Time stumbles over the crack in the watch face

...

Inside the chasm we float in timeless limbo-
Like leaves caught in cobweb strings,
spinning in slow-motion
While minutes melt above our heads.
We brush each other
in our graceful pirouettes-
Cherishing that glancing graze
in the veins of our Beings-
Letting the corpuscles make electrified love
Charged with the current of the ephemeral circuit.

You and I, we hide
In this secret cusp of temporal amnesia
Holding each other in brushes and strokes
Knowing that time will not be fooled long
By our absent presence.
We touch with careless care
Knowing that, should Time stumble over us
We will be pulled out squalling
Into an alien world
To be herded by managing minute hands
Into lines of days and years
Never to touch or be touched ever again.

...

We heard Time stumble.
The leaves twirl again in pointless grace,
The protean dimensions more precious
With every numbered minute.
Veins are traced and colors memorised
To comfort in cold remembrance.
A final timeless touch and
The leaves pause in an amber moment...

Stumbling Time picks up its feet,dusts its robes
And marches on again.
The leaves swirl towards each other.
We are safe.
For now.

Fringe Benefits

Of all my many physical excesses (and there are many excesses in the physique, I assure you) it is the cranial furr that has caused most familial strife. Coming from a stock of Class A (or should I say Class ‘Yay’) Mallus, as the female offspring, it is imperative that I follow the edict of hair-iditary long-locks. Rapunzel was the ideal to strive for. The fact that I am more on the lines of Rumplestiltskin did nothing to sway the family's convictions. Any petition for a haircut was faced with fierce opposition on the likes of an Indian parliament session, and just about as many stipulations as a government form. And, hot-blooded Mallu that I am, I endeavoured to make sure that these stipulations were almost always broken (yes, yes-Don’t ask me, I don’t understand why they haven’t disowned me either)Living in Chennai, and later in Hyderabad has convinced me that the less hair you have the less hair you’ll lose. And while long and floating is all well and good, long and bushy is definitely not. I have it from reliable sources that looking like a walking hedgerow is entirely unbecoming. And besides, where’s the fun in long hair. There isn’t really much you can do with it except may be tie it up. And since my hair takes after me, it’ll probably escape its bonds and become a nuisance anyway. It’s not like my family has anything against barbers. The concept of a ‘haircut’ itself was a family mandate. It was the amount of hair cut that raised questions and voices. But truly, I ask you gentle reader, what’s the use of getting a haircut if there is nothing to show for it? And I am not planning to pay good money for a wimpy snipper-snapper here and there. But all these perfectly sane arguments went unheard. And every homecoming was unfailingly inaugurated with a hair-raising ‘YOU CUT YOUR HAIR AGAIN?!”It was time for compromise. I needed hair-citement and they needed length. And that is when I came upon a brilliant plan.

The apple fell while I was trapped at the hairstylists’ getting a trim. There I was, draped in the dreadfully shapeless cape thingamajig (I think all barbers are supplied enmasse with Jayalalita’s cast-offs) lulled to half-sleep by the snipetty-snap of the flying scissors, when I noticed my forehead emerge like a humpback whale out of the waves of my hair. ‘Was it always so prominent?’ I wondered. A need to mask the size of the gargantuan appendage gripped my meagre but fastidious vanity. Meanwhile the hair lady had finished the miniscule trim job and was proceeding with the brush-and-fluff routine, signalling the impending end of the session. Must do something, must do something, must do something, must do- Aha! A few minutes later I sashayed out of the salon sporting a swath of hair veiling my forehead. The fringe was an instant hit with the peers and a dramatic change from my usual sedentary hair-style. Plus, the length had been retained so the Family couldn’t fault it. Brimming with fashionable confidence I alighted from the aircraft and marched smartly to my waiting parents and brother who were, I realised with assurance overflowing, staring in wonder. Filled with a sense of job-well-done-ness, I waited smugly for them to take back the usual greeting. And the first thing they said was “PLEASE GET A HAIRCUT!”

The fringe did not go down well with them. And the fact that it refused to stay down due to the burgeoning humidity and consequent frizz further aggravated their hurt aesthetic sensibilities. I realised they truly detested it when my brother, the greatest champion for hair-growth, as we have discussed earlier, offered to personally escort me to the nearest haircutting salon and see to it that the thing got shorn off. And that’s when it hit me- the best way to get haircut sanctions was to figure which style will annoy them most! And now I wait for my hair to grow out so I can try out irregular swaths or may be streak it blue or some similar hairscapade. The fringe became a learning experience in negotiation: The best way to compromise is to present a worse scenario. If you think about it, that’s how unfinished work gets completed; whenever we are faced with something we don’t want to do, we automatically find other things that must be done or should have been done earlier. The logic is slightly hairbrained, but so are humans, eh? So let’s not split-hairs and focus on the fringe benefits of dysfunctionality. Or so I tell my maligned Family who regularly tear their hair in frustration at my insanities. All I can say to them is, I might give you gray hairs but I do love you. 

I'm a good sport-II

Yours truly has never been the sporty type. But I do come with particularly thick skin of titanium-like tenderness. So when the University Football Association's girl's team lacked female players my recruitment was based solely on my utter lack of shame. But even the shameless cannot be utterly clueless on the field. And hence, in an uncharacteristic fit of initiative, the fledgling footballer in me shuffled into dubious life.

The day of my initiation into the field was an eventful one. Under the able guidance of the football-obssessed Miester and the ever affable Floppy-hair we women tried to learn the ropes of the game.During the course of our exploits, we had gathered other spectators and players in the form of the children of the staff who lived on campus. In the spirit of generosity, they were augmenting our numbers and helping us out with our technique (hah hah hah).It suffices to say that any one of these kids (age range 3yrs-8yrs)could play better than all of us football-illiterate women put together.Even the two-year old who kept wandering near the goal-post knew more than us.(show offs!)While it was a comfort to know that I was not the only novice on the field, a few brief minutes was all it took to confirm that I was the most sports-challenged of the lot. Though aim was alien, speed was MIA and stamina was a distant dream, I did have more than my fair share of thick skin and I have been told that I can be terribly stubborn (not true, by the way). Therefore with the tenacity of Sisyphus I proceeded to continue playing.

Two hours of frustration later, I finally began to get the hang of the game. I was not confusing football with handball, I was making contact with the ball rather than just dirt and the ball was actually going where I wanted it to!At this juncture we decided to play an actual game. And- yes! I was playing! In the rising tide of euphoria I joyously made contact (with my foot this time!) with the ball, sending it flying in a splendid speeding shot straight into the goal post and- SMACK!!!- right into the face of the sportive two year old.

The field froze in a tableau of shock- partly because the kid was hit, partly because the ball actually went into the post and partly because it was me who managed to kick it.While we can call the child cranially challenged for carelessly ambling into a goal-post,we must also take into consideration that there was no precedent of the ball coming anywhere near said goalpost in the two hours that we played. And if it ever did end up there by mistake, it was usually with barely enough velocity to burst a bubble. Either way, we were awakened from our shocked coma by the glass-shattering 'waaaaaaaaah' issued by the injured party.

The kid was soon mollified and probably wont go anywhere near a goalpost for a while, if ever.And I now carry the scarlet-letter of child-abuser. As both Miester and Floppy-hair constantly remind me, I have gained a reputation as having a wonderful talent for kicking minors. They'll probably hire me in juvie-discipline boards soon. Ah well, it's not like I ever had much of a reputation anyway.And besides, I did kick the ball. Into the goal too! Sure there was a kid in between but you can't have everything now, can you.
The irony is that after all the work and rigorous practice everyday, I never got to play. Ah well... doesn't stop me from being a good sport eh? :D

Apologies and Excuses

I believe the title says it all.
I have been suffering from an acute case of AIDS (Assignment Induced Deep Stress- term courtesy Dr.Thyme; the 'Stress' may be replaced by 'S**t' whenever/wherever applicable)which successfully dammed any creative impulse which survived the onslaught of two years of intense academics. To cut a long and infinitely uninteresting story short: 'writers block' was merely one of the bricks in the colossal pyramid entombing my creative powers.

If this were a marginally fairer world, this post would signal a golden era of increased creativity. Sadly we live in our world. The AIDS (now definitely 'S**t'), has developed complications in the form of rashes of exams and scabs of paperwork which does nothing to dissolve the block in the creative-vascular tissues.

Ah but why do I do this? Why mar your pristine face with the pimples of my failings. I try yet again to fashion a form from the flaky earth of my fancy and all that rises is a the slow static dust of intention that weighs down in your lungs, making you cough up intermittent puffs of that forgotten thing called Soul. I raise my hands, poise my fingers over the board, but gravity and grace fail me. That swell which once rose into your bosom, carrying you upwards until you are balanced joyously on the crest of the wave from which you are not afraid to fall: That glorious swell is now merely a confused trickle too lost to actually make its way out. It is not a void. Rather it is full to bursting: I can hear the voices, sense their scent, feel the hum and the sizzle of the radioactive presence. But, like figures behind a veil, these formless somethings refuse to materialise.I seem to have forgotten the way to that 'Away' that we all draw from.

It was Coleridge who perhaps best expressed this incredible loneliness. Bereft of the words that have always been your friends, what are you left with? What can you believe in? Where do you search to find a vanished door? Faith spins lugubriously, suspended on the gossamer thread of hope and I remember why I began writing this post. They say everything returns if you call it enough. I keep calling with the desperate hope that what is hiding will reveal itself soon. After all, '...if winter comes, can Spring be far behind.'

Sublimation

Something fished out of the archives.

It was all so clear in her head.

She would slip her arm into his, look straight into his eyes so he would know she wasn’t joking and say the lines with the blasé seriousness of someone making a general suggestion on the lines of adding more blue in the wardrobe, a better haircut, the effectiveness of odomos over mortein, a walk around the perimeters. The harmlessness of the tone would befuddle him into indecision, beguile him into consideration, and then bewitch him into acquiescence. A possibility, that’s all. But a possibility, all the same.

And she was confident in her ability to weave an eloquent spell. He would perhaps consent to the careless cadence of her voice or to the simplicity of her logic or the silky smoothness of the summer night. It was all so perfect in the infinite canvas of her flamboyant fancy: A beautiful dance of truthful artifice, performed in perfect grace like an ancient bolero on a spicy Spanish evening. There was no way he could elude the spell. He wouldn’t want to.

Confidence overflowing, she placed a hand on his shoulder and got ready with the practiced opening line.But as she looked into his lambent eyes her tongue cemented itself to the roof of her mouth and the words beat a pulsing brand against her closed lips. It wasn’t dissemblance; she believed every single one of those unsaid words. But the cost of it stared out from his trusting eyes. The steady guileless vulnerability that made him seek her out glinted like the edge of a knife as she tried ineffectually to put her plan into action. People told her he was ripe for the plucking. He would comply simply because he was so alone. Besides, he trusted her...

And the unsaid confessions crackling noisily in her mouth were swallowed in a dry, husky trail of vain hopes withered yet again.

He was waiting for her to say something, but she couldn’t free her otherwise glib tongue. “Why so serious?” he joked and she choked out a convincing chuckle. The conversations flying around the sputtering bonfire permeated the air with a banked buzz, filling the blank spaces left behind by the words she didn’t say. Someone laughed, someone else cried, someone debated, someone else berated. His quiet sadness lay wide open in the noise, crowding her expanding heart into a tight little corner, where it crumbled like dry earth, emptying its overcrowded insides into her more crowded soul. His head hung low, and the words hummed sadly in the baritone thrumming of the blood in her veins. She laid her hand on his and he smiled that familiar sad smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” he says. She smiled eloquently, her lips replete with meanings he could never guess at or wouldn’t see. They hugged each other close with the sincere, comfortable camaraderie of true friends that filled empty spaces regardless of unsaid words. He sighed a quiet sigh. And unseen she sighed silent words, letting them diffuse into the dark night to find their home with the other voiceless words, floating away into the starry expanse of open sky while she remained earthbound in incomplete embrace.

Observation 2

The way to a man's heart may be through his stomach; but keep following that axiom and you will need a highway to traverse all that stomach.

Heat Stroke.

Summer is the time for
Burnt offerings made to a Sun
That cannot look at you
Without sucking you dry.

That smile, that burns
In its scorching benevolence:
Truly derisive
In it's universal bonhomie-
Its complete impartial indifference.

You are merely another.
And he likes you, well and good.
It is only your folly
If you dry yourself up in vain
Every Summer.

Comedy of Terrors

Meatstick was at it again, and Firestone was reaching the end of her tether. She was of a sensitive disposition and as a rule avoided unsavory, threatening scenarios as much as she could.She was merely... skittish. Nothing else.
But that did not mean she would put herself through the test.

"But I don't want to!" she said for the nth time.
"C'mon Stoney, go for it!" said Chew through a mouthful of bread-omelette.
"It's no big deal. Just go ahead and do it." agreed Meatstick warming up to the challenge.
"But I don't want to go ahead and do it!"
"Oh leave her alone Meat," piped up Ant. " If she doesn't want to, she doesn't. Let her be."
Steadily ignoring Ant's feeble attempt at defense, Meatstick went on. "Slick's got it all fixed up, Stoney. Face your fear! Confront it and make fun of it! Freud pointed out that-"
"Please Meat, not Freud! It's 2 in the morning!"
" Ok, ok no Freud. But seriously, try it man- what harm can it do."
"Yeah Stoney," chimed Fashunista, "be strong!"
"Then why don't you do it!"
"Wha-? Ok, pedal back a bit."
Meatstick's face took on a determined cast as he turned to Fashunista and Firestone " Ok, both of you do it!"
"No way, nada,nahi!" interjected Fashunista while Firestone desperately shook her head.
Ignoring these mild intrusions in his declaration Meatstick continued with a flourish,"And Ant will give you company." Promptly sending Ant, who was comfortably nursing a steaming cup of chai, hurtling back into sputtering reality " How did I come into the picture?"
Firestone meanwhile was being persuaded that company may ease the pain.
"C'mon Stoney, Ant and Nista will get your back." assured Chew
"And who'll get ours?" exclaimed Fashunista.
" Well, I'll get yours Nista." He countered, waggling his eyebrows.
While Fashunista mock huffed, Firestone bit her lip in confusion. Next to her, Meatstick leaned in again " Think of it as homeopathy- like cures like. Fear cures fear."
A few tension filled seconds passed. To do or not to do...
Firestone raised her head and squared her shoulders "Ah chuck it! It's only a movie."

And that is how she came to watch Paranormal Activity.
But this is not the story that you have been waiting for. What we are going to see are the repercussions of this phenomenally bad idea.

It was the night after Scare-much, when all through the hostels,
Not a creature was stirring , not even the Construction Workers.
The curtains were flung and the windows were bare
In the vain hope of letting in air.

Firestone couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she was afraid to open them. In a rather contradictory bid to save her sanity, she was now determined to not sleep at all. As the reassuringly human face of Tom Welling fighting aliens lent her fortitude, Firestone made the mistake of checking the time. 3:oo am. A shudder went down her spine as she remembered that, 3:00 was the time the demon struck in the movie. And it didn't help that Boro and Slick had recently told her that 3:00 am was the time the Spirits walked the earth. Her panic escalated when she turned and saw the blankets on her bed move of their own volition- just like in the movie! Firestone jumped off her chair making a wild scramble for the door when an ominous 'brrrrr' filled the air: again, just like in the movie! Fear paralysed Firestone as the brrring continued in sharp staccato spikes. Trapped in the liminal space between dead and scared-s***less, she closed her eyes tight against whatever was coming for her, while feeling an incredible annoyance that she was the wimpy first victim in the real life horror movie. And then,just as suddenly as it began, the brrr-ing stopped. Firestone cracked open an eyelid- the room was still, Tom Welling was yelling at the bad guy... and next to her computer her cellphone blinked sleepily. And as she watched, it jumped into life and brrrr-ed.

Feeling like ten different kinds of idiot, she picked up the call.
"Hey Stoney..." quavered Fashunista's uncharacteristically shaky voice.
As it turns out, Firestone had company on Fear Street. Fashunista's spiking adrenalin and racing heartbeats failed to be calmed by switched on lights and loud music. And it did not help that Ant was infuriatingly unspooked. Finding comfort in company, Firestone joined her compatriots in their room (Ant escorted her through the dark corridor) and they proceeded to collectively curse Meatstick and Chew, and Slick as well for giving them the movie in the first place. And as the night passed on, Ant too got a fair share of the hiding since she seemed so unbothered by the previous night's fear fest.

The morning dawned with the women ready to commit murder. But they had to hold out when they took a look at their comrades. Meatstick and Chew had obviously not slept the night as well. A little interrogation brought out the story. Meatstick had been disappointed by the fear fix and wanted his adrenalin spike. He spent the rest of the evening watching Ju'on and Grudge trailers and fell asleep content in the belief that he was neither shaken nor stirred, just mildly entertained. Somewhere in the middle of the night he awoke to the sight of long locks of hair hanging above his face. He jumped up in fright seeing all 23yrs of his life flash before his terrified eyes and then realised that the 'hanging hair' was actually the straps of his shoulder bag hanging off the side of the of his cupboard. Sheepishness did not negate the fact that he was now undeniable spooked and could no longer go back to sleep. Chew's story was similar: only in his case he thought the pile of clothes on his chair was a monster.

"I don't know why you guys are getting so spooked." Shrugged Ant, oblivious to the dirty looks thrown her way. "I mean it's just a mov-gaaak!"
"What happened Ant? You look like you saw a ghost!" exclaimed the concerned Firestone.
"Yeah. You ok?" added Meatstick.
Fashunista quickly fished out a bottle of water as Chew looked on worriedly.

Meanwhile Ant had recovered and was now letting out sheepish giggles.

"Heh heh heh, I thought that heh heh lady in the Burkha was a heh heh heh... you know..."

While the others did a quarter-hearted job of not looking smug, a motion was passed to avoid horror movies for a while: after all they had enough abnormal activity to contend with, minus the paranormal activity. The lights remained switched on all night for a while longer, though.

Dr.Ames' Inventory of New Age Diseases-4

Welcome to the latest edition of Dr.Ames's inventory. Our research team has compiled four of the most rampant and often incurable diseases plaguing the New Age. The good doctor urges the avid readers to formulate possible cures for the the latter category.

1)Whine-flu: A chronic illness that is known to be more devastating to the bystanders than the patients, whine-flu is a terribly debilitating disease which once acquired is almost impossible to be rid off. It generally manifests as an infection in the ENT circuit, resulting in the generation of high-frequency nasal sound-emissions. These emissions, much like second-hand smoke, are more detrimental to those around the patient.Excessive exposure to Whine-flu patients have often known to result in extreme aggression and use of force on the patient.The patients themselves are usually oblivious to the effect of their emissions and their condition is uncommonly contagious. The Doctor advices immediate quarantining of the affected individuals, coupled with the judicious use of duct tape and/or straitjacket. As for treatment of the patients, the Doctor advices steady doses of Ignoredol by inoculated/inured practitioners.

2)Sighnessitis: A strange cardiac malady that culminates into a respiratory disorder, Sighnessistis is a universal ill. The disease manifests in the form of extended exhales which may go on for anywhere ranging from a minute to an hour depending upon the stimuli. Much like an allergy, the virulence of the disease is greatly dependent upon the strength of the allergen. Allergens may include malfunctioning technology, sentimental scenes, poetry,certain types of music, particularly beautiful and equally unattainable face(s), enlarging waistline,photographs etc. The Cure is largely subjective, but a double dose of the miracle drug Snapoutofit is known to be effective.

3)Brawn-chitis: Generally considered to be a male malediction, this is a psychological disorder triggered by physical causes. The malediction is usually characterized by excessive growth of musculature that consequently cuts of the air and blood supply to the cranial area rendering the patient with more brawn than brain and a growing obsession with biceps, triceps, abs and the like to the point of complete neglect of general life. A growing menace of the modern age, scientists and researchers are frantically searching for a cure to this debilitating disease.

4)Snoriasis:It is often confused with the Sleeping Sickness spread by the intrepid tse-tse fly in the jungle reaches of the Congo. Snoriasis is a much more widespread, broad-based disease. It is generally characterized by recurrent rashes of death-like sleep often accompanied by earth/eardrum shattering snores. Trying to rouse the patient in the midst of these spells is often fruitless. However, the doctor advices the use of cold water or sharp movement as possible modes of awakening. This is a disease where prevention is infinitely more possible than cure. Intake of coffee, pepsi and other glucose enriched, highly caffeinated substances are known to be effective methods of preventions, as is exercise and light entertainment. A good horror movie usually does the trick.

That's all for this edition, new additions will be added- as always- when the good doctor feels like it. Until then, stay healthy.

Minutes of A Class

The minute hand climbed lugubriously up the melting face of the clock in a cruel parody of the sweat crawling down her back. Afternoon classes were probably created by the remarkably inventive Chinese as a follow up to their delightful, world-famous, torture techniques.

Around her,fellow students stewed in their own personal nadirs of despair.Some stared blankly at the paragraph they had been asked to edit, and some stared fascinated by the hypnotizing rotations of the ceiling fan. And still others, like her, wondered what misplaced dream had made them opt to sit in class when their very essences called out for release.

'Release'

As the word took form in her congealed mind, a partially awake compatriot decided to participate in class, bringing a few of the others into guilty life. But neither guilt nor duty, nor sheer desperation could resurrect her from her ennui. The words 'paragraph rules' filter through her cobwebbed temporal lobe. Memories of a forgettable neurolinguistics class, embroidered by the reminiscences of the smiling faces of linguistically inclined friends throw a shaft of dusty sunlight into her Broca's Area. Or was it Wernicke's Area? No, it wasn't either of them... Ah whichever. As far as she was concerned, her brain was dying an ignominious death minus even the dubious honour of Yeats' Irish airman. The educational embalming of the lazy Friday afternoon guaranteed that. If Ginsberg wrote today, he'd have found the best minds of the generation rotting away in a classroom.Not that she had any delusions of grandeur, but she knew that around her sat some of the greatest minds of her age.

"Test."

the word brings her back to the static classroom. Release came in the form of a future trial. Ah but that comes as no surprise. After all, freedom is never free now, is it? Grab it while you can and face the consequences when you have to. A test is nothing.

She grabs her satchel and makes a break for the open door, the strings of the ended class trailing behind her flying feet until they catch on to the hinges of the next door closing behind her.

Writers Block

The page is my enemy. It stares at me in blank indifference, scoffing at my desperate need for recognition. It tells me nothing to soothe my questions, merely taking everything I throw at it with impartial disinterest. I rail at it wildly, filling it with words that refuse to stick to it. And when they do, the page seems to look askance at them, as if their presence was mere sufferance. The futility of this exercise frustrates me with its one-sidedness. Why are you being like this? Can’t you feel like me and open up your arms to my weary pen for once. Why must we always engage in this strange dance of domination? Why must it always be a tussle between the two of us? Tempestuous relationships are all well and good in the sharp-edged turns of plot. But between the two of us it is merely a cruel game.

Why don’t you relent, why can’t we play nice: just for once? I’m too weary of witty repartee and I am not equipped with the charm to artfully win you over. Wouldn’t it be so much easier if you let these words bloom magically on your pristine body rather than cling precariously, desperate for absolution. As I try in vain to reach you, you throw spider webs in my path so I am caught up trying to extricate myself from their invisible strands. And as I twist and contort in vain, you stare at me with complete indifference: not even amusement at the sorry state of this writer.

Ah cruel, cruel page. It is not fair, this utter lack of feeling. Doesn’t it make a difference to you, that I burn with the dream of setting you afire with my inspiration? Obviously not. Why would it, anyway? I know you don’t care. There are so many greater minds paying greater homage to your exalted self. Yet, I try once again to bedeck you in my fancy: fool that I am. And again I look at you with hopeless hope that you will accept the meagre gift of my thoughts. You shrug and gather up the words, putting them up on the dusty showcase full of other tribute. And again I am driven by the insane urge to be the one to create that perfect tribute that will finally light up your dull, pale visage with glowing beauty. Determination rings like a hammer on the anvil of my soul and you stare back stonily at the fires of inspiration in my eyes burning the last failure to prepare space for another attempt... I will conquer you cold page. And you will carry my love with love.

"The triumph of hope over experience."

Affirmation

Greetings! Due to unforeseen circumstances I was unable to publish my New Years post on time. But then again, as the University administration keeps reminding us, better late than indefinitely postponed.


There is very little faith in the world: not today, not for a while. However, the beauty of this world, of humanity, is that it can always find a way to pick itself up from the shambles it has reduced itself to and create something beautiful from the very wreckage in which it stands. Or so we can hope. Life thrives on its ability to continue, to survive, outsmarting all those chaotic gulags that threaten the very essence of it s being. For to live is to survive pain with grace and dignity.

A wise man once said that literature is that which can transform suffering into beauty. Boris Pasternak talks about this in his path breaking novel Dr. Zhivago. He writes, “... art has two constants, two unending concerns: it always meditates on death and thus always creates life.” The World According to Me is admittedly barely a speck on the infinite canvas of literature but it too hopes to fulfill this tenet of art. The world is so full of sadness, but it is also so very full of goodness. It is a positive place that is waiting to be rediscovered by the jaded eyes of the young human race. Though cynicism is the mantra of the Modern, the truth is that Faith springs within us through the strangest mediums. We find it in that song that always raises your spirits, or that book that unfailingly reaffirms our tumbling beliefs, or that logic defying blanket that infuses you with a sense of protection, or the flooding relief you feel whenever you here that voice even through the squeaky conduit of a telephone connection. It's there, regardless of how much you'd rather let it all go and be an all out jaded being. And that's what it means to be alive: to know that there is dark, but it's only so that the bright shines brighter .

The World According to Me welcomes the World into it's cyber portals, taking the good with the bad. We are all blessed with the light of cognizance that fills the world with meaning and worth. And since it is our cognizance that gave birth to the world as we know it, we also realise that we can make the world what we want it to be; we can transform. It is our world to do as we wish with it. So endow it with light and open your arms to the world just waiting to be discovered in its multicolored vibrance. There is so much goodness to be savoured, so much music to be enjoyed, so much life to be lived and so many existences to be rejuvenated. And The World, According to Me can't wait to start.

Happy New Year!

The Creator

Evermore

Something else I unearthed from my notes.

Long after we have gone,
When dust has sublimated
Into something finer still;
When memory has become
A mere memory of memory
You and I will continue to live.

For the same emotion
That quickens my breath
Will pant on the lips of
That unknown new.

And in that shared emotion.
We will live again.

Of Studies

I'm a very serious student ( ok ok Stop! Shut up! Enough with the guffaws!). I take my studies very seriously. (ORDER IN THE BLOG PAGE!) But for all my diligence, my work never moves more than an inch per day! It is a temporal anomaly I say! How else can I end up sitting in front of the same page from 8 am to 5 am? Examine my tight schedule.

The first thing I do post-reveiller and morning ablutions is make a list of things that need to be done. But of course things need to be prioritised, and prioritising takes thought. And of course there are all those things you keep missing out. So constant drafting and redrafting is necessary to make the perfect plan. But then you realise the time-scheme that you had laid for the original plan is no longer applicable because the time has lapsed. So now you, being a smart person and all, draft a new plan which does not specify any time(fickle, slippery thing!) and finally finalise a plan of action. By this time, it is time for lunch and we all know that the brain needs food for thought. So we head off to lunch. In the return trip it is imperative that you drop by at the rooms of other students to brainstorm and also to partake of refreshing ideas. All this exchange of ideas is exhausting, so it is only right that we invite these great minds-the budding philosophers of tomorrow- for rejuvenating coffee.

The brewing of coffee is an exacting art. All the more demanding because we are sharply deficient of utensils such as spoons and the only one there is pressed into the service of stirring. Since we are tenuously trying to pour out the right amounts of coffee, some spillage is bound to happen. And cleaning this up is obviously going to take time. By this time, the lazy sun has dipped off and treacherous evening has crept in! Of course you return to your books recharged with the wisdom imparted by the coffee drinkers and pore over the miniscule print. But the light is bad so you go to switch on the tube, which is when the dog slips in undetected. Half an hour of tussle later the dog is out but you are covered with dog hair. A bath is imperative. And considering what you were handling, it better be on the longer side just to guarantee dog-freeness.

Post bath I realise that time has sped by on winged feet, and it is time for dinner. But, the diligent student that I am, I skip this for the sake of academics (that, and the fact that the tummy is still full of coffee :P). So the serious student studies seriously with nary a distracted blink for several hours. But then you suddenly recall your friend mentioned that she might send a mail. And, being such a responsible person, you realise that the easiest way to not forget a task is to do it as soon as you remember it. And since I am online I might as well check on the blog and then of course there are the comments to be answered and the non-existent comments to rail against. Multi-tasking is the sign of a true student. My duty as a blogger and netizen fulfilled, I return to my books full-throttle. A while later, the missed dinner makes its absence felt and your stomach compels you to fix a sandwich. And sandwiches are so crumby and messy, so there is dusting and washing to clear up. Making a quick job of that, you reprise your perusal of the blessed texts, post-haste with the concentration of a balancing act. Some time later you stretch your cramped back and happen to look out the window and realise that the light is not merely from the tubelight and that the sun has risen. When did that happen???? And the work has not diminished at all!

I tell you it is a conspiracy! All universities and academic institutions have placed their students in a weird time warp that refuses to let them finish their work. How else can a day, that supposedly has 24hrs, disappear in 20 minutes? I type this out in the frustration of the truly stumped, and will take the opportunity of this respite to return to studying. You see what a serious student I am?

Dogged Doggies-II

Chaka

It's a dog's life indeed.
Is it not enough that we miserable inmates of the hostel residences spent the first year of our M.Adness dodging the puddles and myriad other foibles of you furry fiends? Is it not enough that we are routinely assaulted by your panting presence cemented to our shins and, in some truly disturbing cases, to parts of the anatomy that should never have to come anywhere near canines of any sort? Is it not enough that you dog our footsteps like the dogged doggies that you are, renderings us unable to take a step without encountering your pungent presence?

Apparently not.

It was a fine day-One of the last days of our bondage within the academic shackles of the third semester. Exhausted by several nights and days of too little sleep and too much assignmenting, the author sunk into an exhausted stupor in the cool sanctuary of her room, savoring that "...still,unravished bride of quiteness..." (forgive me, Keats), sweet sleep. The room-mate, good soul that she is, recognized snoriasis when she saw it and left the slumbering mortal alone,thoughtfully leaving the door open in the unlikely event that the aforementioned slumbering mortal would wake up in the next 12hrs.

Had this is been a marginally fair world, this rosy picture would have played out to its logical conclusion. However, as we are regularly reminded,life rejoices in being perfectly Machiavellian.

A few inadequate hours later, the author was resummoned into the land of the living by something unpleasantly wet being applied to her flung forearm. Amazed at her room-mate's desperation that she should be moved to using water to rouse the sleeper, the author reluctantly cracked open one of her bleary eyes. And flew out of bed in a leap that put mankind to shame! For you see, the sight that greeted the author's poor shocked eyes was not the benign countenance of her very comely room-mate, but the grinning, drool-dripping face of Chaka the doggy demon!The creature had crept into the room when no one was looking and clambered over the bed to loom over the author's sleeping head, deciding that the prone form was an apt petredish for drool samples.

While the author's ravings brought people from other rooms running to her doorstep, it had no effect whatsoever on the lolloping limpet-like mutt squatting on her bed grinning unrepentantly, tongue lolling. Apparently in Chaka-tongue yelling and screaming is a sign of bonhomie and love. Why else would she take the writer's raging roars to be a signal to lie down on the evacuated bed and furthermore proceed to rub herself all over the author's poor precious bedsheet? And the fact that the dog smelt like an open drain and had obviously been frolicking one too, did not do much to reduce the disgust her actions inspired. It was bad enough that Chaka had parked herself on my pillow and then went on to mambo on my mattress, but the red began to seep into the vision when she started for the blessed blanket. Something about the raised arm must have raised an alarm in her dim doggy brain, for she scooted off the bed before the blow could fall. While the author fought against her restraining compatriots, heaving angry lungfuls of air now permeated with Eu de Chaka, the dratted dog gave a queenly shrug as if to say "wha'ever" in Barbie-esque nonchalance and proceeded to disembowel a few unsuspecting dustbins in the lower floors.

As the discerning reader might have surmised, clean up was a b***h. The sheets and pillowcase were washed with both detol and savlon, and then left to air for 5 days just to be on the safe side. The author spent many a happy hour dreaming of transporting Chaka off to Nagaland, where the people have a penchant for toothsome canines. The Nagas are a smart race! University has leeched me of any dog loving tendencies that I might have harbored. Never again will I coochie-coo over a conniving canine. Forever traumatised by the trauma of living with these colonising curs, I can no longer look at an adorable puppy without recalling the menace it will become.

But then again, truth be told,we are the trespassers not the dogs. After all they stay on at the University, while we are merely passing through in the long line of passages in this transit flight called life. Students may come and students may go, but the dogs go on for ever. The full-throated howls ringing through the campus at 3 am in the morning are testament to the fact that they go on and on incessantly. The author realises that in this dog eat dog world one will come across strange bedfellows: there is nothing to be done but to wait for the offending mutt to boot out and then clean the sheets. And so she will go nurse the headache that all the live howling has brought about with nary a slight against the wretched animals.

It's a dog's life, indeed.

Something I found while rummaging through my Russian Literature class-notes while we were discussing Dr. Zhivago by Boris Pasternak.

Something so "never again",

That it was bound to happen again,
Happened when we were not looking;
So we didn't know it was happening
Until it did.

Perhaps then, it makes sense
That each time it happens
It feels like Genesis and Resurrection
Together:
The coldness of the newness
Crashing against the warm moisture
Of congenial birth fluids of emotion,
so sharply,
That we cry out in painful ecstasy
That steals our breath.
Or rather,
Chokes our wind pipes.

"Never again," we say breathlessly
Panting in the aftermath of it all;
And fall headlong
Into the spiralling kaliedoscope
of again.
And again.
And again...

Observation

A work of fiction: The NUTRITIONAL facts on the side of a chips packet.

Loo-baroo....

Bathrooms are generally considered areas of cleansing. Sadly, in a hostel, entering a bathroom entails a simultaneous feeling of increased dirtiness. Call it physical, psychological, philosophical or plain comical but the moment you set foot into a hostel sanitation area, you feel like all the plagues of Egypt descended upon you at the same time.

Consider my first hostel bathroom. It was truly posh, really. For one thing it was an actual room! (As in we had to take at least two steps to touch the opposite wall). Secondly it did not supply 'mineral' water that literally turned us into stalagmites if we stood under the flow of water for too long. (please note the use of "flow of water" as opposed to shower). But these virtues were overshadowed by the fatal hamartia of the Hanging Gardens of Underwear. Take this scenario: After a sweltering night, first thing you see when you enter the bathroom are rows of drying lingerie, this followed by the swarm of mosquitoes that the opened door stirred awake, while M.S' suprabhatam mocks you in musical amusement. I assure you such a welcome blinds one to the magic of space and decalicifying possibilities. Furthermore, the bathroom was attached- A cloaked killer that. Because you see, this meant that the person in the bed closest to the bathroom (me) bore the full brunt of the mosquitoes that were spawned in the damp reaches of the damned room. And my first hostel's bathroom was apparently the Big Apple of mosquito-dom. I am surprised I survived with any blood at all!

Times changed as did hostels, but bathrooms go on forever. Or not, considering that my in second hostel there was always a shortage or available cubicles in the morning when you desperately crave ablutions before battling the day. I made my inaugural bathroom entry with a bang: I dropped a detol bottle right in the middle of the place and it obligingly smashed into smithereens with an accompanying twash! This gained me the everlasting displeasure of most of the inmates thereafter. Well,the anus sanctum (that was the motto of the hostel, not a pun) came with luxurious effects of 4-5 bathing cubicles, even smaller toilets, 'mineral water' baths, live music (neighbouring bathroomers) and the eternal "excitement" regarding the fickleness of water supply. This last quality, by the way, is a constant in every hostel.

Some of the most awkward and hilarious (on hindsight) situations arise when the water stops halfway through whatever sanitary activity you are indulging in. Following such a misfortune the hapless individual will embark upon a series of hollers and yowls imploring the staff to PLEASE TURN THE MOTOR ON! which may or may not be heard (ignored) by the implorees. Tis a terrible fate indeed to be stuck in a waterless bathroom. Worse still if the bathroom in question already induces nausea and is rather claustrophobic to add to it. Funny in the future perhaps, but when you're you are marooned in a bathroom caked with soap and with merely a millimeter of water left in your bucket, nothing can be farther from humor. Another hostel bathroom constant is darkness. All the hostel bathrooms I have been exposed to have suffered from light shortage at some period or the other. And in the case of the Old Women's Hostel, we were perennially in the dark regarding whether there will ever be light. In many ways it is a blessing - at least you don't have to see what you might see. But it is rather funny considering it gives a whole new twist to the phrase "dark doings". Couple that with groping in the dark for the tap and you have a comic scene worthy of Laurel and Hardy.

There's nothing new about the New Women's Hostel's bathrooms. Same old water problems, same old faulty locks, same old dysfunctional light bulbs. But what is different is that the users love to leave behind memories of their presence in the form of shampoo sachets, plastic covers, newspapers and often rather vile things I'd rather not defile the blog by naming. As the law abiding pacifist proletariat we went to the authorities and got zilch. Which is when, in true University spirit,the the posters went up. The revolutionary literature was posted on bathroom doors in eloquent terms running along the lines of " Pull the flush!" and "Get toilet trained!" Surprisingly enough the posters did have an effect. For a while. Sigh.

I remember telling my mother that I wanted to take pictures of the bathrooms at home, just so I can remember that clean, pretty bathrooms do exist and the parryware ads aren't full of s***t. This declaration was greeted with incredulous laughter, of course. Either way, I am sure that this is a memorable experience. And I'm pretty sure it has inured me to a great deal of trauma. At some point of time when I am stranded in the slums of Sumatra, I wont be challenged by the terrifying toilets. So I guess there's no harm done. If nothing else the bad bathrooms have become an investment in mirth: so it's all worth it. :D

The Rite

Kalyani's heart cringed at the thought of what awaited her smiling daughter. The unfairness of it all galled her fine sensibilities. Her daughter was much too young, much too happy for this!. It isn't right! she thought vehemently, as she glanced at the group of adults cosseting her little girl. She is just a child, a baby! The centre of attention laughed unaware that this attention was only because they too knew what was going to happen,and knew that she needed to be lulled into safety before the inevitable needle prick that awaited her. The injustice of it all left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Saro placed a hand on Kalyani's shoulder, "It is time, mole." Kalyani shot a pained glance at her mother and stiffened her spine. She had to do this, it was tradition. Her daughter would thank her later. The cooing group parted like the Red Sea at her approach. She shared a speaking glance with Shantam who calmly held out the tiny earings as Kalyani lifted her startled daughter in her arms. The child looked up at her questioningly for a moment, but the rising question was submerged in the deluge of trust that gurgled forth from her lips, spreading into a smile of unblemished faith. And Kalyani's heart broke into a thousand pieces: She was going to shatter that unquestioning trust today. Dredging up a smile for her daughter's benefit Kalyani walked through the darkened portals.

The Nurse looked up from her tray and smiled reassuringly. "Have you marked her?" she asked.
Kalyani managed a nod. Her daughter chose that moment to release a happy giggle, making Kalyani's knotted insides shrivel. The Nurse took one look at her tortured visage and quickly held out her arms. "Come, let me take her through this , you wait outside." Kalyani looked down at her laughing daughter and knew she couldn't see what was going to happen to her. In that moment of weakness she gave up her child, her baby into alien arms. The child laughed happily at the mild change in height, her sparkling exuberance spreading itself even into the business-like nurse who unbent enough to coo soft words to her and bounce her about. Kalyani turned away unable to face the waiting pain. As the nurse walked away, she listened against her will to the fading laughter of her little girl. She heard a door close but she could still hear the laughter, light and naive. Her daughter would be in the room now-There was another burst of laughter-they would hold her firmly so she wouldn't flinch and dislodge the equipment- a little giggle and some chatter-They would lower the needle onto her tender skin and--

SCRREEEEEEEEECCCCHHHHH!!!!!

The scream rent the air like tearing silk, all the more gruesome because of the mirth that preceded it. Kalyani's fingernails dug crescents into her palms as she willed herself not to run to her daughters rescue. The screams went on an on, first plaintive, then angry, never stopping. At long painful last the nurse returned with her crying daughter who looked up at her with her large wet eyes full of reproach. Kalyani swallowed and gathered her up in her arms trying to soothe her. I'm so very sorry kanna. So so sorry.
She cleared her throat and faced the nurse, "Did she give you too much trouble?"
The nurse, who had lost a great amount of her cool matter-of-fact calm, was trying ineffectually to recapture several escaped strands of hair. She shot a mildly desperate and partly amused glance at the crying child and shook her head in disbelief.

"Trouble? Oh madam, it is only because she didn't know what we were doing that we managed to pierce the first ear properly. The second one is definitely off! She wouldn't let the needle anywhere near her! She's going to be a difficult one! So angry, my God!"

Sure enough, one ear lobe sported a piercing much lower than the marked spot. Kalyani smiled indulgently. If at 28 days her daughter was fighter, perhaps at 28 she will be even better. If she can fight this little pain with such vehemence, may be the greater pains will be kept at bay too. Kalyani looked down at her baby daughter who had cried herself to angry sleep, the tiny golden earings glowing in the dim light of the hospital corridor and prayed for happy times.

It isn't fair.
Really.
Everytime I look at you I am reminded of what I'm supposed to do. The World According to me must constantly be replenished. But what do I do when the world , according to me, is refusing to let me replenish it. For one thing there is work. For another, there is angst. When, beloved blog, did you transcend from distraction to duty? I do not know whether this transcendence is benevolent; for love is demanding. By its very nature it cannot but pierce you to do right by it.

And so, I pen this seemingly pointless missive, delivered on the binary coded wings of cyberspace pigeons and sincerely apologise. Every day I look at you and wish I could. But I ask you, with humble hope of acceptance, to wait awhile.

I will return.