Mothi

Imaginary friends are cool. They always laugh at your jokes, compliment you on your pretty new frock, never let you feel lonely, show bursting enthusiam for all the games you invent, and display unflinching loyalty even when you behave unreasonably. Not that real friends behave any differently. Imaginary friends are cooler cos, well, they’re just yours and you don’t have to share them.
Mothi is my imaginary friend. She wears a black and white checked frock and white pearl earrings. She’s the one I shared all the games and activities I invented with. Like making pots and plates using red clay found under the tree in the front yard. She was the only one that knew the right amount of water to be mixed with the clay and the exact spot they were left to dry in the scorching heat.
We used to have long conversations about all my classmates and why Raji miss beat me yet again that day and all our worldly worries while making pulpy keerai paste of leaves on the ammi in the backyard. This would then be cooked on our brittle red clay pots. The conversation would continue through the delicious meal. In the night, she would lie down next to me and talk to me and sing songs with me till I slept.
I thought of Mothi today after many many years. She feels just as real as she did when I was 3. What the hell, its 1.30 in the night and I could use some nocturnal company.

The struggle

I came home to find that I did leave some books behind here at that I didn’t take with me. Amongst the pile that got left behind, there was a thin black book that I didn’t quite remember. I, by the way, know where each one of my books were bought, which were bought in a particular batch, who was with me that day, the order in which I read them et al. So I picked this one up and found that it was autographed. Tenzin Tsundue, Chennai, 16th August it said.

It all came back to me in a flash. When I was in college, we once had a signature campaign for free Tibet. Mr. Tsundue’s latest book of poems was on sale and I was so impressed with the way that man spoke, I bought a copy. I’m not a particularly huge fan of poetry. But his poetry was so simple and sincere.

My Tibetanness

Thirty-Nine years in exile.
Yet no nation supports us.
Not a single bloody nation!

We are refugees here.
People of a lost country.
Citizen to no nation.

Tibetans: the world’s sympathy stock.
Serene monks and bubbly traditionalists;
One lakh and several thousand odd,
nicely mixed, steeped
in various assimilating cultural hegemonies.

At every check-post and office
I am an ‘Indian-Tibetan’.
My Registration Certificate,
I renew every year, with a salam
A foreigner born in India.

I am more of an India.
Except for my chinky Tibetan face.
‘Nepali?’ ‘Thai?’ ‘Japanese?’
‘Chinese?’ ‘Naga?’ ‘Manipuri?’
but never the question-‘Tibetan?’

I am a Tibetan.
But I am not from Tibet.
Never been there.
Yet I dream
of dying there.

I’m tired

I am tired,

I am tired doing that 10th March ritual,
screaming from the hills of Dharamsala.

I am tired,
I am tired selling sweaters on the roadside,
40 years of sitting, waiting in dust and spit.

I am tired,
eating rice ‘n’ dal
and grazing cows in the jungles of Karnataka.

I am tired,
I am tired dragging my dhoti
in the dirt of Manju Tila.

I am tired,
I am tired fighting for the country
I have never seen.

I’m in awe of their strength. How deep rooted that faith must be I wonder. To fight for a cause, a cause that bigger than one’s life and everything that engulfs one’s being. The passion has got to be infectious. But when the passion and the strength wear off, the faith, that still drives all of this must still be quite strong.

I remember standing in the temple, my eyes closed, brows knit in concentration, fervently praying. The unquestioned faith that I was convinced about. I believed that I would get that new tricycle if I prayed hard enough. Years later, my wants grew, and there I was standing in the same temple. My eyes are closed, I want to pray. I want to believe that my faith is strong. But somewhere, a ray of doubt creeps in. This time I’m not so sure. The faith is not enough.

To the people who’s faith has remained steadfast after all the draining struggle, I salute you!

When I was a kid, I used to fall down and hurt myself all the time while playing. But I never gave it more than a passing glance. There was only enough time to brush the sand off and get back to the game. I didn’t want to miss any of the fun. There was always time later to worry about the wound and the scar. Actually, I liked looking at my scars cos they fascinated me. It was almost like the shape of each scar was trying to sketch a story. When the wound starts healing the scar forms a definite shape and then, the story was etched, for eternity.
Everytime I tried meddling with a raw wound, my mother slapped my hand away and told me to leave it alone. She said it would heal with time. But I didn’t have the heart to let the game go by without me in the meanwhile. She would bathe the wound and bandage it for me, she said. But I didn’t want to be seen with a big bandage. It was too sissy. The moment she was out of sight, the loving bandage would be ripped right off. Ouch! Thats when it hurt a little bit. Maybe I’ll wear a longer skirt today and hide it. I was careful not to limp and run faster than everyone else.
One day, perhaps, I will sit and count all the scars in my body while they recount their stories and we would laugh and rejoice about that wonderful time called childhood.

I walked into work today and I could hear people exchanging new year wishes. I had to smile…

I’m not a big believer in celebrating the coming of a new year or new year resolutions or that a new year brings new changes along with it. I very strongly believe that changes happen only when you will it to. But there’s so much anticipation in the air that I can’t help feeling excited! New hopes, new expectations, and new excitement that a new start brings with it. Like a friend said, ” New year resolutions are things you want to accomplish in the new year. So, I anyway have time till the end of 2008 to fulfill my resolutions.” Its like sales targets or company OKRs

This new year was quite quiet! The number people on the streets increases every year. The desire to be a part of them is lesser every passing year. I’m quite content sitting at home, watching some silly movie and nursing my drink.. Sigh, these sound like signs of the years catching up on me!

PS: Happy new year to the 4 people that actually read my blog Thank you!

Amsterdam and Paris

When I was a kid, my life revolved around the Famous Five and Enid Blyton. I wanted to be cool, just like those kids. There’s this one book where Julian talks about this guy in his class who became fluent in French ‘cos he spent one whole summer in Paris. I used to dream about the day I could go to Paris. I wanted to pack picnic lunch and take off on a bicycle and sleep on the grass in the middle of some strange village. I wanted to get lost and spend the night in a barn and talk about it the next day, animatedly. I wanted to wanted to stay on a farm and milk the cows. Then the teenage happened, and Amsterdam featured in that list as well. As luck would have it, my closest friend moved to Belgium to study and she said ‘you’ll come there to visit me, right??’ and that’s how we started planning.

I started saving up money and we made tall plans. Or I thought they were just tall plans. The more we spoke about it, I couldn’t wait to go there. We decided to go to just Amsterdam and Paris due to lack of time and vitamin M. Like they say, when it rains, it pours, I got an opportunity to visit Dublin for 3 months on work. Hence started my escapade almost a month back.

For me, this whole journey has been a culmination of teenage fantasies. Now, I’m here in Dublin. Was it all magical? Maybe not in a fairy tale kind of way. But, the whole experience has been liberating. I wanted to pig out on cheese and pasta and French food. But after 1 week of pesto and cheese sandwiches, when I went to an Indian restaurant and had proper sapad, I almost attained Nirvana. I clicked pictures of the aircraft I flew in, couldn’t stop smiling on top of the Eiffel tower, wanted to just not leave when I saw windmills in Amsterdam, wanted to give up eating when I saw the price of food in Paris, fell in love in Madras local trains all over again when I travelled in the Paris metro for 4 days continuously, never wanted to leave the subway train station when I heard people playing the violin, clicked pictures of the tunnel that changed color in the Frankfurt airport at the risk of being a cliched tourist, went to a casino and just stood there grinning at people ‘cos I couldn’t figure out for the life of me how that thing worked, clicked about 800 pics in 7 days, met people I would never have met otherwise, got pissed off when it rained in Paris and Amsterdam, bought shocking orange shoes ‘cos my shoes were soaked in the rain, ventured out one day on my own in Paris with just a metro map and map of the city, walked into random churches, took the stairs up the Eiffel tower, when I thought I was going to die, I figured I had actually reached the top alive, picked up a conversation with an Italian guy who didn’t speak any English and I, obviously don’t speak any Italian, cooked Indian food for 4 strangers, stayed with an amazing Dutch lady in Amsterdam, and I could just go on.

Can I live in Europe? Never, I love my own country just too much to do that. But, will I come back to Europe? I most certainly will. In fact, I have the itinerary for my next trip already planned. There’s something intoxicating about travelling that introduces you to all these things you can’t even imagine and something so humbling that you will have new found respect for your homeland.

The meaning of nothing in particular

Being a girl in a rather conservative South Indian household, I’m what you might call a rebel. Always done what I wanted to, made some very wise decisions and some extremely stupid ones. But just as proud as the stupid ones as well cos they’re my decisions. Atleast I didn’t let someone else make the mistakes for me.

Now, I suddenly find myself being Mama’s little girl. I’m doing a lot of things just to make my parents happy. And these are not as simple as going to the temple every friday or coming back home at 9′o clock when I’m staying with them. I’ve been surprising myself last coupla months. Is this my loneliness deciding for me? Or is it the extremely delayed feeling of guilt? I’m not able to decipher.

I’m not even sure I’m ready. I still live a very disorganised life. I live on the adrenaline rush of last minute submissions and reaching the airport half an hour before the flight takes off. I love my freedom and space and fiercely guard them. I still want to see a lot more places and do so many more crazy things. I want to travel and if possible alone. I still yearn to come back to my living space after 2 days of being at home. I want to spend money insanely on books and movies. I want my own library (nobody ever gets to borrow books though!). I want to study something just for the love of the subject. Am I ready to settle down?

Or am I not being truthful to myself? Am I doing this cos I really want to settle down?

As always, I’m confused. Once again, I’ll do what I feel is right. Only, this time around, I can’t afford to make mistakes.

Random retrospective thoughts..

When I was in my final semester at college, my mom had the what-are-you-going-to-do-with-your-life conversation with me. I know that kinda conversation is generally a dad thing. But my dad I rarely talk about things more serious than cars/movies/politics/over-population/weather (you get the drift). So, when my mom asked me that question, I told her I wanted to work and live away from home for a while. She looked at me with a very surprised, I-didn’t-know-this-was-cooking-in-your-mind kinda look. I had no plan of action and I had no idea how I was going to support myself in another city. I didn’t even which city I wanted to move to.

As destiny would have it, I landed in Hyderabad. It’s been almost 2 years since I moved out of my parents’ house. I have shifted 4 houses in less than 2 years (I’m thinking of starting a packers and movers firm. That’s my secret ambition). I’ve accumulated an awful load of stuff that I had no clue about till I had to pack all of it to shift into my new place. I’ve had horrible experiences with some of my roommates. I’ve also found 2 darling roommates for whom I’m extremely thankful. Bad landlords, nosey watchmen, inquisitive caretakers, rude neighbors, noisy kids who’ll never let you sleep on a sunday morning, I’ve seen them all.

I’m at home in this city now. I will even go as far to say that I like Hyderabad. I loved living away from home when I first got here. I went for my first night show movie after I came here. The freedom to do whatever I wanted was heady. But that magic fizzled out in less than 2 months. The grim truth after that is that there were times when I had to go back to an empty/dark house, with no one to share the day’s gossip with (when I was living alone, not now), no more of throwing dirty dishes into the sink or used towels where I liked. While I wasn’t quite spoilt at home, these were things I’d never especially worry about. At times, I still think none of this is worth it, the money, the independence, the work, nothing. There are days when I just want to chuck everything and take the first train back home.

Living alone has not taught me to keep my room tidy or pay my bills on time or “plan” stuff out. What it helped me realize is that I love home more than any place else. It’s actually taught me to appreciate a lot of things my parents have done for me. Like the dinner that’s on the table every night on time. Now I know it’s not a joke to work the entire day and cook for a bunch of people who don’t appreciate it. That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop complaining I’ll probably think twice before complaining. I’ve realised that I’m a total tam brahm at heart who can’t eat pizzas for lunch for more than a day and will be the happiest when I can get vathakozhambu and vazhakai curry!

I’ve also realised that I can never love any city as much as I love Madras. Neither can I get to know any other city as well. The moment I land at the station/airport and start fighting with the autokarans, I feel at home. It’s a weird thing to say, but to me these are the things that define my hometown. The place I’ve grown to love with all it’s flaws and shortcomings. For me Madras is home and that’s where my heart is.

Last Tuesday, when my roommate came and told me that the cab was waiting, all I could manage was a “I’m not well, I can’t even open my eyes. I’ll give you a call later.” When I woke up again a few hours later, I was feeling much better. Tired of lying down on the bed, I dragged myself to the living room and plonked myself on the sofa. Usually, when I’m home on a weekday, the choicest of bad movies play on TV.

Cursing my luck, I was channel surfing and came across a movie called “Music of the Heart.” It seemed interesting enough even though half the movie was over. I decided to watch a coupla more minutes of the movie before declaring my verdict. Half an hour later, when the movie got over, I was sitting on my couch and there were tears flowing from my eyes. Tears were pouring like the dam had broken. There was no one else at home and I was not bothered about anything. I gave up trying to wipe my face.

Music of the Heart is the true story of a violin teacher (Meryl Streep) trying to save a violin program in a small school that was cancelled due to lack of funds. After 10 years of teaching these children, she refuses to accept defeat and decides to reinstate the program by raising funds for it themselves. She children end up performing in the Carnegie Hall and the violin program continues. The reason this movie moved me to tears is because of my school.

It my first day in a new school. I was a little scared because I knew no one around me. But excitement overtook the fear. I had already heard a lot about the school’s choir. I wanted to be a part of it. Luckily for me, they were taking in some new voices that year. I went for the auditions and got selected! I was overjoyed. But I had not the slightest idea about how “Anjali” (the name of our choir) was going to change my life. When I was in X std, we qualifies for a national level competition that was to take place at Indore. We were a team of 20 girls in classes VII-XI. It was a very prestigious competition and we wanted to crack it one way or the other. Unfortunately we had almost no support from our school.

This meant no practise during school hours. We could not miss classes. The teachers would fly off the handle if we did so much as to mention ‘choir practice.’ We ended up staying back in school everday atleast till 5.30. I would rush back home and sit down to do the pile of homework and the if possible do some cramming. We had to also think about costumes as visual medium always made a big impact on stage. The school was not paying for our tickets, we were. So we didn’t want to ask our parents for more money. Though most of the parents were willing to pay for the costumes, we didnt’ think it was right. There had to be another way out. Then we thought of collecting sponsorship from corporates. But who would give us any money when we could not put up their banners or stalls anywhere! In the end, we did collect the moeny that was necessary for our costumes. Since I was in the X std, I was missing a whole week of cycle test because of the travel to Indore. My principle was willing to let me go only on one condition. I was to come back and write 2 cycle tests everyday when the rest of my class was writing only one. I thought I was going to die. But I had no choice but to agree to her conditions. Am I complaining?

Absolutely not. Those are amongst the most memorable days of my life. It was so cold in Indore that we all huddled together every evening and drank tea at the road side tea shop. We used walk along the streets singing loud tamil songs. But most importantly, we went, we sang, we conquered. Even if we had lost, I would’ve felt the same way about the whole journey. The joy of music and the pleasure of singing can not be described. The adrenaline rush when you get on stage and hear the guitar strumming, knowing that it is your que to start, is the biggest high. When you finish, the audience appreciation and when you walk down from the stage, people walking up to you to tell you how well you sang makes you feel like nothing in life is unattainable. Music taught me the will to go after anything with grit and determination. The person who taught me this music taught me the meaning of dedication, hard work and love for music. At times, when we thought we had reached a dead end and that there was no path, this man’s undeterred focus and faith in us gave us the strength and the enthusiasm to go on. He stood by us when we needed him the most.

When we all came back to Madras, we were better singer, better students and most of all, better individuals.

PS: Happy birthday sir!

Yethanai kodi inbam vaithai, iraiva!

I live very far from my office; about 23 km. but I don’t mind the distance. In fact, I quite like the sitting in the cab for 2/2.5 hours everyday. The morning ride is shorter than the evening one. I hate having the AC on in the morning just for the reason that it’s glorious at that time of the day. Even during summers, it’s not hot as yet and the sky looks fresh. When I see children waiting for their school bus, I’m reminded of my school days when my grandfather used to drop us the bus stop. We used to eat Samosa at this small, dingy, dirty shop on our way to school from the bus stop. The Samosa used to cost us Rs. 2 and that was the biggest delicacy I knew. My mouth still waters when I think about that Samosa.

I’m not a very morning person and don’t like making small talk early in the morning. So, the best way, I figured to not have to talk to anyone, is my iPod. I put my iPod on and stare outside the window. Or I keep a book open and stare at it. Even when someone addresses me, I sit there as if I don’t exist. When they wave their hand in front of my face and try really really hard to get my attention, then I look up and smile and get back to iPod.

There are days when I wake up the morning thinking of one song and my mind can not process anything else till I listen to that song. I listen to random songs in the morning and every one of them transport me to another place and time. I think of people I haven’t met or spoken to or even kept in touch with in a long time. I suddenly get reminded of vague dreams that I dreamt, something I forgot to do 3 days back, a certain line in a complicated poem that I didn’t understand when I read it the previous night, I forget if I left my balcony door open, I smile to myself to when I think of some stupid joke someone told, sometimes I don’t even know what I’m thinking about. My thoughts go too far before I can trace them. When the cab speeds, the strong wind blows on my face. My hair is disheveled and I’m scared my contact lenses are going to be blown away. But I’m happy! Truly, completely happy. Even on my worst days, a nice cab ride in the morning can cheer me up, more than anything.

In the evenings, the traffic is crazy, everyone’s rushing back home, there’s chaos every where. When I look around, I try to imagine what those people’s lives around me are like. What could be their names? Did they have a bad day at work? Maybe they’re scrutinizing me the same way I’m scrutinizing them. Maybe they’re anxiously honking cos their children are waiting all alone at home. Maybe the couple in the car have a bad marriage. They’re all alone in the car and they have nothing to say to each other. Both of them have a bored expression on their face. Are they planning the dinner menu? Maybe they want to get totally drunk tonight. Are they going back home to their loved ones? Or is an empty house with a music system waiting for them just like me? I wonder…

Yethanai kodi inbam vaithai, engal iraiva!

How many crores of object of happiness have you created around us, oh God! (lose translation, and trust me, it sounds much better in Tamil)

Today is one of those days when I really wanted to talk. Just talk about all those thoughts pent up within me, thoughts that are killing me. The only reason I don’t want to talk about them is because they don’t make any sense (just like this post if you’re actually still reading this).

Have you ever tried to trace your thoughts back? If you’re actually as jobless as I am, try it one day. The place where you actually end up will have nothing what so ever to do with where you started out from. This always amazes me. Memories are mind’s way of remembering and caring. Maybe I care too much.

The first thing I did this morning when I woke up was to look out of my window. The one thing I love the most about my room is my window. Just standing there and looking out makes me feel great. It doesn’t have the world’s greatest view. But I love standing there and watching people on go with their mundane daily chores. The bachelor who lives in the opposite building, working out and desperately trying to pump up, the little girl who lives in the same building running all over the place to get ready to school, the two little girls who are holding hands, waiting for their school bus, the housewife next door hurrying to the gym after packing off her daughter to school, my building secretary who still gives me a dirty look every time he sees me, the guy next door washing his car, all the housewives haggling with the vegetable vendor on the street, the construction workers getting ready for a hard day’s work. Something was happening with every one around.

It got me thinking about myself, my life. All the things that are going wrong and all the things that are going right, all the things I’m missing, all the things I’m desperately yearning for, all things I’m turning a blind eye to and all the things I’m running after.

Nostalgia, home-sickness and loneliness are not exactly the world’s greatest combination.