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.

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.

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.

:)

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

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.

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. :)

Over a Late Breakfast

You've got to be really well-prepared for your exam, or else really sure that you're beyond damage control, when you sit and ponder management theories a day before your Compensation & Benefits paper instead of dutifully revising Dessler and labour laws. And when you're cooking Maggi and writing this at the same time, you are beyond any help whatsoever, which is why you also grin like I am, and check your saucepan to ensure the seasoning is right.

But when I was boiling water for my coffee ten minutes ago, I hit upon some cardinal truths that I thought I must share. At this point, I must request all management purists and aficionados to exit the blog. I can feel irreverence bubbling over in me, and you are not going to be pleased. At the very outset, I remind you that I am a half-baked management graduate with very little knowledge to call my own. That probably explains the irreverence.

- More than once in the last eighteen months, I have found that most management theories are essentially common sense packaged in a fancy framework. Not to take away at all from all the contributors to the field, these are facts that have always, well, existed. That said, I do recognise the importance of realising that these facts exist, gleaning them from the everyday and the ordinary through intensive - and extensive - research, and presenting them to the world in a format that makes sense and is applicable, by and large, to most scenarios. As someone who intends to get into research herself eventually, I'd be the last to say that research in the field is irrelevant (why would I want to devote my life to something I don't believe in, now?), but there is also something to be said for the number of times I have heard people say (and felt myself), "Eh, this is what they're talking about? Of course there will be dissatisfaction if I pay one guy less than his counterpart doing the same work." Or "If you occupy a chunk of someone's mindspace for a reasonable while, he will, more likely than not, buy whatever it is that you're selling him". I could probably be charged with over-simplification. I'll cheerfully concede to the charges. :)

- Ever notice how most revolutionary concepts come from the same set of countries? Japan, the U.S. and the U.K., among others. Japan has practically cornered the market on contemporary management practices. I'd give anything for a peek into the average Japanese brain. Those people astound me. I haven't heard of too many theories coming from, say, Italy or Spain or Russia. I wonder why. Of course, there are studies carried out by researchers from scores of countries. What makes it to most standard textbooks (not that that alone means that the research was any good), though, comes from the same handful of countries. I seriously wonder why.

- We in India have an inexplicable affinity for books and theories that originated abroad. There's nothing wrong with that. Management is about people, and people are - cultural and organisational and economic differences aside - essentially the same everywhere. So whether we use Blum & Naylor or T. Rao to aid our understanding of how they can be "managed" (I've never been very comfortable with the connotation) is not - or shouldn't be - so important. But the problem lies somewhere else. The problem lies in assuming that your education is incomplete if you studied only out of Indian authors' works. Sure, it is...but isn't it equally incomplete if you study only out of McGraw Hill and Prentice Hall versions of foreign authors' books? Why can't we study theories from wherever they are explained best, and allow ourselves the privilege of reading what people from our country have to say about people from our country? And I mean this not just individually, but also from our universities' point of view.


My coffee mug is empty, my Maggi cold, and I am beginning to panic slightly about Comp & Ben. Cheerio, then. And I wish Blogger would behave better on my computer. I can't italicize words, the spacing is awry, and my paragraphs refuse to be disciplined into justification.

P.S.: As on November 30, I've had a decent C&B paper, have also spun yarns on Organisational Psychology...and am really kicked because Blogger is back on its best behaviour. As you can see, my friend, my posts are all justified in alignment...again! :)

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.

Grizzly me

There's something warm and cosy and snug and comfortable about an oversized sweatshirt. It makes you feel like a giant, well-content bear! :)

Spirals of Smoke

Waqt rukta nahin kahin tik kar
Iski aadat bhi aadmi si hai

(Time is a lot like man -
It can never stay put.)

- Gulzar

Forgive me the poor translation. If there ever was a textbook case of meaning getting lost in translation, this would be it! But it is a beautiful line; again, from Marasim.

Winter is gradually making itself at home. For the first time this season, it was foggy all through today. The mornings are beautiful; the evenings, picturesque.

I was about to post some poetry, but I think it can wait.

Life smells and tastes of ginger and cinnamon. Perfect.

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.

Leaps of Faith

There was this focussed, decided, determined, frizzy-haired girl who drank the occasional cup of coffee and got all her curls chopped off every ten weeks. Then there was a lost, bewildered child-woman, who would do anything that gave her some definition and identity for the confetti that had spilled out of her happy jar. Occasionally, as she gathered the confetti into damp fistfuls, she'd look up determinedly, muttering fierce promises to herself.

The next thing she knew, she was several years into adulthood, focussed in a lost sort of way, sure of only a few things - but very, very sure - and had discovered a new philosophy she liked to claim as her own. From twelve cups of coffee a day, she went to the other extreme and decided she'd never depend on a cup of anything to perk her up or keep her awake. She is still clueless about what to do with her curls, but they have a mind of their own now. And she likes to walk around with a tub of Play-doh, the book she's currently reading, and a small notepad and her crayons in her bag, for when time takes her unawares. Over several years, she suddenly found her best friend (they have the ugliest fights, but then both agree each was the best thing to happen to the other). They were neighbours and were hardly acquainted before this. Beat that!

I don't know how many of you remember this Lakme ad from some 18 years ago. It had a series of shots of Aishwarya Rai as (what was then) the perfect picture of urban chic, and (what still is and will always be) the ultimate essence of spunky, happy, vivacious girlhood. They had the refrain from She's Got the Look from Roxette's Look Sharp! in the background. I remembered the music - and I discovered the song recently. I don't know why, but I love the number. I could dance down the street to that one!

Has anyone out there ever done this - decided against doing something, ever again...and gone and done it on an impulse? I do it more frequently than I care to count - or than is good for my morale. And then, I stay mad at myself for quite some time...till I start getting mad at myself for being mad and wasting time and energy and not doing something more productive. That's how it goes...and then (no, don't say anything yet, I know a lot of us do this...what I'm asking you about is going to follow) I do something equally stupid...stupider, if possible, so that I can get mad at myself at that. That distracts me from the first bit of lunacy. Then I just get fed up of being mad and go find something productive to do.

The other day, someone said, you know, you ought to befriend and keep in touch with people you can ask for help later. I thought that wasn't only selfish and pig-headed, but also really sad. What, all your friends are people you may or may not like or have something in common with, but who can do things for you? Eh, I'd like to think I'm more self-sufficient than that. Not a saint, just self-sufficient and perpetually short on patience.

And so I wander down life's lanes, going wherever, doing whatever. And when I am - often, deliberately - clueless, I sit and write a post about this, that and the other.

Checking In

I haven't been around for a while...though, would you believe it, I've written some five posts in my head in the last month or so. They just never materialised into anything here. But, this afternoon, I want to write. The last ten days have been a change from the routine - even if so in superficial ways. The Saturday before the last was exciting - one of the three occasions a year that I dress up in a saree for. The saree is my favourite garment...but I wish I had enough grace for it. Trying, trying :) :)

This weekend was interesting too - the annual convention, a two day long affair. Blasphemous though I may sound, I enjoyed the International Business chapter better than the Human Resources part. Trussed up in a black business suit for the better part of two days (and feeling like a penguin, if I may add), I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the discussions on red and blue ocean strategies and financial engineering...AND the 20-cover lunch. ;)

What else...I'm happy because I was finally able to give someone a piece of my mind (I sometimes have very misplaced notions of niceness). I'm glad that a long-term project is beginning to yield results. I'm astounded at the number of people falling in and out of love around me, and thankful that I've managed to retain my sanity so far :)

The Pujas are here. Today is the third day, and I'm homesick like I always am at this time of the year. I miss the smell of dhoop and fresh flowers and bhog, and the sounds of the dhaak and cymbals and the conch and chants. I miss the colours of autumn and the vibrant hues that the Goddess comes decked in. I miss the camaraderie and the anticipation surrounding the festivities, both those that are happening and those that are on their way. I miss the peacefulness of the mornings, the golden afternoon light and the pulsating energy of the evenings. I miss the feeling of crisp new fabric against the skin. I miss the smell of camphor.

There's so much that I want to write about. I'm just grappling with a writer's block of sorts. I'll be back soon :) Till then, have a great autumn! :) :)

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."

At 11.40 pm

I've just found myself a funny new fetish. I have, I've discovered, a firm fruit fixation, which freaked me out at first, to be fully honest. But it is fantastic fun now. It all began at Big Apple, where I was wandering away a muggy Saturday evening, wondering what I wanted to buy. Willy nilly, I found myself drawn to the Fruit & Vegetables section because it was so colourful and, well, had the best cooling of them all, which made it triply tempting. I felt one fruit, sniffed at the second and touched the third - and bingo, I was hooked!

To cut a long, potentially verbose story very short, I have now taken to living on fruit. I have a mania for mangoes and am partial to pears. I'm absolutely mad about melons - especially the musk variety, though I find watermelons wonderful too. I'm passionate about pineapple, though, while the apples are average - understandable, because they're out of season. And I know I have an annoying affinity for alliteration, and am weird enough without a fruit fixation, but then, I have survived queerer quirks, so there's still some hope!

No way out :(

If it isn't something that's bothering me, it's something that I am convinced of the existence of, and worry my head over. If not that, it's just a random thought that gets stuck in an endless loop in my, well, thoughts. Or it's an old, long-lost pet peeve that drops by, because, you know, it's been a while. Or it's something I'm so excited about, I can barely keep still. Or it's anxiety, or curiosity, or just my brain puzzling over real and not-so-real ideas. Sometimes it is nothing, plain and simple nothing, just a mild disorder of sorts. And just when I manage to deal with all of these and put them out of the way and begin congratulating myself on a job well done, along come the exams, throwing my body clock entirely out of gear.

Sigh. I seem doomed to insomnia :(

Musing without the Muses

I know I want to pen it down
But it eludes me
Like the top of a dandelion blossom
Floating tantalisingly out of reach
And I ruefully smile away a frown.

There's so much, there is no lack
Of inspiration...no reason
For the Muses to elude me, but
I have no way of making trips
To Milton's warm south and back.

No blushful Hippocrene for me
No sudden inspiration
Nothing that inspires thought
Enough for it to flow uninhibited
Unfettered, feckless, carefree.

So I wonder if I should
Make a virtue of necessity
Let lack of inspiration
Inspire some random poetry
That may or may not be good.

Here's to the sheer absence
Of the Muses, then.
To a mind thoroughly empty
Of any inspiration... or to
Poesy, the slightest pretence.

--- written one exceedingly boring, lazy Sunday morning, while the sun is still in two minds about making an appearance, and I contemplate the fate of cold toast.

Flyleaf

Blank now,
But concealing
Mysteries untold.

A promise,
A gentle hint, a clue

Does the blankness
Disappoint you?

For some time now,
I have allowed

Mysteries to take me
Into their fold.

Blank, but hiding
All that's to come
By and by.

Protecting
What's within.

Promising yarns
Yet unwritten.

Thoughts that come
Oft, unbidden.

Every smile you smile,
Every tear I cry.

It is only blank
What use is it?
I hear you say...

Wait, I breathe
For the story

For the chapters
As they come,

Telling all
Asking some...

A brief note to you
Before
I go away.

So long, and thanks for all the fish.

I have been writing so much here, I nearly took myself by surprise. I say 'nearly', because I'm capable of talking a lot more than this, but then, it's been a while. I think I know what is behind the sudden spate: eventful days (not so much in terms of fact as of feeling) that inspire random thoughts, lots of time to think those thoughts, uninterrupted access to the internet, a growing addiction to my blog, which, by the way, is turning into a sort of diary cum scribble-pad cum back-of-stats-notebook...and bingo, there's a profusion of posts on everything, sometimes nothing, at a pace that is leaving me a little breathless and, like I said, surprised.

So it is time, I think, that I slowed down and took off. Perhaps I will post at more even intervals when I come back; perhaps there will be newer things to write about; perhaps I will find myself examining my posts with a less critical, no, cynical, eye...perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

More from the study table

Balance is important. True. But I wonder how many manage to strike one when it comes to emotions.

This is something I have always found a bit of a puzzle. So it was sort of inevitable that my thoughts on this would spill onto my blog sooner or later...sooner, it turns out, because I found a reference to this in a chapter on personality types in one of my books (yes, it's exam time, and I have finally opened my books, which explains the sudden proliferation of posts on such subjects :) One of the contemporary theories on leadership says that emotional stability is one of the Big Five traits that go into the making of an effective leader.

That got me thinking again. People defy classification by virtue of being people, but I'd still say there are four broad categories - those who are extremely emotional and demonstrative, and base everything on feeling, never mind the facts; another set which is afraid to explore the territory at all, or finds it a cumbersome exercise, so consistently maintains an even appearance of general reserve, playfulness, or sarcasm and deals only with the facts; a third lot, which is very aware of its emotions - positive and negative - and chooses to keep them all under restraint, opening up only to a selected few; and finally, the minority that knows just when to be expressive, and when to keep it quiet. These last two usually do a decent job balancing fact and feeling.

Now, I'm neither qualified nor equipped to comment on any of the above, in terms of what causes their kind of behaviour or what the implications may be. There's just one thing that intrigues me: does the second category never feel anything amiss? The high-strung sort - the first category - often get to people because of the constant drama, and I confess their company often leaves me exhausted, dying to get away to where it is quieter. No, it is the second kind that I wonder about. What makes people afraid of their own selves, afraid to speak up even when they know they want to say something...afraid to admit, even to themselves, that there is something they want to say? What makes them avoid such an intrinsic part of who they are? What makes them stick to the pragmatic, the humorous, the sarcastic - even when there is something that has genuinely touched, excited, angered or upset them, or made them happy? It is at times like these that I start wondering whether confronting one's own feelings is actually the toughest, scariest thing to do. There's a school of thought that believes that emotions are for the weak...but there is another that believes that it takes the greatest courage to listen to the heart along with the head - to acknowledge the existence of the heart, to begin with. Because to acknowledge it is to risk potential hurt, betrayal, ridicule, no reciprocation (if that's a word)...but to pretend it does not exist is a sure way of keeping all happiness away, and of falling entirely out of touch with one's own self. To live in a shell is a matter of choice; to live as a shell - is that such a good thing?

And then, I can't help thinking what an enormous paradox it would be for someone to have won over the whole world - literally or figuratively or both - but to be clueless about what to say to oneself.