The Giant Who Eats Buildings

Evening approached the city of Blort

And each was a quivering sight.

The Blortians had an odd monster,

To deal with in the night.

A monster who ate their grandparents,

Or a tree-devouring creep,

Would have surely received a warm welcome

And housed on Scruppian street.

Yet sadly no, they had to deal with

This huge abomination.

Nothing had been spared its wrath,

Not even the police station.

And soon the sun was fast asleep,

The moon lit up in its stead.

There rose from the edge of the ocean -

A gigantic human head.

He wore a shiny black bowler hat

And his pants were awkwardly short.

With one gargantuan leap, he was

On the shores of the city Blort.

His eyes gleamed with a hunger

That seemed most peculiar.

For all you faint-hearted souls, I suggest

That you stop reading here.

His pudgy hand wrapped around

A concrete building rather stout,

And without a moment’s hesitation,

He put it in his mouth.

Once he finished with his appetizer,

He looked around for something more filling

And found a skyscraper to his liking

A steel one, dealing with billings.

He finished his feast and let out a burp

That made the trees sway

And took another humongous step

To go consume another place.

The Blortians woke up the next morning

And surveyed the damage done.

“What’s the point of building it again,

When it'll only be eaten?” asked one.

 Yet they still completed the construction

And went on with their work that day.

Knowing that in a few days, the monster will

Make a meal of the building again.

In cold blood

The wind blew harder, a sign of the thunderstorm yet to come. Elena pulled her coat closer and huddled up, trying to keep the warmth of her body from escaping. A few drops of water fell on her forehead and rolled down the side of her nose. In her hurry to reach before the rains drenched her, she brushed past the cornerstone of a building and her purse was bumped from her hand. She turned around to pick it up and froze as she caught a glimpse of a dark figure quickly melting into the shadows of an alley nearby. 

Elena's heart quickened. As she pushed her purse back into her handbag, her fingers closed around the unused can of pepper spray. She had only brandished it a few times to chase away the occasional stalker. The thought of actually having to use it terrified her. She looked around. It had started to drizzle and the street  suddenly wore an abandoned look. A sudden thud startled her and she spun around, the pepper spray in her hand. A garbage can rolled back and forth, its contents spewed across the pavement. 

Panic began to well up in Elena's heart and she walked faster. Just as the rain started to pour down more heavily, she turned another corner and the familiar gate to her apartment greeted her. She sighed in relief and raced into the building. Walking up the stairs, she laughed nervously at her still fluttering heart. A misplaced step flung her forward on to her hands. Pain radiated through her right ankle - she knew that wearing those high heels to work was a bad idea. Picking up her bag, she turned to face the window on the landing behind her. She stared at the black hooded jacket reflected in the glass for a few seconds, motionless. 

A muffled shriek escaped her lip. Engulfed by the darkness, the only sound she could hear was her heart beating frantically. She didn't hear him approach till she felt the cold blade of the knife rest on her throat.

******

He stood over her lifeless body. He was accustomed to the dark and he could see her contours as though they were bathed in the brightest light. He ran his hand over the bloody blade, watching it slide off. Placing the knife on a nearby table, he began looking around at the currently unoccupied and well-furnished house. A flat-screen TV mounted on the wall caught his attention and after a brief search for the remote, he sat down with his legs up on her designer couch and turned on the football game.

It had stopped raining.

******

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.