Dear Diary...

"Don't keep a diary," said my grandfather, during the course of an otherwise mundane vacation. "Why?" I continued to keep an eye on the television in front of me, "How else would I remember all the good things that happened to me?" He smiled and said, "Because when you look back, all that was once good will weigh you down and make you wonder if you should have made those mistakes in the first place." I had never paid much attention to what my grandparents had told me and this one was no exception. Till today.

At a time when nothing seems to be going your way, you would probably do something that makes you happy like watch a movie or chat with your friends. I write. I opened my diary today and it fell on a page that I was hoping I would never have to read again. It was one of the happiest days of my life - I can't remember being any happier than I was at that point of time and something tells me that there is a chance that I will never feel that way again.

Yet for the first time in my life, I completely understood the meaning of the words that my grandfather had spoken. It is a strange and unnerving feeling to relive a day like that in your mind, only this time, in the context of everything that has been happening for the past few months. The agony is indescribable. It is only when you realize the web of lies that was woven around your eyes was actually delicate enough to be broken by a single thought that you understand the fragility of your life. How every choice you made took you a particular way and how you did not become things that you could have been. How you could  not have seen things that were quite plainly put in front of you and most importantly, why you could not choose what you knew was right.

I do not want to regret any of the choices that I made because they made me what I am today. By hating those decisions, I will hate the person that I have become and to live with that kind of hate is difficult. I close my book and I wonder. Given a choice, would I rewrite my past or would I just relive the moments? And what would become of me after I choose again? Will I remain the same "me" or would I find my purpose altered yet again? For my own sanity, I prefer to leave these questions unanswered.

Reality is a myth

"Feasibility depends on time, cost and effort..." A voice drones on in the background. A noise waiting to be shut out. My mind seems unwilling to pay attention and the chill in the air helps me settle into my personal bubble.  Reality begins to look like a blurred photograph - I feel like I see the world now through the eyes of a cocaine addict yet without the hallucinations and enchanting colours. Yet this is enough for me - I feel the haze settle around me and it makes me comfortable.

The voice continues, a low hum in the distance. Phrases infiltrate my consciousness and I alternate between reality and the dark recesses of my soul. "Come to the dark side, we have cookies..." whispers a familiar voice. I smile and ask whether they are chocolate chip. The boundaries remain blurred as I look through the cabinets in my mind, for a thought tucked away, to be pondered over at a later time. I come up with nothing - so much for systematic filing.

I switch back to reality as someone coughs in the front bench. The sun seems just as reluctant to come out from under its quilt of grey clouds. Today is not a day for dismal note-taking. It is, however, great weather for creative reflection and nonsensical daydreams. All I want to do is dive headfirst into the rabbit hole and marvel at its convoluted twists and turns, not caring about feasibility. A few minutes of soul- searching can give me everything I need and want - sometimes completely altering my reality. The fragility of everything seems unnerving at times, yet it does reassure me because I know that nothing is permanent. Neither the good, nor the bad.

Tied down to tradition...

Rhea stood outside the ancestral temple of her family, apprehension rising within her. From her pink iPod right up to her downright discomfort in a saree, the looks that she was getting from infrequent passers-by in the small village said it all – She did not fit in. As she continued surveying the temple, her younger sister ran around, peeking in fascination into the tiny huts that lined the road. Roosters and goats roamed freely and the low humdrum was disturbed only by the erratic squawking of a few hens. Further into the distance, the huts disappeared and green fields began, stretching into the distance.

There were few people out on the road at the time. An old man sat at the entrance of his house, staring at the newcomers who had disturbed the tranquility of the village. The only other people present were the priest and his wife, who were talking in loud, animated voices to my parents and grandparents. A loud honk knocked Rhea back to the more boring reality. “Rhea, Alisha, move to the side. Let the bus pass.” Bus??  Rhea swiveled around and felt her mouth drop open. An overcrowded bus was slowly making its way down the village road that was barely 6 to 7 feet wide. It barely missed the thatched roofs of some huts as it rumbled along its way.

After it had passed, Rhea turned her attention to her sister, who was now pointing out a rooster excitedly to her mother. She sighed and walked into the temple. The idol was placed inside a tiny room and surrounded by a larger room and a passageway to walk around during the ritual. The larger room had mats placed at the side, only partly filled with offerings of fruits and rice. Rhea sat down next to the plates and watched as people walked in out, trying to get the place ready for the ritual. The priest’s wife walked in and smiled at her. Rhea smiled back awkwardly. “What are you studying now, dear?” the woman asked her loudly in Tamil. “2^nd year – college,” she replied in broken Tamil. “Oh that’s nice,” said the woman as she went on with her work, “The last time I saw you was when you were a baby.”

Unsure of how to respond to that, Rhea smiled back at her again. The priest’s wife continued questioning her and Rhea replied as well as she could in her broken Tamil, trying not to exceed a syllable or two. “So have any good proposals come your way?” Rhea looked puzzled and said, “I don’t understand…” “Ayo!” said the woman, “when are you getting married? Your parents must have found you a nice boy by now and you’ve reached a marriageable age.” Rhea stared at the old lady in shock for a while and managed to find her voice, saying, “No marriage for now.”

She quickly stood up and walked out, looking for her mother. She was sitting on a steel chair outside the priest’s house, which was right next to the temple. Rhea walked up, sat next to her mother and murmured frantically, “Ma, get me out of here now…” Her mother looked at her and asked, “What’s the matter now?”

-          

             - “That woman asked me when I would be marrying! Are they all nuts?”

-           - “You know that they’re very conservative. They still think that girls should marry early.”

-           - “So they are all nuts then?”

-           - “Shhh! Don’t let your dad hear you. You’ll offend his sense of control over his family.”

Rolling her eyes, Rhea placed her head on her palm and looked around her. After an uneventful hour, her father finally called out to them, saying “The ritual’s starting.” Alisha, who had been chasing a hen up and down the road for the past fifteen minutes, looked up in disappointment at this announcement. Rhea frowned as she walked into the temple only to be reprimanded by her grandmother. “Wipe that look off your face or it will freeze that way,” she said in Tamil. It’ll probably be the most interesting thing that’s happened today then, thought Rhea, watching the priest light a piece of camphor.

Two hours later, Rhea found herself staring into space as she stood alongside her parents and sister. The ritual was in its final stage, according to her father. She looked down at the hem of her saree, which she had been playing with sporadically for the past fifteen minutes. The priest set his things down and walked out, yelling, “Where’s the goat? Get it ready!” Alisha pulled at her father’s hand and asked, “What do they want a goat for?”

-          

             - “They’re going to sacrifice it.”

-           - “But why?”

-           - "Because it’s part of the ritual.”

-           - “But why is it a part of the ritual?”

-           - “Because that’s how it is! Now go sit with your mother inside that house.”

-           - “But I want to see the goat being sacrificed!”

Her father sighed and signaled to Rhea to take her in. After leaving Alisha in the house with her mother, Rhea strolled towards the crowd that had collected outside the temple and was startled by a shrill screech. The priest’s wife was dancing and flailing her hands madly in the air, shrieking with every alternate step that she took. “She’s in a divine trance…” her grandmother said to her.

“YOU!!” yelled the woman. Please don’t point to me, please don’t point to me, Rhea thought as she desperately tried cowering behind her grandmother (this did not work due to her grandmother’s short stature).  The priest’s wife jabbed her finger at Rhea’s grandfather. Oh, thank God!, she thought as she straightened up again. “Is everything satisfactory?” yelled her grandfather, “Are you happy with the ritual?” “YES!” shrieked the woman again, flailing wildly, “where’s my goat?” OK, I’m not watching anymore, thought Rhea as she closed her eyes and covered her ears.

A few hours later, steaming mutton biriyani was served on banana leaves to everyone who had taken part in the ritual. Rhea eyed her food, trying to decide if she should eat it or not. She looked to her right and watched Alisha dig into her serving ravenously. Rhea grinned, wondering whether she should tell her sister that she was gorging on a recently sacrificed goat. “Don’t even think about it,” said her mother, without even looking up. Her mother knew her too well. 

The Perils of a Psychology Postgraduate (or will be in two years!)

I find myself dreading conversations with new people because I know that they will definitely ask me the inevitable, "So what do you do?" And as much as I would love to say, "I para-glide and juggle in the mornings and at night, I fight crime alongside Underdog", I answer with the more boring, normal, "I'm doing my postgraduation right now". And then it begins - they ask you what you are attempting to specialize in and the moment you say psychology, they pounce on you. I cannot recall a single conversation continuing along this line during which people did not make any stupid comments.

For example, we have the classic "So you're a mind reader huh?" No I'm not a fortune-teller, you brainless chihuahua, what I study is an actual science! And when I do tell them that (in a socially appropriate manner, of course) the next question is about why I did not choose the usual courses. Of course, what they're thinking is Did she not get into any good engineering/medical college? So, to hear me say that I did so out of my own choice is a little staggering and harder for the more conservative ones to digest. At this point, they usually decide that this conversation must end and walk off to find more exciting victims who are, like other normal people, doing a EEE course in a well-reputed yet unheard-of college.

The next one that is probably the more annoying of the lot is the "OK, go on read my mind.. Tell me what I'm thinking about." All this with an eager look on their faces. Knowing that at some level I am being screwed with, I wonder which response to use. Some of the more popular ones are: -

1) "You'll have to pay me first! I charge 500 for each mind-reading." "Rupees?" "No, dollars."

2) Stand with a constipated look on your face for a while before bursting into peals of laughter, saying "Yeah, I think I'm going to go tell her that!" and then walk towards their wives, all the while mumbling to yourself, "Yes that was a brilliant joke! So true!" This works especially well at weddings when you know that his wife is surrounded by a bunch of giggling, gossip-mongering middle-aged women.

3) "OK you really need to get an MRI done. That tumour is really getting in the way of my mind-reading skills."

4) "Uh.. I can't hear a thing. But that's probably because you lack a brain. Don't worry too much though. Most people live through their entire lives, never noticing that they're dunces."

5) "Ecology is unarguably the need of the hour with urgent attention to be diverted towards the more ignored areas of preservation and reforestation." (turn and walk away)

I hope this article finds its way to the more illiterate crowd that prides itself on asking and tormenting psychology students with, what they believe to be, the wittiest one-liners that the world has ever seen. Let us be. Or we will mess with you when you come to us for therapy.

Graduate studies are overrated

I find myself sitting at class, wondering what everything is about. The only thoughts in my head right now are my doubts about whether I am part-vampire but neither parent seems cool enough to be pure-blood. Something has to explain my excessive sensitivity to daylight. Or that could just be sleep. As a dignified post-graduate student, I'm required to say things that make sense and work diligently at my assignments. Yet I find that Facebook is undeniably the best distraction in the business.

People randomly walk into class, sometimes talking about assertiveness or dysfunctional development and I find my thoughts wandering off to chicken frankies and the Pirates of the Caribbean series. And as I think about the colours of Johnny Depp's beads under his hat, my conscience kicks me in the rear, bringing me back to a more distressing reality of research articles and Powerpoint presentations. I wish I was able to ad-lib my presentations and have people wonder where I gathered such insightful information from but that's a long shot. A very long one.

A group of classmates sit next to me, talking about the rubbish that they've added to their presentations and I wonder if they even know that they're five levels higher on the intellectual scale when compared to me. And then a very bimbo-ish comment brings back my faith in my intellectual capacity and I settle into sloth again. I miss the days when I was able to sit in class and not care about what was happening because I had my sturdy notes to drool on. Now I find myself wondering where I can find the notes in question to worship with all sincerity. Stupid adulthood.

The day randomness walks back into my life, I will welcome it with open arms and take it out for a cup of coffee and some good Chinese food.

Life Is Beautiful (but it could be better) - A cat's tale

I wake up with a start -  my stomach has begun rumbling in anger. I lift myself easily off my bed and walk across a few steps. I stretch myself and yawn, taking in the dismal surroundings. Why do these people always sleep through my breakfast time? I sigh to myself, knowing that it's up to me to wake them yet again. I readied myself and pounced on the door handle, hanging onto it for as long as I could. Ah, I thought to myself as I heard footsteps approaching, finally!!! The door opened and my feeder stepped out lazily and rather unsteadily. Hurry up, I thought to myself impatiently as I rubbed against her feet. She looks outside and mumbles something about "stupidity" and "three in the morning". I walk beside her to check as she gets my food ready and her mumbling continues as I eat but I pay no attention.

I snuggle up into my nook - my nice dark corner. Daylight streams in. Noises of people walking up and down, asking about misplaced books and phones intrude my thoughts every few seconds but they don't disturb me. A few hours later, I sleepily open an eye and my stomach grumbles slightly. I jump onto the floor and stretch... And yawn... And look around lazily... Maybe I should sleep again. I watch as one of my feeders tries to engage me in some sort of patronizing play. I give her a bored look and yawn. Something flits past me and catches my attention. I look around and then get ready to pounce. A pair of feet run past me again and I make my move. A yelp of pain tells me that my aim is still pretty good.

I make my way to the window and settle down for some nice human-watching. Humans of different shapes and sizes seem to be hurrying to get somewhere all the time. I don't get the reason for that. There is nothing to get hassled about. There's just me, my food and my sleep. Oh and those extremely condescending games that I have to indulge in to keep my feeders happy. There is nothing to rush about. I start as I find myself being picked off of my perch, only to be cuddled and gurgled at. A few slashes and curses later, I walk back to my corner and I decide that my day is over. Curling up into a tight ball, I lay my head on my tail and decide to sleep till I'm hungry again. I am content.

Broken Glass

She looked through the window in front of her. The wind blew decisively, making the tree outside shiver violently. Silence resumed but it offered the woman no comfort. She spent a few more moments looking through the frosty glass before she rose to her feet. She walked towards the door, her steps so graceful that she may have been gliding across the marble floor.

She entered a large corridor, dimly lit. The halls of the mansion seemed to be filled with an emptiness that nothing could fill. Oil paintings, hanging on the walls, came alive in the candlelight, their lifeless eyes following her every step. Yet she continued her lonely stroll, unnerved by the shadows that seemed to come to life when you turned your back on them. The air began to freshen up as she approached the living room.

Moonlight flooded in through the large French windows and its beams were caught by a grand chandelier, the ornamental piece and pride of the living room. It cast a deathly pall on the furniture in the room. Walking past the ornate armchairs, the woman reached for the door. It opened, creaking reluctantly. The air, now clear, was as cold as ice. The wind blew no more and the trees around the house stood still, surveying the ground coldly.

She continued walking and stopped at the edge of the courtyard, in front of a solitary slab of stone. The woman bent closer to read the inscription. "Here lies Lady Alice Penderfield, who lived a contented life and whose passing was eased by a bed of roses. She will be missed by her ever-loving husband Lord Penderfield." A wry smile eased her sharp features, followed by an icy laugh that cut through the night air. "What good is a bed of roses after sleeping on shards of broken glass?" she whispered to herself, as she walked into the desolate night.

Home Once More

Trivial things have begun to matter now. I toss and turn - my bed always seems too hard and my pillows too high. I find myself craving every cuisine that I hear of. To add to it all, I am perennially broke. Staying away from home brings to the forefront everything that was, earlier, too small to worry about. My daily emergencies consist of kurtas running colour and inner-wear disappearing into thin air.

Though the room I stay in now offers some familiarity, it does not give me the same sense of comfort that even the thought of home brings to me. Waking up with just enough time to get dressed and leave has become a luxury that I cannot afford. I lose myself in my thoughts, wishing I was walking back through the doors of my house only to be greeted by silence and a hungry cat. Still deep in thought, my hand moves to the fan regulator, only to remember that it does not work. Like a lot of things in my life.

There are times when I long to be left alone. I am finally learning to shut the rest of the world out. With my earphones in place and a book in my hand, Perdeler by Apocalyptica and Sebnem Ferah provides the perfect foil to Anton Chekhov's engrossing stories. "Ere I had learned to drink of tears from the chalice of life..." sings Yonich, a character from one of Chekhov's tales. And I find myself at home again.

A lazy day

Vacations never did me any good. Not that I'm complaining but they seem to bring about a very strong need to be lethargic. The kind of need that pulls you back into bed just when you decide to do something constructive - like write. Suffice to say, I thought I wouldn't be able to put a pen to paper for the next few weeks. I guess I forgot that I owned a computer.

And just like everyone else, we remember vacations according to something important that happened (like a trip) or a whole bunch of things that we kept doing on and on for two months. This summer will probably be defined by reruns of TV shows that I never thought that I would watch, Russell Peters, Faust and trying to give my cat her medication. Which is a highly dangerous job that makes me glad that my cat has had her shots. If the bit about Faust is scaring you a little, it might be reassuring to know that I have only gotten past the first few pages - with the help of a dictionary.

My cat makes me extremely jealous. She wakes up in the morning at around 6 and stretches in five different ways even though she probably had the most comfortable spot on the bed. She saunters towards her bowl of food and digs in. After some soul-searching at the litter tray, she has to make the toughest choice of the day - will she sit around and let herself be amused by her staff or will she just creep into her corner behind the television and sleep for the rest of the day? I don't have a choice - I wake up or I will get kicked out, I make the bed or get yelled at, I clean up my room or I will get yelled at a little more because I will be facing a crankier mother.


It's a strange feeling, sitting at the computer in the afternoon and listening to the soundtrack of Juno, knowing you have absolutely nothing to do but relax. I wonder when I'll feel this way again.

The devil's hour

Waking up at three in the morning may not be my most favourite thing to do. Strangely enough, it holds its charms even for someone who feels that she is better off bewitched by a blanket of sleep. The darkness seems to have settled down, not willing to move for another hour or two at the least. The night air itself seems paralysed, too afraid to breathe and wake the sleeping trees. The world around you has come to a complete stop and in times of inner chaos, the silence is strangely comforting. Social norms and expectations disappear in the darkness. There is no one else but you. A feeling that frees you and inhibits you all at once. After what feels like an eternity, you realise that you have all the time in the world at your fingertips but the shackles of duty bind you to your dull blue textbook. After soaking in the silence for two hours, I find that my eyes feel heavy again. The powerful hand of sleep meets with little resistance as it lifts me off my bed, makes me turn the lights off and return - all in one smooth, automatic motion - to the comfort of my pillows. I close my eyes and within seconds, the world ceases to exist. There is no one anymore.

The Secret Life Of Daydreams

*This title was inspired by a piece of music from "Pride and Prejudice", the one that recently came out with Keira Knightley in the lead. It stuck to the back of my head and wouldn't let go till I started writing.*

Sitting alone on a plain wooden bench,
The clouds play lazily.
There is a breeze that brushes
Past the trees,
Through the leaves.
It suddenly hastens
An appointment suddenly remembered.
On its tail, a curious creature flutters
A beautiful one, no doubt
Her crystal wings glint in the sunlight
As she makes her way.
Where does she go?
I continued to wonder
Long after the dream had dissolved
Into the distance.
Does she go back home and go to bed
To ready herself for another busy day?
When she will find another person
Who will dream her dream?
Or will she go to a tea party
Where she will sit
And along with the other daydreams
Sharing experiences and gossip?
Or will she find a quiet corner?
A dark little nook?
Where she will sit and cry
Till her glow disappears
For no one has thought of her at all?
I turn to take my bag
And there she sits
Looking at me with a thoughtful gaze
I smile to myself.
The daydream she carried had been mine.
She picked herself up
And fluttered out of sight
Glinting brighter than ever
For a job well done.