you remember staring at the moon through the December fog, startled out of inevitable trances by a flock of white birds flying across it in perfect V-formation.


All part of one life, even if it does seem to belong to a distant other that seems too fragile, too perfect, to be true. All part of a life that promises as much as it has brought.


My sweatshirts smell of mothballs and memories.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------


Before I sign off, there's something else I have to write about. A very simple gesture that made my day and lifted me, single-handedly, out of the blues.


The last few days have been difficult. I didn't sleep very well last night, and found myself beginning today running late. So I skipped breakfast and rushed to the department. Class was demanding - MIS is always demanding of concentration and patience - and there was a meeting right after the last one, which meant forgoing lunch. The meeting left me irritable and - I hate to admit this - angry. All of which means that by the time I got back to my room, I was tired, hungry, mad, blue and in the throes of a bad headache, which did nothing to improve my mood. I decided to give the cold hostel lunch a miss and headed out without quite knowing where. My feet took me to McDonald's pretty much on their own, so in I went, thinking some iced tea, a McVeggie, and a glance at the day's papers would do me good.


I left the counter with my tray - with my burger and iced tea on it - balanced on my right fist (yes, a loaded tray on my fist), in which I clutched my wallet, phone and keys. Standing near the ledge which held the drinking straw dispensers, I tried pressing the lever with my left hand. Now, I knew this was a bad foolish idea, I knew I should probably set my tray down before I got myself a straw, but I was already put off by other things...so I didn't bother with what was, technically, the right thing to do. Not even when the glass of iced tea skidded to the edge of the tray. I simply focused - in my scattered way - on the dispenser.


The glass toppled and iced tea spilled all over the floor.


Chagrined and wanting to kick myself, I went apologetically to the counter and requested that the spill be mopped up. They handed me another glass - I wasn't expecting one and I wasn't about to ask, after how stupid I had been - and the floor was mopped promptly. Tray balanced exactly as earlier - I think I thought I'd be more careful this time so the need to carry it more sensibly didn't occur to me - I tried reaching on tiptoe to the newspaper on the rack a foot above my head. Again, the right thing to have done would have been to set the tray down, pick the paper up, retrieve my tray, and head to my seat. But no. I stood there, glass and burger halfway to tilting over, trying to reach the rack. Uncharacteristically impractical. Says a lot about how blue I was...when, out of nowhere, a hand over my head lifted the paper from the rack and held it out to me.


Looking up, I saw one of the security guards from outside the restaurant standing on the lowest of the steps to the counters, smiling politely and waiting for me to take the paper from him.

I broke into my first spontaneous smile in three days.

I thanked him warmly, feeling very, very, very grateful for that simple gesture. He didn't have to do it...but he did. And he didn't expect profound gratitude for it, but I was profoundly grateful. Not just because he saved me and the food from another disaster, but because - and I still can't find the words to explain how or why - he suddenly made me feel a lot better. Lighter and happier and better.

To people like that gentleman at McDonald's...for simple thoughtfulness that can lift whole clouds and make so much difference...thank you :)


I expect I'll be a regular here in the next few weeks (at least till last-minute panic for sem-end exams sets in...and I'll probably end up blogging about that too :). This weather tends to do that to me! So long.

Scatter Diagram

Can you imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken

your best friend always stickin' up for you

even when I know you're wrong

Can you imagine no...five hour phone conversation

the best soy latte you ever had...and me?

This is one of the phases I dread getting into. Before you read any further, be warned that this post is being written in an unusually blue, pensive, near-maudlin mood, and is likely to blot the sunshine from your room for a couple of minutes. If you'd rather not attend a gloomfest right now, feel free to let your cursor hit the top-right corner of the screen :)

Where was I? The phase I dread getting into - allowing the past to get the better of me. I don't know if it is the weather, the smoky, wintry-smelling air, the time of the year, or just a series of badly-timed conversations and recollections - or sheer solitude. I doubt if it is this last, because, as a rule, I guard my silences and spaces rather fiercely. I'm guessing it's something about this time of the year and all that it brings. I'm homesick, and a little worried, and also direction-less in a way I do not either understand or like. I'm missing people I don't want to miss, thinking about times I'd rather not think about, talking to people I don't want to talk to about things we're all better off not discussing.

I'm not doing anything, which is very, very difficult for me to handle. I'm as fond of a carefree life as the next person, but...this is something I'm no good at. I'm thinking about relationships that never were, people I will never see again and time wasted so ridiculously, it doesn't even merit mention as wasted time. And I don't know why I am doing this. It is just not me. I'm perplexed. Perplexed doesn't even begin to cover it.

Anyway, I spent the evening lighting diyas. I've already gone into spiels on how much I love the sight of a lit diya...but it's so beautiful that it is worth a second mention :) Something in me reacts instantly, instinctively and rather passionately to a flame...I could stare and marvel at it for hours. One astrologically-inclined friend philosophised, "You're a fire sign, that's what you are. That's why you respond so naturally to a flame, that's why you find it so beautiful...". Uh, yes, trouble is, I love beaches and waterfalls and the rain...and wild horses couldn't drag me indoors when it is breezy, and I can stare at the sky for hours on end, especially early in the morning or late at night...so where does that leave us, Watson?

'Elementary'?

I'd say.

As usually happens with my writing when I can't think straight, I've gone and written everything in my head out here. Not everything, actually. Some thoughts are the sort you shy away from putting into words, because then they start appearing a lot more significant than they seemed - or, to put it honestly, a lot more significant than you'd like to admit they are.

My head is filled with a hundred thoughts, and ninety seven of those are thoughts whose magnitude or meaning I am yet to come to terms with. I will, in due course, but it's time I signed off now.

Wistfulness

In all these years away from home, I have learnt to handle practically everything on my own. Everything - bad food, homesickness, illness without having someone to fuss over me, devastating grades, heartbreak, loneliness, bhang-induced highs on Holi, packing and unpacking - and practically moving house - twice a year, doing my own laundry (and learning, the hard way, that whites and pastels are best not bought), living on a budget, cooking my own meals, fretting over my decisions or patting myself on the back for them. It hasn't all been uphill, though...I've celebrated my proficiency at changing light bulbs, my confirmation after six endless months of probation, danced in joy over an assignment that fetched a 23.5 on 25, dealt with the impact of vague crushes, grinned like a maniac at my phone when Citibank sent me their first text, informing me that my salary had been credited to my account, felt superhuman after having negotiated three peak traffic hours to get home, revelled in the bliss of travelling alone and being officially incommunicado, been trusted with responsibilities and (heh heh :) secrets, and learnt how to tie a saree, not to mention some micro, macro and development economics, and human resource management, all by myself.

And you know what, it's tough to deal with a rough patch alone...but it's tougher still to have something to celebrate and have the people you most want to share it with, not around. I've managed both - all said and done - with decent aplomb. Oh, give and take a few inexplicable-to-the-world blue moods or hyper-excited happy dances.

But the one thing I'm still not used to is having to be away from home and family on festivals. In six years now, I haven't celebrated Holi, Diwali, the Pujas or New Year's Eve with them. And much as I am capable of handling everything else, this one thing still leaves me a little wistful. A phone call - or several - is not much of a substitute. That is not to say I haven't had some very memorable celebrations with friends in College and at work. I'd be supremely ungrateful if I said I didn't have fun and stow away some beautiful memories. Yeah, now that those friends are far away, too, the memories just get more intense and the festivals just a tad more lonesome :) I was brought up in the sort of family where Friday evenings and Sunday mornings and afternoons were earmarked for something special. Simple, but special. Holidays meant time with the extended family. Dinner time was for conversation and laughter...and festivals meant celebration. Small rituals - spring cleaning, food particular to the occasion, having the gulal or crackers ready, planning the drive around the colony - went into the making of beautiful Holis, Diwalis and Dussehras. And if something like that has been part of your life for as long as you can remember, it's part of who you are.

Which is why I still give my room an especially thorough cleaning before a festival. Also why I make it a point to go shopping for garlands, diyas and sweets, and then spend a couple of hours doing up my room. It's why I stand in the balcony and watch families celebrating, and thank my lucky stars for having had the chance to know what that kind of celebration is like. It is also why, in spite of the nostalgia and the homesickness, I know I will enjoy the festival and be happy and thankful, because that is what festivals are all about.

Diwali is around the corner, so it is time my room got that spring cleaning I was talking about. And there is something so eternally beautiful about a lit diya, it is hard to put into words. It's my favourite festival ritual - lighting diyas. So here's thanking all of you - family and friends - who have given me reasons to feel festive...and here's thanking you, God, for the aforementioned family and friends! Happy Diwali, everyone...and have a beautiful year ahead! :) :)

The Unforgettables - I

1. Rain in College
2. Walks to Gwyer Hall in winter, breath forming smoky wreaths
3. Casa 7, Gurgaon
4. May 7 - 13, 2008, Mumbai & Goa
5. Breezy evenings at L-7/3
6. Power cuts at K-14/20
7. Early morning rides to work - the road empty, glistening and beautiful
8. Sunday lunches from August 2007 - June 2008
9. Walks on the terrace of 32 U.B.
10. June 20, 2007
11. December 9, 2007
12. Kandisa at 2 a.m. in an empty Allnutt South
13. That feeling of triumph at having finished packing at the end of first and second year. The struggle to get the trunk downstairs. The attempts at tricking the Office into believing there were only 3 articles of luggage in the LCR.
14. The breathless dash to Allnutt South at 9.58 p.m.
15. The stars from Andrews Court
16. The shades of green in DLF 2
17. Impromptu lessons in Marketing at MGF Metropolitan
18. 10.30 p.m. phone conversations - the ones that have become a habit
19. The French window in the five-seater
20. Holi 2008
21. Univs 2006



To be continued.

At breakfast today, someone switched on the TV in the common room. The screen flickered on to reveal VH1...just as the video of Green Day's Boulevard of Broken Dreams began. That song brings so many memories back.

Can you believe that I actually walked out of a class still in progress? I did, just now. I can't believe I did that - walk out of Organisational Psychology class, for heaven's sake! I live for the behavioural aspect of this discipline that I have chosen to study. But then, all this only goes to show how badly I needed to leave. I couldn't take another minute in there.

All this is not usually like me. In another way, though, it is typically me. I guess I should just take the rest of the day off and go for a walk on the Ridge.

Part I

Walking down the street the other day, I spotted her slipping between the shadows. It was her first appearance in weeks, so I asked her where she had been all this while.

"I needed time off. I still do."

"So why are you here? You won't get any space here. There isn't enough of it."

"There's never enough of it", she sighed. "I'm not the only one looking, you know."

"You still haven't explained your presence here."

"Do I have to, now?" she shot back.

"Yes." I didn't want to begin, but then, she'd started it. "You're never here when you're wanted. Never around when needed. You come and go as and when you please, and the rest of the world be damned. You aren't as dependable as you claim to be, do you know that? And I'm not sure you're wanted here, either." She'd asked for it, I rationalised.

"You didn't invite me over", she pointed out, calmly. "I came on my own. You don't have to bother with me. You were going somewhere, weren't you? Carry on, please."

I turned. Something didn't feel right.

"And how have things been with you?" She was quick to notice my face softening.

"I've been OK", I lied. She had no business knowing, anyway. "Good, in fact. I've been good. What about you?"

"You know", she was looking at me quietly, "if you can't look me in the eye when you're talking to me, it doesn't matter whose eyes you can meet."

"So how many friends have you made? Fallen in love yet?" Light-hearted banter is always a safe way out.

Or is it? Her face fell, then hardened.

"I have nothing left to give. It's not like I don't try, you know. Sometimes", she went on, her voice low and uncertain now, "I miss my days as housekeeper. They called me The Girl with the Broom. I opened windows every morning, all of them, and I loved flicking my checked duster over the furniture and the curtains. Ever seen a shaft of sunlight enter a room?", she sounded like a little girl now, "Ever seen dust dance in the sunlight? Little gray specks?"

"I don't know", I said, doubtfully. "I suppose it's a pretty sight."

"Not pretty", she said, straightening. "Fascinating. Do you know rain is the purest form of water?"

"Natural distillation?" I hazarded a guess. I was never the chemistry teacher's favourite. Geography, though, I was a natural at.

"The purest form", she was saying, "the cleanest. Ever heard the wind blow past the reeds? It whistles."

"Where were you housekeeper?" I was curious now.

"Don't pretend you don't know", she sighed. "That's where you came and borrowed me from."

"But you haven't told me why..."

"It doesn't matter", she said, abruptly. "There's nothing left to keep house for. They moved out long ago. There's nothing there. They were foolish...they took neighbourly charity a little too far, if you ask me. But there it is. It's none of my business, really. I was sent by the agency. I have excellent references, by the way."

"And what do you propose to do with them?" my question sounded sardonic. I was only being curious.

"I'm teaching myself French. I use the backs of the sheets to scribble notes on."

Kolkata, Chronicled

Day 1
My train is running four and a half hours late. I've called Ashu Da, the caretaker at the guest house, to let him know that I will be checking in tomorrow instead of this evening. That done, I'm sitting with my nose pressed to the window pane again, staring at the palm fronds outlined against the evening sky. As phones enter networks, calls and messages begin pouring in all over the compartment. Airtel sends me a "Welcome to Kolkata" message. I'm thankful for the welcome, but I wish they wouldn't charge me roaming. Oh well, we can't have it all.

The train pulls into Howrah Jn, platform 16. It's muggy and the place is buzzing with activity. Armed with my smattering of Bangla, I am feeling at home already. I've been to Kolkata before, just never really stayed there. This trip promises to be interesting. Before I get too happy, though, I sober myself with the reminder that I'm here primarily to carry out a not-so-fascinating time-and-motion study. Will do, will do.

Day 2
My first taste of Kolkata traffic, and the jams it is notorious for. I go from Alipore to Tollygunge, and then head to Camac Street, where the office is situated. Traffic lights refuse to go from green to red, and I am alarmed by the increasing number of people stepping resignedly out of cabs and legging it across the streets. How long IS this going to take?? Jyoti from the office calls and wants to know if I am the intern from Delhi, and if I intend reporting at Camac Street this morning. I am, I assure her. I'm, uh, stuck in a jam somewhere near Fort Knox. Oh you're almost here, she says, and I hang up in relief.

Office is decent. People are nice and helpful, and more than willing to help me figure my way about things. I have already sworn off cars for the rest of my stay, and am given minute instructions on where to find the closest Metro station. Time-and-motion study begins two hours into the day. So far, so good.

Lunch is an astonishing array of vegetarian and non-vegetarian dishes. Tea (had twice a day with a generous dollop of adda) includes biscuits, nimbu pani and the occasional sandwich if you ask for it. The best part, of course, is the customary mishti at the end of every meal.

Come 6 pm, and it is time for my first brush with the Kolkata Metro. Everything is new and familiar. I queue up for a token - a habit I've fallen out of in Delhi ever since I bought my travel card - and head through the rotating gates for the platform. Trains come every fifteen minutes. I've just missed the latest, so I get time to look around while I wait for the next. This one is the Maidan Metro station, and the walls are adorned with paintings of sportspersons. I try and figure out the Bengali alphabet painted on the boards and walls. A train comes thundering in. I think hard and quickly - this one is headed to Dum Dum. Is this the train I should take? This, or the other one? Where am I going? Tollygunge? Then it must be the other train. By this time, the doors have slid shut and the train has thundered off, effectively leaving me with only one option - take the next. For a second, all the thundering makes me feel like I'm in the middle of a Harry Potter story, at Platform 9 3/4. The next train comes in, and the display reads Tollygunge. Of course, I brighten, Tollygunge it is. So I hop in.

It is very different from the Delhi Metro, but equally entertaining. I love the Hindi translations of the warning signs pasted all over the compartment. A Rabindra Sadan, Netaji Bhavan, Jatin Das Park, Kalighat and Rabindra Sarobar later, I am at Tollygunge.

The guest house is comfortable, and Ashu Da extremely considerate, telling me where I can find the switch to the AC, and getting me chilled water and tea even before I can ask. My roommate, an extremely tall, talkative 26-year old from Mumbai, shows me around the building, tells me all about her office at Salt Lake, and extracts a promise from me: when I visit Mumbai next, I have to stay with her. Dinner is good - sweets again! - and I tumble into bed, exhausted and overwhelmed, and brimming with excitement. I reverse-calculate before I set the alarm: I have to reach office by 9.30. The Metro took 15 minutes from Tollygunge to Maidan. On foot from Maidan to Camac Street takes ten minutes, so that is 25 minutes. Tollygunge station is 15 minutes from here on foot - so that is 40 minutes in all. Throw in half an hour to get ready, for breakfast...alright then, 8 am it is.

Day 3
Ha! From guest house to station, station to Maidan, Maidan to Camac Street - all by myself! But I think I should buy a new Kolkata SIM card for my phone. Roaming is killing me. We'll see about that in the evening.

Day is ok, more interviews, more note-taking. Turns out one of the members of the team is a senior from school. She's delighted and so am I. Lots to catch up on.

I'm eating like a horse.

I leave office at 6 pm, and walk down Camac Street before turning left into Park Street in search of an Airtel outlet that can sell me a local SIM. I find plenty, but no one is willing to sell me a SIM unless I produce a photo ID and proof of permanent address. I scout seven shops, and draw a blank everywhere. Can't blame them. I should have thought of the ID back in Delhi when I was packing for the trip. That disappointment aside, I get to explore Camac Street and Park Street thoroughly, admire the beauty of history side by side with modernity - it's glorious- and, above all, find Flurys! I try to locate the Park Street Metro station, and end up walking the length of Camac Street and half of Park Street again. Eventually, I hit a pavement that looks familiar, walk down it, and find myself heading back for Maidan. I've just spent the last half-hour walking in circles.

Back to Tollygunge in the evening. Some MLA is delivering a speech on a makeshift stage right outside the station. The air is thick with the aroma of samosas and tea. Back in my room in the guest house, it dawns on me that I haven't eaten any sandesh yet. Sacrilege, I call it.

Day 4
Alarm, snooze, alarm, snooze, alarm...RUN!

At the station, I sprint from the ticket counter to the platform, run into the train waiting there, and throw myself on the nearest seat. "Welcome to Kolkata Metro", the announcement booms, "the next stop is Belgachhia."

Belgachhia??

I rush out of the train, tearing past the crowd that has now gathered by the doors, which are about to slide shut. More running, and I am now at the opposite platform, waiting for the train. At work, Senior from School takes us all out to lunch at Peter Cat to celebrate her birthday. More walking down Camac Street. By now, I'm in love with the place.

On my way back, I stop at a little shop for sandesh. For some reason, it has struck me only just now that I see a daab-seller outside Middleton Inn every morning on my way to work. Why am I not having any?

There is a power cut at Golf Link Apartments, where the guest house is situated. Kids are running all over the stairs, playing hide and seek. I can smell fish frying. Ashu Da tells me he can get me some if I like. I need to tell him in advance, though. Hmm.

Day 5
Should I take my umbrella? Shouldn't I? What the hell, it never rains here anyway. They seem to have plastered the walls of the editing studio with new posters of Tollywood movies. One, in particular, seems heavily inspired by the design of the Anywhere But Home poster. The sun beats down with all its fury. As on Days 1, 2, 3 and 4, I am bathed in perspiration by the time I enter the train. The way the passengers ride in the Kolkata Metro is unusual - as if by some tacit agreement, men and women occupy alternate compartments, each compartment becoming all-ladies or all-men by default. So, even if there is a seat lying vacant in the neighbouring row, no lady steps towards it. Quite a change from the Delhi Metro, where seating arrangements - even where 'Ladies only' or 'Physically challenged only' are specified - are uniformly unisex.

Glancing out of the window at about four that afternoon, I can see the sky darkening. By the time I finish interviewing Prasun Da about direct contract employees, big drops of rain are beginning to pepper the ground. I'm exhilarated, like I always am by the rain, but I'm also beginning to worry. I don't mind getting drenched, not one bit. But it is getting darker, and the rain heavier, by the minute, and transport is going to be affected, says Sweta. She wants me to wait for the rain to abate, but I'd rather leave right now. So I walk out into an empty Camac Street. As I pass people sheltering under awnings and in doorways, I am met by stares of frank astonishment. I confess I am beginning to feel a little awkward, and louts gawking unabashedly are not helping matters. It's raining hard now, and as I sprint down Middleton Row on my way to Maidan station, I am conscious of feeling like a rather confused duck. Into the station, onto the platform, into the train...a quick rick ride in the storm to Golf Link Apartments...home and dry. When I open the cupboard to pull out a towel and a change of clothes, light glints off the tip of my umbrella, and for a second, it winks wickedly at me.

Day 6
Strangely, all I remember of the whole rain fiasco this morning is the cheery "Welcome!" that the rickwallah shouted out in response to my fervent "Thank you, Dada!" as I hopped off his rick.

Luchi and aloo dum for breakfast...my day is made already!

I'm beginning to worry about my project. Nobody seems to know what to expect of me, and I certainly don't know what to do with the vast amounts of data I am amassing. An ABC analysis is not feasible, and I cannot get in touch with my guide because he is busy in Mumbai. I'm fending for myself and, I have to confess, I don't think I'm doing a very good job. To top it all, I'm running a temperature and my throat is sore after last evening's gallivanting in the rain. I just don't feel like doing anything, least of all examining the recruitment process for vendor employees. I cannot wait for the day to end.

The train journey back is uneventful. By now, I have made it my mission to read the English translations of all of Tagore's poetry inscribed on the walls of Rabindra Sadan. Not easy, because the train doesn't halt for more than two minutes, and the writing is minuscule, but the challenge makes it more interesting. I stop at a sweet shop in Tollygunge, and buy sandesh and mishti doi. Life begins to look up.

Days 7 and 8
Homemade food, endless siestas, an enormous balcony. Perfection.

Day 9
I have to start compiling all my data now. Spoke to my guide on Saturday. He says I must visit the company's KPO centre at Technopolis in Salt Lake. Which is all very well, except that it will result in more data that I will be clueless about dealing with. It is a decent day in the office, save for the tall, bespectacled gentleman who walks up every now and then and tells me, in painstaking detail, about all the 'important' work he does for the company. I wish there was some way of convincing him that I am NOT here as part of the company's annual performance appraisal process - I'm just a summer intern.

Back at the guest house, I catch up on the latest on the Maoist-Government face off. All the guests at the guest-house get into an impromptu debate over the fate of Bengal. Funnily, none of the seven of us is from the state. Ashu Da intervenes every now and then; now with his opinion, now with cups of tea, and finally with a firm reminder that dinner is getting cold.

I burrow into bed, feeling kind of sorry that time is flying by so fast.

Day 10
Nothing much. Am eating four big meals a day, practically living on sweets, and drinking nimbu pani by the gallon. Oh, and I don't mind the incessant perspiration so much any more. In the middle of the day, I go to Ashok Da and tell him that I want to help with the filing. His alarmed, spontaneous "Hey Ram!" elicits laughs all over the department. I pretend to be hurt; he makes up by treating us all to butterscotch ice cream.

Day 11
My mind is made up: I am going to communicate solely in Bangla with all the staff.

By the end of the day, they don't know if they're frustrated or helpless with laughter. Sweta asks me if I have a confirmed booking for my journey out of Kolkata three days later. If I don't, she says, she will be more than happy to help.

On my way back that day, I do manage to piece together the whole of Tagore's haiku in translation, at Rabindra Sadan.

"...let the evening forgive the mistakes of the day

and thus win peace for herself."

Day 12
I have to go to Technopolis today. I don't care if the sun is shining nice and bright - the umbrella is the first thing to go into my bag. I am running late, so I take a rick to the station. He says he will charge me 9 bucks. To someone who has given in to being fleeced on a regular basis by the rickwallahs of DU (they talk only in figures rounded to the nearest ten), this comes as a very pleasant surprise. What touches me even more is the smile with which he hands me two rupees in change when I give him a ten rupee note. "It's only 8 rupees", he tells me, "I forgot. Here are two rupees."

Midway through the day, Abhishek Da, the HR exec at the KPO centre, visits Camac Street and offers me a ride back to Salt Lake. The trip is a revelation in itself. Swank and plush, the office still does little, as he tells me, to make up for the monotony of the job and the low pay. Salt Lake itself is beautiful - lush and green and quiet; this natural beauty juxtaposed with the technological marvels that the buildings house - and are themselves - makes for a very interesting study in contrasts. I take a cab back to Tollygunge, requesting the driver to take me there via Gariahat. Gariahat is another revelation. Almost stuck in a time warp, it is an endearing mix of commerce and tradition.

Back in my room, I do some reading on IT and West Bengal. The state has a vast talent pool for MNCs to choose from, and attrition rates here are among the lowest in the country. I think of software engineers and diploma holders working at a CTC of 6,ooo rupees a month, supporting entire families with their salaries, and I know I have a lot of blessings to count.

Tomorrow is my last day here. I wish it didn't have to be so soon. Again, I can't say I'm entirely unhappy having to head back to Delhi either.

Day 13
So here I am, on the last day of my stint in Kolkata. I spend the day tying up loose ends, filling in details that I missed in the interviews and the analysis. In less than 10 days, this place seems so familiar, I could have known it forever. The monthly office get-together is scheduled for this evening. I know I cannot stay for it.

While the staff is away at the weekly conference call, I slip out of the office and walk to Flurys.

In the afternoon, over pastries and coffee, we exchange email IDs, and people promise to visit when they are in Delhi. Photographs are clicked, and I hand in my temporary ID and the office papers. One quick phone call to my guide, and I turn to my new acquaintances to say bye.

Day 14
I have an early-morning train to catch. As I drive over the bridge, looking at boats sailing placidly on the Hooghly, I wish I could stay some more. It is 6 am, and the city is just stirring awake. The majestic brick monument ('building' seems too small a word) that is Howrah Jn looms into view, and I turn to heave my bag out of the trunk. I'm glad I visited the city.

I’m also afraid to step on the scales ever again.