WHEN HOME IS AWAY…

Days pass in foggy detail, in a blur of riding all over town looking for inspiration, late night movies, carrot juice on the roadside and frustrating attempts to move a 75 kg scooter up a narrow stone ramp. The old Hyderabad city-meets-Mada Streets world is infinitely fascinating to live in. But it isn’t K K Nagar.

The ‘week’, which sometimes lasts up to 14 days, is finally drawing to a close. Blood gushes to the peripheries, rendering you hyper and restive. Work seems meaningless, as a silly grin refuses to leave your face. The clock strikes 4 p.m., but you are nowhere close to getting done. But the motivation is fierce, and quality takes a backseat. You send it in, and take off yourself, skipping down the stairs to the one bike that stands out in the entire sea of two wheelers on Mission Street, thanks to the gaudy yellow stickers on royal purple, screaming ‘PRESS’. 

Charger, purse and medicines – all else is insignificant; you know that. Still, you set aside your favourite pair of jeans, and at least 5 shirts, in anticipation of some miracle that will prolong your stay. The white shirt for the movie, the striped tunic for dinner, and of course, no trip would be complete without your Superman T shirt. The first things that find their way in though, are those dirty clothes that you are too lazy to wash yourself. Books, toiletries, trinkets – somehow they all find their space in that capacious sac. And you are off.

In what seems like an endless stretch of time, the bus slowly weaves its way out of the fetid bus stop. The bus hits the highway, and you finally begin to relax and lean back into your seat. Your legs are cramped beneath the seat ahead of you, and your own seat protests in pain. But with raindrops pelting your face and the wind whipping the wisps of hair that have escaped your ponytail, your throat only chokes up inexplicably in a sudden surge of emotion. The bus ride is akin to running into welcoming arms, in slo mo. 

You wrench the ear plugs of your I pod off, as you turn the familiar corner. Irrespective of the weight of the backpack, you break into a 100 metre dash to the gate, throw it open and run upstairs. And it’s all a haze again, Gundu lifting you and dropping you on the ground with a thud, hugging a grimacing Amma and jumping up and down, running inside the house aimlessly like a juvenile 3 year old… 

Everything seems right suddenly, the week’s cynicism washed down with urulakazhangu curry, nei-drenched sudra saadam and rasam. And the thair sadam that you’ve waited for all week, of course. Catching up on family gossip over vanilla custard and banana. Nameless movie on HBO with Gundu. Random youtube videos, chat and blog post until you realize its 4 a.m. Unearthly hour shower before curling up into your bed. 

10 a.m., you wake up to Amma’s endless tirade on how ugly your skin is, how sparse your hair is, amazed at how comforting it is to listen to her scream. More custard, followed by more gossip and a thousand phone calls, until you yourself begin to feel the need to bathe. Bisibela bath, cucumber raita and oily oily appalam nearly moves you to tears. Guilty indulgence in the AC in Amma’s room, with an Archie comic or a Mills and Boon. Non-stop needling of Gundu. Happy laughing in the evening with friends, going out, or staying indoors over raucous games of Uno.

Now you begin to dread the end of the day. Amma hands you bills and important papers to take back. You sit at the computer desperately, as if that machine can rewind time. It can’t. Gundu gives you your hug and immediately falls asleep. Appa’s call lasts about ten minutes, and then Amma hits the sack. The quiet of the house itself saddens you immensely, as you move around, putting together the things you have to take back. 

Freshly pressed clothes, books, bags are all arranged neatly at the foot of the bed. And then you crawl in, into whatever little space remains and curl up. You shut your eyes, and pray that tomorrow never comes, wishing you could go on revelling in the comfort, nay, luxury of your own bed in your own home. 

Before you know it, its 5 a.m. Life is cruel.

LIFE’S A HUM, FOR THE MOST PART…

God. How long has it been since I wrote my last blogpost? Every time I come to Madras, I always put this down on my list of things to do. But in the flurry of, you know, walking around in dirty pyjamas, gossiping with Amma, visiting Ammamma Thatha, Uno with friends at home, and movies on the computer, I don’t get around to writing a post. Plus, when you write for a living, there isn’t much of an inclination to write otherwise. (God. Have I become a cold professional, who has forgotten how to write for pleasure? *shudder* ) But right now, there is a flow, so I shall write, and shall do so, without cribbing about the company, nay, institution, I work for, because a blog is an open book. ZZZ. How boring have I become? Anyway, any cribbing shall be restricted to personal gtalk conversations.

• I write for a living. I go to bed every night in mortal fear of having gotten a fact/quote wrong, and hope that the next day goes by without any untoward incident, such as, you know, have some hired assassin skulk around some corner waiting to finish me off, or worse still, have someone call office and demand that a correction be printed. Zzz.
• I have begun to write fast. Really fast, as compared to the 30 hours I took to write a 600 word piece in college. I am proud to say that today, I am a copy producing factory. Who calls up her sources 5 times in paranoia, to ensure she has gotten her copy right. And yes, I still write in Microsoft Word, and copy paste it before sending it. I can’t get myself to write anywhere else. Word limits and deadlines continue to agonize me.
• The features I write, I just realized, have become slightly formulaic, although I try to throw in a fair bit of both heritage and lifestyle. Hmm, must change that. The first feature I wrote, I wrote like I do in this space, and as a result, it got edited quite drastically. Must find some middle ground, and write acceptable fun pieces. I am not allowed to post my stories elsewhere without permission, and getting permission is too strenuous, and unnecessary for a nobody like me.
• I don’t think I want to do this for a living. Will get back to studying soon. These days, I really really wish I could study for a living. I know I sound like a nerd, but I really really like studying, but strictly only subjects I myself can choose.
• On the personal-ish front, I really like Pondicherry. Was thinking of doing a series of posts tagged “city girl in a small town” based on my experiences and observations there. We’ll see.
• I don’t have a laptop, and have sort of decided I don’t need one, considering that I have access to the net during my nearly ten hours at office. Have learnt to be really alert – whenever a colleague walks past my computer, I quickly change windows, so they don’t notice I am chatting. It makes me feel guilty, but its not like I don’t work. As always, I multitask superbly, and at very impressive speeds now. This also explains why I don’t/can’t blog from work.
• Having my pieces edited too much is a BIG ego issue for me. BIG BIG BIG. Oh, snap out of it already!
• I miss Madras quite badly. Not like in a depressed way, but in a yearning sort of way. I always thought that when I fly the nest, I wouldn’t return too often and my parents would miss me terribly. But I hate to admit that I am the one pining away here. My folks miss me, and call me enough, but not as often as i thought they would. I am the one who comes back home every off I get. So much for all the bravado. Zzz.
• Another completely reverse thing. One of the reasons I said yes to posting at Pondi, was all those images I kept conjuring in my head, of my wearing my Stetson and cycling around everywhere, with a basket full of flowers (refer to header of this blog for clarifications. How cocky I am).  But since I report, I need to get around a lot, and fast, so my purple Scooty Pep has come there. When I am in Madras, I get around on my old green Ladybird. What life has in store for you, no one can tell. Even I couldn’t.
• I am quite happy there. The one thing that makes me feel bad is my nearly complete lack of friends at Pondi. But yes, things are getting better.  And so, in the future, I hope to spend more time at Pondi and discover it, during the offs that I decide not to come home. that shall happen as soon as my social life is worth writing home about, and I mean literally.
• Like I said, trips to Madras are looked forward to. I almost always enjoy the bus rides back home, except when a creepy man is near me, and that has happened only once so far. I am now, and only now, discovering the pleasures of music and the i pod. I am no technology ignoramus, but somehow the i pod had completely evaded me, because I listen to no music. I do now, a little. And it thrills me no end that the tracks get shuffled on my ancient, hand-me-down i pod shuffle. It IS so damn cool.
• Lived with an angelic family-friends family in absolute luxury, until recently, I moved into the house of another warm family, not freeloading this time, but as a paying guest. I am really quite thrilled to have suddenly become so grown up and independent, but its also a little scary. Scary-exciting.
• My room is super, really dark and no cross ventilation. Just little windows on top of the AC I don’t use, and dark blue and grey curtains. Its so normal perfect.
• I have completely stopped using the AC except when I am in Madras, because my house is a furnace. I am glad I am weaning off it. Now, my tolerance for cold has also come down drastically, which may not be such a good thing. When I experience for real, the white Christmas of my dreams, I will probably just be a snowman on the landscape.
• Absolutely EVERYONE is off to the US. It is SO scary and thrilling. Maybe I will too, I don’t know. Amma sure wants me to go. Hmm…
• Every trip to Madras is marked by an alarming discovery/news. Sample: last trip’s shock quotient was provided by the discovery that Enge Brahmanan is over. How my heart broke. This trip’s discovery is that Balamurugan Stores has been razed to the ground. I feel like crying a little. How painfully I miss school. Why can’t I go back to being my gawky self, the one who dug up compost pits, spent hours doing Exnora work loving every moment of it, and earned her Pepsi Cola at Balamurugan at the end of everyday’s work? How I miss Exnora. How I miss everything.
• Thanks to Appa, dear Scooty Pep got a nice clean up. I have never done it myself really. The most I can do is, spend 5 minutes looking for a parking space on Mission Street that isn’t in the line of fire from above. What I have learnt is that kaka pi does not always travel in a straight vertical line due to gravity. Its paths are trajectories sometimes. Zzz.
• I used to eat lunch at a Gujju/Maru mess right below office. The first time I went, DDLJ songs were playing in the background, and they served a super rava kesari. My eyes welled up as I realized that it was Fate that threw me and Sri Balaji Mess together. But after Serena described the kitchen and cooking conditions to me mincing no words whatsoever, I don’t know if I believe in fate anymore.
• Ah. What can I say about the pleasure of Walls orange kuchi ice on a rocky beach? Or the chocolate pyramid at Hot Breads? Nothing, except “Thank you God”.
• I have actually stopped thanking him. Still procrastinating the “questioning faith” bit, but I don’t do my routine prayers anymore. I just selfishly pray for my ass to be saved, when I write some copies.
• I wonder often if I should write a book. I don’t know if I can. But when I think of Chetan Bhagat, and his ‘One Night at a Call Centre’ that claims to be a bestseller, I take heart at the fact that anyone can write, and be successful at it, even if not (any) good. Maybe I should try, no harm.

Two thoughts that crossed my head, when I tried really hard not to think of which waiter’s sweat made it into my cup of dal last week:

• There is a foolproof method to decide if your family and the things they do are normal: imagine a family like that on TV or in some movie. Are members of the audience likely to say “loosu kudumbam”, or worse still, “ayiye”? If they are, then SO not normal. Let’s not even begin about my own. The windows had better remain shut all the time.
• There is a foolproof method of being able to tell if a person eating at the table in front of you is settu or South Indian (assuming that the telltale signs, such as tight transparent Hrithik Roshan T shirt or pattai/namam are missing): the settu will tear his roti using both hands, make a sort of a loop with the piece and scoop the gravy into the loop neatly. We? We are destined for yellow fingernails.

Phew. I think I am done for now. Will try my best to write during my next trip down. Can’t wait to go to ACJ tomorrow with friends. There is this warm, fuzzy feeling deep within whenever I think about ACJ. Sheesh I am too wistful and nostalgic and emo for my own good.

RUN OR STAY?

So naïve of me to have thought I escaped the rat race when I made my career choice. But I guess there really is no escaping it. I really like academic competition. But I hate having to impress someone, and forever trying to up others in order to land a job. Placement time is the time you really forget why you originally chose to do what you are doing. Everyone around you is in a frenzy – preparing, discussing, plotting – all of that, to land a job. Just any job. And doing all that not knowing why exactly you want the job. Is it the money? Not to everyone, its not. For most, it is just something. All those lofty ideals you started out with just fly out of the window, as you are caught up in all the paranoia around you.  

This is such a bad year to graduate. With so few options, the paranoia is sharpened, and so is the competition. And when you tell your mother you are just disgusted with this whole concept of running the race with everyone else, trying hard to sell yourself and trying to seem just a notch better than the others, she thinks you have no aspirations. And you know that you have already disappointed her enough with your choice of career, and your almost-absolutely disregarding attitude towards money. She has deemed you a lost case. So you know, there is a sense of guilt. There are little ways by which you can appease her – at least appearing for all the placement tests, for instance.

 

I wish there was a way by which you can lead life on your own terms, without having to conform, without having to do things others are doing. I know there is. I wish you didn’t have to buckle to pressure and try to conform. I wish I could just travel and write, (and make money, for Amma’s sake). I wish I could choose to do what I want to do, and be good at it. I wish I could just not write a CV, extolling my achievements and trying to seem like the perfect candidate for the job. But I do have to write a CV – but the least I can do, is not sound pompous, which I think I have managed. 

 

But as I sit here looking at my CV, wondering if it comes across as a little TOO lacklustre, despite the presence of some achievements and strengths I know I possess, I feel like there is someone standing apart from this rat race, in the stands, and laughing at me. I want to be that person.

 

Running away is not always cowardly. Sometimes, it is the most courageous thing to do.  

 

 

Update: I have been placed. And I sort of get to travel and write.

WELCOME, WEEKEND

It is one of those times, when nothing seems to be going right. No matter what you do, it ends up being miserable. You are disappointing everyone, yourself first, your teachers and the most important person in your life. People have begun to think you are mediocre. You find yourself unable to participate in class, tongue tied for a vague reason.

 

To top it all, you are fighting. Nitpicking basically. And feeling slightly J of people who are doing better. Getting angry. Blaming everyone else secretly in your head for your bad work. Wondering why Lady Luck always fails you.

 

But Friday evening is liberating. 2 days of oblivion. Many ways to escape your own mediocrity. No performance expected, nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

Thank God for Mills and Boons. For mindless mush, occasional hot scenes and happy endings. Of course, a corner of your mind wishes you had The Scarlet Pimpernel to read instead. Never mind. And the attempt to trace Brahmin and Non Brahmin geneology can be resumed on the weekdays. Hmph.

 

Thank God for bestowing the ability to summon sleep at absolutely any time of the day. And of course, the wonderful serenity when you wake up – without being woken up, that is.

 

Thank God for long hot showers and nice silky hair at the end of the shower.

 

Thank God for Saturday and Sunday evening Sun TV (and K TV, Vijay TV and the like). Both masala Tamil padams and Maaveeran (Tamizhil) types are mind numbing timepass. Also for Batman Begins on Pogo and all the romantic comedies in the world. Perfect weekend fare.

 

Thank God for endless supplies of kadalai paruppu, thovaram paruppu, channa, sugar and ice. And for limited supplies of Unibic’s Oatmeal Cookies, and Bradman Chocolate Chip Cookies. And oily appalam on Sundays.

 

Thank God for long walks on the beach under starry skies in the middle of the night, with the sea roaring near you, as you watch one of the most ancient rituals in the history of the earth.

 

Thank God for the telephone, the computer, the internet, chat and e mail.

 

 

 

 

 

Ok I am done. Just realized that I sound like some sort of a generic-religion religious fanatic. And that this blog is fast becoming a Dear Diary. Yuck.

 

PS: The Premio Dardos (meaning ‘prize darts’ in Italian) award is for recognition of cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values transmitted in the form of creative and original writing.

 

I would like to present this award to

Jay – for her ease and flair of the language, and the effortless way she writes. And so FAST! Grey Slate is truly beckoning us.

Sharanya – for her sheer eloquence and passionate writing. Go girl!
 

 

LOOKING BACK, UNABLE TO GO THERE

It’s so amazing how a sense of nostalgia is so not a personal thing. Always, someone else’s nostalgia starts off one’s own trip down memory lane, and in no specific chronology of events.

 

I listened to someone think of old days, and sing the 60s song Paadada paattellam paadavandhal, and what it did to me! I had never listened to that song ever before, but instantly I knew that the original was rendered by PB Srinivas. And that set off a whole string of other things I remembered from when I was little. Some random PB Srinivas song, particularly associated with Calcutta. My guess is Amma and Appa used to listen to it when we were there, because I am able to immediately conjure up my Calcutta living room in my head. The Sivaji-Vyjayantimala song on my amichechan tape that went Nenjil kudi irukum, a song I haven’t listened to since I last played that tape perhaps 15 years ago, whose lyrics I remember even today. Shammi Kapoor’s full throated yahoo and MGR’s swashbuckling heroism on DD. The Liril ad on the tape, and the jingle. Appa’s Abba and BeeGees cassettes. “Raja rajadhi Rajan” from Agni Natshatram, my favourite song as a child. My babbling in the middle of the song in that cassette at home, when I pressed the record button in between. Thatha crooning to me, “Dancing is not hard at all, whether you are big or small. Come and dance with me.” The hand pump that I would have to stop at everyday on my way back from school, and try a hand at. Wading through waist-deep rainwater on Southern Avenue with Mallika Akka. Mallika Akka’s argument with Subhadra on whether the movie star on TV then was Rajesh Khanna or Dev Anand. The sallow skin of my Glo Friends. Ten sets of Memory cards in different colours. The green and white walls at Rukku Athai’s apartment. Watching Aankhen with Ram Anna. The rasagullas he used to give me. Mallika Akka’s roasted-black rings of paavakai. Her black pothi, and my green pothi. The little black moles on her face. The little spots on my Jungle Book tape thanks to overuse. The trees outside Victoria Memorial. Debjani the elephant. Montessori classroom at Sushikshan. Playing Soorpanakha in the class play. Gaurav, Sourav and the little fat girl who played Sita. My ‘Ramayana Illustrated’ book. A tattered set of 12 oil pastels. The Disney colouring book. My favourite pink hairband. That baked hairstyle. Ritika and Ankit. And just so many other things.

 

Maybe all this comes back to the mind so easily, because the mind wants a chance to think of these things. Maybe because of the realization that I can’t have any of it any longer. Calcutta as it was. The pleasure music used to give me. Childhood and its innocence. Mallika Akka. All I am left with is a dusty faded Glo Friend that doesn’t glow anymore, and a cassette labelled ‘Moni’s Advertisements’ that refuses to be played.