What Math taught me

It wasn’t too long ago (or so I’d like to think) that I remember studying for my Grade 10 Math board exams thinking I’d never have to get my hands dirty again. The horrors of trig, algebra, matrices, vectors and linear programming (nope, no calculus) would be left behind as I started Grade 12 prep in subjects I thought were my cups of tea – Psych, Socio, English Literature. For the next two years, the only Math I did was a tad bit of Business Accounts and even then, my calculator did most of the work. I mean for someone who wanted to study Sociology, why bother with Math, right? Right? (Please say yes...)

Fast forward four years and the college student in me realized just how disillusioned I was. For reasons I still cannot fully empathize with, a degree in Development Studies meant I needed to equip myself with an armory of quantitative skills, all based on a fundamental understanding of Calculus. For an entire semester, I sat through a Bridge Course to learn the basics before seeking refuge in my hostel room and crying the Math out every week. Not that that helped anything, actually.

A year and a half ago, I began my tryst with Statistics. For four months, I copied from the board symbols that I could swear were abstract art but seemed to make sense to all around me. If the Prof asked me where I had a doubt, I couldn't say because I couldn't read the Greek out loud. I didn't know the symbols. I will never know whether it was the countless pens used copying out the undecipherable symbols, many prayers and tears or merely a professor’s kind heart that got me through that course but it happened. A year and a few other challenges later, I found myself on the verge of Econometrics.

I got myself a copy of the textbook, assuming the real deal may motivate me a tad more than a black-and-white photocopy (Note to Self: It makes no difference. At all.) and tried to block out memories of super-smart seniors groaning about this particular course in the past. Four more months, I told myself. Then I would really be done. As I wrote ‘Q9’ on my answer paper this Friday marking the beginning of my last answer, I felt a rush I remember from finishing boards. One more answer, 15 more marks, and then this will be over. You will be done.

These last two days have been spent on a euphoric wave of getting through it and as the inexplicable sense of happiness started to wear off, just a tiny bit, I thought back at just how much these courses have done for me this past year and a half. Here are my top five Math lessons:

• It’s like medicine: It tastes like crap, most of the time, but it will do you good. Much of my education for the last six years has been stuff I absolutely adore. And then Calculus reared its nasty head and I have spent hours and hours doing stuff I neither understand, nor enjoy. But what has to be done, has to be done. Many years later, you may be the healthier for it.

• Variables vary: There is no point is asking why this alpha is different from that one. And thus, there is almost no point trying to keep track of these things. Embrace the fluidity and join the cacophony, defining your own alpha. Add a hat for good measure.

• Support systems are precious: These last few years have been a team effort and I kid you not. While I was probably the one writing the exams, the job of making sure I don’t throw myself/my notes out a window was in the hands of those around me. It seemed only right to call them after the last exam and thank them. You know who you are. I honestly couldn't have done it without you.

• Intelligence isn’t absolute: Single digit scores don’t bode too well on the intelligence/self-confidence scale or so I thought. I told myself it was because I hadn't done Math, I was right-brain driven, all these things. But the miracle of passing these last few courses and even coming to enjoy parts of it (only parts though) taught me something I’m unlikely to forget. Intelligence is as subjective as everything else. Man makes the hierarchy. I will forever be worse at Math than Sociology. So?

• Hats and stars could make all the difference: The night before the exam, as I closed my eyes to get an hour of precious sleep, all I could see swimming before me was ‘hat’, ‘star’, and ‘tilda’. The last six hours had taught me they were different, something about bias and estimation. Years of ‘silly mistakes’ and nightmares of words I didn't know existed drilled into me a lesson I couldn’t have learnt more effectively otherwise – attention to detail. That one apostrophe (‘dash’, is it called?) could make a world of a difference.

I still dream of not having to deal with any of this in the future and who knows? Maybe two years from today, I’ll be dealing with STATA and regressions all over again. But till then, I’m done.

Uncharacteristic of my blogs so far, I’m going ahead and naming two individuals who made all the difference to my Math education, in completely different ways. Umar Sir from Grade 10 - for sitting with me for hours on end making sure that holy 90% mark was hit and calling me years later as I struggled in college to threaten me with dire consequences if I didn't pull my socks up and Prof Anup Bhandari – for never judging the inadequacy of my questions, the absence of any foundation and the fear that was writ large on my face. The number of times I have gone in and requested him to repeat weeks of portions is countless and never once have I felt judged. Thank you.

The Happy Meter

Another personal rant, inspired by a recent article and all the 'what are your plans' that seem to haunt me these days.

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As tears flowed down my cheeks, I stared, stunned at the computer screen. Everyone has a story, I thought. Tales browned with age and skeletons in the closest of various shapes and sizes. Stories of strength and courage are camouflaged under bright kurtis and wide smiles. Who is to tell? Who can see beneath the surface and count the scars? Who can read the signs and tell the tale?

They say it should bring us happiness, security, love. They tell us it is the first step of the rest of our lives. They say it changes the person we are, for the better, mind you. They build these tall fairytales and push us into the deep end of the pool. Some of us know how to paddle, others to float. Who can claim to be the Olympian?

This elusive concept of happiness has always intrigued me. What does it mean? Where do we get it? Which path leads us to this elusive goal? Apparently, Western thought claims the problem with parenting today is the goal of ‘happiness’ – your child is never going to be happy enough and you will thus be a perennial failure. As we grow up, we say it all the time, either as the truth or in the hope that the sound will transform into reality. Yes, I am happy. I love what I’m doing, it keeps me happy. Today was such a great day, I’m so happy! You look so...happy. The cynic in me is fast classifying these five letters to the list of lazy words my high school teacher drilled into us – nice, good...happy.

What if all I need is a Rs. 10 packet of beach cotton candy to be happy? Or molagga bhajji on a rainy day? A nice fat tome with a steaming mug of hot chocolate, perhaps? A paper well written, a presentation well made? Children wishing me as I walk into the class? What if my pleasure comes from the smaller things, the details? My chosen raindrop winning the race down the car window or the mango I ate being just ripe enough? Maanga having the perfect twang of salt and spice? An old pair of jeans buttoning snugly again or a crisply washed Rs. 20 note in a forgotten pocket? A phone call from an old friend or a good morning text from the unexpected? What if all it takes to keep me happy is normalcy, the mundane?

Who are you to define the rules, lay down the laws? Why must my happiness adhere to your restrictions? I could be poor, single, unemployed and ugly. Who are you to say I can’t be happy?

Opportunity, the scribe

My last piece was titled 'Fourth year blues' and true to expectations, the semester has flown by in a haze of coursework and academics. Here I am at the fag end of the term, putting together another piece. With holidays approaching, I still dare to dream of regularity and inspiration.

This piece was driven by the time I spent volunteering this weekend at TiECON Chennai 2014, the state's largest entrepreneurship conference. Wonderful experience, beautiful people inspiring some halfway-decent writing :)

Any incoherence and/or typos to be excused under the large ambit of midnight syndrome :)

-

The massive stone steps of the hall greeted her as she walked in, hassled from a week of classes and hours of running errands. Bag in hand, eyes popping, she struggled to maintain a facade of nonchalance. I must act like I belong, she thought, striding with what she believed as confidence towards the escalators. Things didn’t get easier from there. Chandeliers spreading dim light, a wave of black suits and ties, the quiet murmur of professional conversation. Suddenly, her phone was her alibi, the blank screen a perfect excuse to regain composure. As the rest of them discussed ways to change the world, she sat down, alone amongst the crowd, getting her bearings.
Yet, in every desert, there is hope of an oasis. Within this phenomenon, she found her niche, using the mike and the camera as her armour, protecting her against imagined eyes. She had a reason to stay. She belonged.

Bright lights, brighter eyes

What do I say and who to?
What do I do and why am I here?
Neither branded student nor volunteer, no less.
Alien. Child.
Alien child?
Yet, connections run deep.
Blood is thick.
Aren’t you her daughter, they asked.
Turned out she belonged.
After-all.
Gratitude.

Yes, Uncle

Sorry, Uncle?
How are you, Aunty?
It has been so long!
The stairs were forgotten
Amongst the flurry of
Assumed relations.
Turned out she belonged.
To it all.
Gratitude.

There had been many people asking why she did what she did. Why walk three kilometres every day? Why volunteer with something she isn’t a “part of”? Many days later, in the many lines of midnight conversation with one who many consider ‘celebrity’, between the giggles and chuckles and gentle banter, the answer seemed clear enough.

Yet another line had been scripted on her “Tabula Rasa”, a stroke contributed by each of the Uncles and Auntys, by each of the interviewees, by each letter of the tweets and each word of the phone calls, peppered by the humility and modesty that surrounded her every conversation.

I do what I do to have a say in what gets etched on my blank slate. I script my own story.

Fourth year blues.

It is fourth year. And while I can rant for an entire post on how I cannot believe that is happening, on how I don't feel like a Masters student, on how I have no clue where everything went, I won't. Maybe later. This is just a quick post on the 25 things insti has taught me. I have a much longer list but we'll take this slow :)

3 done. 2 to go.

1. Legible, almost cursive.
2. Don’t be afraid of change.
3. Those sounds are more likely animals than monkeys.
4. Everyone sees a different person in the mirror.
5. It is possible to get from bed to shower to class after washing clothes in 20 minutes. In 25, you can eat as well.
6. Walls become murals of memory.
7. There is barely any difference between day and night.
8. Never carry plastic. Monkeys don’t need our charity.
9. It isn’t normal to see a dozen deer outside your hostel at 4 AM. Will never get used to it.
10. We can survive on 45 minutes of sleep.
11. All disagreements during end-sem season are forgiven and forgotten.
12. Monkey sleep cycles are more important than yours. And more predictable.
13. Post-its are more reliable than phone signal.
14. Do not use trees to give directions.
15. Hproxy and fbproxy were the solution to productivity. Netaccess will ruin us all.
16. By 5^th sem, class reps are status quo.
17. N is so much more than a letter. N more than a letter.
18. Newspapers can do what door latches cannot.
19. CLT, OAT, HSB, MSB, ESB, ICSR, CRC, TGH. All more than random letters.
20. Everyone can afford GRT.
21. Guru/Sarayu guys know your syllabus better than you do.
22. All roads lead to GC. Or a gate.
23. It is Tifs. Not Suprabaa. And now, it is mess. -_-
24. The skies may fall but the playlist in CCD won’t change.
25. Flipflops are the only kind of footwear.

Come home with us, Akka!

Over the last couple of days, I was wondering what I should write about next - whether I would wake up with a story idea in place or if I would be inspired to try my hand at poetry again. Then, when I least expected it, I knew what I wanted to write about. Children. Schools. Things I find myself coming back to more and more often these days.

"Enge perai marakkadheenge, Akka!" ("Don't forget our names, Akka!") the little boy called after me as I climbed into the car. I smiled and assured him I wouldn't even as I was sure my miserably memory wouldn't last me a day. Was he Ramesh or Suresh? Armed with a close to fifty page survey asking about everything from the state of their door latches to their teachers' opinion on constructivist learning methodologies, we breezed into their room and started off our methodical yet excruciatingly detailed check. As I pored over their plans for the new bathroom, children poked and tugged at my dupatta, asking for my name, whether I spoke English and where I was from. Suddenly I was almost a museum exhibit.

The schools often don't have running water or a playground to boast of. Their blackboards are old and in need of a new coat of paint. They sit on plastic sheets or if they are lucky, old mats. Their teachers are handling numbers too big to qualify for the 'small groups' that activity based learning targets. Urinals that are actually just a room with some kind of drain are not uncommon. Twelve schools into this exercise, my own standards of 'good' and 'average' and 'poor' have been redefined. Earlier today, as we were discussing the quality of the ramp in a school, someone told me "It is there, hence it is average." Our utopian, private-school, urban standards had given way to rural, small town, government realities. Yet, despite this all, there are special educators, training for teachers, school monitoring committees formed with parents and other stakeholders and a whole host of other checks and balances tat often do not exist in the world we come from. If anything, one thing is for sure - these children live in a world so removed from my own, characterised by the weird mix of activity cards, assessment ladders and traditional marking, watery sambhar, boiled eggs and Grade III rice for lunch everyday. It is also the world of the eagerness to learn, smiles unlimited and unfailing love to anyone who shows they care.

This post may not say much "substantial" - it does not tell you how to "change" the government system; it does not give you miraculous solutions for corporation schools; it does not tell you anything at all. What it does tell you is the awe and amazement that strikes me every time I walk through those doors, either as a government official representative or as a voluntary teacher. It tells you about the love I feel when children hold my hand, pull at my arm, tug at my duppatta and refuse to let me go. It tells you how overwhelmed I get when they offer me a place to stay, food to eat.

As I sit in my hotel room with free WiFi and colour television, I try and keep perspective. I think about the girl who wanted to be a doctor in the mountains of Hanu Thang, the boy who drew us an astronaut in rural Ladakh. I think of Madhumita and Savita in Pazhavanakudi, Meenakshi and Ahmed Basha in Velachery. I think of how many of them mobbed us, followed our car, walked us down the street. I try to keep the story alive. Least I can do, if I can't go home.

The Stanford Saga

After a twenty day hiatus, I am back. This time, it is only a four paragraph bit so fear not. A couple of days ago, I logged on to my facebook to see that someone had shared the Stanford commencement speech by Bill and Melinda Gates and it was on my newsfeed. So I sat and watched it, heard the power couple speak of the power of empathy and ambition. And then I watched bits of the actual commencement itself and the faces of those who had just been awarded their degrees. And then I remembered visiting the campus on a trip to the USA recently, and the sense of awe that filled me as I walked around the place. And then, I wrote.

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As the last notes of the trumpet drifted through the air, as frivolous soap bubbles wafted by, as the fluttering of flag after flag blotted out the midday sun, as camera flashes caught the eye and a stranger’s cap fell at the feet, as announcements were made and not heeded, as speeches were given and grabbed at, as degrees were awarded and congratulations exchanged, a moment came to pass.

The buildings had been witness to a transformation. The corridors had held her hand as she cried. The dorm room had egged her on to try that first dress, experiment with her hair, grow into her own person. The mirrors, shadowed with doubt and insecurity as she first peered into them, cleared to reveal a young woman filled with ambition and desire. Before anyone could say ‘Stanford’, there was a black gown on her and the air was filled with a voice. “May the graduates from the School of Humanities and Sciences please be seated” her dean said. And that was all. It was over.

Many days later, she saw the commencement on YouTube. There she was, sharing a ruckus last laugh with classmates, revelling in those last few minutes of studenthood; that safety net that opened up doors where none were seen, allowing witness to the outside world without the anguish of dirty hands. How many people around the world would see this, she wondered. And how many would think of the stories under those gowns, hidden in the silences between those laughs? How many would know of loans that needed repayment, jobs that needed hunting, dreams that needed fulfilling? How many would guess at the history of a tough home, filled with alcohol and abuse? How many would see the signs of happiness, of belief in fairy godmothers and angels? How many would see past the graduates into the humans?

As the last notes of the trumpet drifted through the air and the last of the flags swept past her, just as the last of the students trooped out into the open to taste newfound adulthood and success, she sent out a silent prayer to the people of the world; to the girl in India wishing her way to Stanford, the boy in the Philippines questioning the tradition of ceremony, at the girl in Kentucky wondering if she is Ivy material and the boy in Venezuela who hadn’t yet been bitten by the dream. “May Imagination inspire you, may Injustice trouble you, may Hope comfort you, may good friends nourish you. May you live your dream.”

I want to be Superlady.

Over the last few years, I seem to have developed quite a soft spot for the cause of education. So when I was interning in Ladakh and was desperate for something to read, I was drawn to this book intriguingly titled 'Three Cups of Tea - One Man's Extraordinary Journey to Promote Peace... One School at a Time'. Bogged down by the thought of having to lug what was fast becoming a mini library around the mountains myself, I let it go but when I spotted a copy in a second hand book fair in Chennai, I didn't as much as read the cover before picking it up.

While I know the book has been at the centre of quite some controversy ('Three Cups of Deceit' is a 22,000 word expose on the book), it acted as a good source of motivation to write. If Mortenson has done everything that he has claimed, brilliant. If he hasn't, it could just be seen as fictionalized motivation for the rest of us.

Here is a piece that was deeply inspired by one of the side stories in the book. The story of this girl gripped me, made me wonder where she is today. All factual inconsistencies in this piece are my own and all the background, history, context provided are grace a authors.

Unsurprisingly, it is a tad long but bear with me.

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Hiding behind a boulder almost as large as her, eleven-year-old Aliya was stunned. Men, old and young alike, scurried past her with planks of wood and an eclectic assortment of other construction tools, swarming like starved ants to a drop of honey towards the medium sized piece of land that had been cleared for this purpose. In the corner, a ledger in his hand and a look of sheer grit and concentration writ large on his face, stood a hulking foreigner, his blonde haired tall stature striking a sharp contrast against the diminutive mountain people he was working with. His size eleven feet were swamped in the dust, grit and grime that came from working this high up the mountains, exposed to the sheer brunt of Nature. He wore a traditional salwar kameez, the loose robes that had been long associated with their side of the world, though not often with the men and most surprising of all, he seemed at home.

As she peeked from behind her vantage point, she saw her grandfather, the village headman respected by all and silently feared by most, go up and embrace this foreigner with as much love as his short arms would allow. Khan dada did not seem to mind this Amreekan’s bleached hair and skin. He did not seem to notice how his feet were twice as big as his own, or he seemed twice as tall as even the biggest uncle. Instead, her grandfather was murmuring his thanks to the higher powers for showing them a way, for offering them a six-foot solution on a platter when they had been let down by everyone else.

Nestled in the depths of the mountains, Aliya did not know what the world thought of her. In fact, she did not know of most of the world to begin with, her eyes judiciously widening at every mention of a trip “downside”, when some of the more privileged or adventurous men went in search of growth or grain. Her world was here, between the apricot trees and loose boulders, revolving around making cha with her grandmother and playing with the younger children.

Fatima dadi was a force to contend with of her own, having the uncanny audacity to pull at dada’s beard and tease him, surpassing boundaries many women of her age held sacrosanct. She had allowed the White Man into her kitchen, allowed him to meddle with her utensils, allowed him not only into her house but into her home. Now she told everyone who cared to listen that she had an Amreekan son, one who brought her miscellaneous goodies from time to time, but one who was, more importantly, on his way to changing the way their forgettable hamlet had lived for years.

Little Aliya never understood this part. She never quite knew what dadi meant when she spoke of ‘change’ and ‘miracle’ but she always loved hearing the stories. She sat in rapture at dadi’s feet as she told stories of sahib and how he first came to them, exhausted and at the verge of collapse after a failed mountaineering trip. She giggled every time she heard how everyone was intrigued by this hulking man shivering under her dead mother’s blanket, how dadi had put all their precious sugar into this man’s cha as a token of welcome. She listened, stunned, as dadi’s eyes glistened with thanks and memory as she told the tale of how sahib had crossed the river that first time, acting on his promise to come back, to change their lives forever. “He is a blessing. He really is,” dadi would say each time she ended wiping the moisture from her eyes with the back of a wrinkled but steady hand; and Aliya would nod in silent agreement, not entirely sure what she was agreeing to but soaking in the prosperity and possibility that always seemed to cloak anything to do with sahib.

Hiding behind the sheer mass of rock, Aliya shyly kept her eye trained on this man who had come to mean so much to her people. His size was countered by the kindness in his eyes, she decided. And those giant feet were neutralized by the kind pat he gave every child who mustered the courage to walk past him. He was okay, she decided. More than okay. As the men dug trenches and lay stones and the first signs of a building begin to materialize Aliya plucked up the nerve to emerge from behind her hide out and sidle up to dada and the big man. She stood there, clutching to the end of his salwar, hoping that some of her grandfather’s strength would flow into her own self. She stole glances up at this man, sometimes needing to peer against the glare of the brutal Himalayan sun, and as time flew by, she learnt to let go of dada’s coattails.

Aliya had dreams; dreams she wasn’t sure she should speak too loudly about. After all, the women of her family had worked all their lives and as the headman’s granddaughter, she was expected to bring pride to her family’s name. She had never known her mother and the deep red blanket that sahib now used had long stopped smelling of her. For as long as Aliya could remember, she had looked up to Fatima, her gutsy grandmother whose spirit seemed misplaced in this quaint Himalayan village. But beyond this all, Aliya dreamed. She dreamt of sitting in front of a page, tracing her finger along the words as the knowledge entered her mind. She dreamt of going “downside” and tracing her finger through some more. She dreamt of going where no village girl had. With only nine years to her name, she wasn’t sure where exactly this was, but something told her sahib  could help her find out.

Years after the child had crawled out from behind the rock, Aliya stood in front of the closed doors that separated her from sahib and all the village elders. At seventeen, she had milked the local school for all it had to offer and was itching to make that much awaited trip downside. She drew in a deep breath, adjusted her maroon headscarf and swung the doors open. Without allowing herself to get intimidated by the elders, she made a beeline for the man who had singlehandedly changed her life. “I want to begin my medical training,” she announced. In the next few minutes, by sheer force of willpower, she walked away with the twenty thousand rupees she needed for her fees. She couldn’t see the look of contentment that shone in sahib’s eyes.

With the mountains as  her guardians and medical books as her companions, Aliya embarked on her newest journey to become the first woman from the village to be educated, travel downside, and be educated some more. And then one day, sahib visited. With the quiet self assurance that echoed Fatima’s sure handed training, she brew her mentor a glass of tea; the teabag concoction’s similarity to her dadi’s cha limited to the plain adoration with which it was served. She sat by him while he and her father looked through her work, each of the older men glowing with unmasked pride at the young girl who had come to represent everything they stood for. As the tea cups emptied and only the dregs remained, Aliya stared placidly out of the window, thinking back to the time behind the rock when something told her this man would show her the way.

“Sahib, I want to head a hospital,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, filled with unquestionable determination but flecked with incredulity, as if the girl herself couldn’t believe how much her dreams had grown. “Yes, I want to be Superlady.”

Deep in the most treacherous mountains known to man, nestled in a village that wouldn’t feature on most maps, Aliya looked out of her window to see the world. She would no longer hide behind the mountains. She would move them. There, in the small, pretty figure of the village’s first successful girl, a flame had been lit, a fire had been kindled.

Which is worse?

Spent some time looking up some of the #YesAllWomen posts today and this is the result of that. Didn't quite turn out to be the passionate feminist rant it could have very well been but whoever said passion needs to be angry?

This is a silent response to all judgement - of attire and ambition, company kept and sought, decisions taken and paths chosen.

Incidentally, also my first shot at mixing prose and free verse in the same piece. :)

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She sat, her mind as eerily blank as the page in front of her, the cursor blinking tantalizingly on the screen. It invited her to write, to express, to speak of memory buried beneath years of experience, knowledge hidden under layers of pretence. It asked her to tell a story, to share the moment with millions around the world, to be a part of a movement. It won’t change the world, some said. And it doesn’t make the nightmare go away. And she knew. She wasn’t out to change the world, nor did she expect the lights to turn on and chase away the monsters under her bed. But she did know that as fingers hit the keys, words appeared on her screen and the blinking cursor slowly moved to the right, she would be a part of something larger than herself. She could hold hands with women around the world, even if only metaphorically, and squeeze hard for comfort and strength. She could be sure it wasn’t just her, it wasn’t her fault.

She knew it all. And yet, the cursor kept blinking and the page stayed spotlessly white, flecked only by the dust on her laptop screen. She looked down at herself, lounging in bed in her brother’s t-shirt, oversized, comfortable and covering all except a sliver of her shorts and the voices floated back into her head. Who was she to complain about inequality when she could dress like that? How, when she was studying what she wanted and wasn’t forced into marriage in her early twenties, could she complain of discrimination? What need did she have to throw a fit, to fight a battle that wasn’t even hers? She sighed.

She blinked at the screen. The cursor blinked back. And then the words bubbled forth.

'Which is worse?

The fear of being groped on a crowded bus on a hot summer day

Or of being groped at dinner in a five star hotel?

Which is worse?

The paranoia of a spiked drink while you step away to the ladies’ room

Or of insect repellent mixed in milk while you put the kids to bed?

Which is worse?

Not knowing the man you see on the mandap of your wedding

Or waking up next to a stranger with no memory of yesterday?

Which is worse?

The glass ceiling at that corporate job and the unattainable board room

Or the barriers of poverty and “tradition” that cause high school dropouts?

Which is worse?

Being molested when you were wearing a mini skirt and halter

Or when your sari blouse has sleeves till your elbows?

Which is worse?

Abuse now or then, by him or him?

Disrespect on this continent or that?

The body doesn’t recognize

Continent

Class

Clothing.

The woman hurts.

End.'

Amongst the dust and cobwebs lies a history

A piece inspired by idle poking through old cupboard at my grandmother's place. Vacation writing :)

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The translucent bookworms slithered out from the frail yellowed pages, each seeming to echo an era gone by. She tentatively folded a corner in her hand, wondering if the page would crumble, leaving mere powder and the daft smell of Memory. Thanks be to God, there was a sharp crease, the self-assured sign of a page not ready to concede defeat to the pressures of Time. One after another, books were dusted off the shelves and pages were pried apart, some more unwilling than the others, as if the security of a long forgotten bookshelf and the anonymity of being one amongst dozens were too much to let go of. There, deep amongst the scores of books extolling religious words of wisdom lay a transparent envelope overflowing with an assortment of...invitations, were they? Perhaps letters preserving the air of Yesterday, a whiff of the past that wafts forth with the unfurling of the brittle page.

The letters were ordered, as were the postcards; the former the characteristic blue of Inland letters and the latter the peachy cream that spelt the erstwhile postcard. Every once in a while, there lay a white envelope bearing a foreign stamp, looking regal in comparison to its local counterparts. It bore a stamp from the UK and spoke of duty-free shops at Paris airport. "I hope the television comes to India soon," the author had written. "It seems like something Indians would enjoy." It came from a time when a pound was thirteen rupees, when monthly salaries were in double digits overseas but a fortune when converted.

Most of the letters asked about the family, the newborn baby and her cheeriness with a dash of the usual family gossip. Who was visiting who? Who was getting married? Who was expecting a baby? It was all there, scrawled into the last few lines of every weekly letter, just before the casual 'yours affly' preceding the signature. 

There was something oozing security from the words 'safe news' on the top corner of every letter. All is well, it said. Everything is okay. I am just checking on you - a brother writing in to his baby sister.

And then came the invitations. A wedding in 1963, the celebration of an upcoming child in 1968, the wedding of that child in 1990, another child born in between and the invitation to his sacred threadceremony. It was all there, preserving the story of not just one individual but the whole family in those white enveloped with the corners dyed a holy orange-red, lines from the scriptures and various Gods accompanying the names being celebrated.

These envelopes heralded the change of Ms to Mrs, of Mrs to Ma, of Gouri to Gouri BSc. There was growth here, new beginnings and fresh starts with new and renewed families. These envelopes here? Yellowed with age and squirreled away at the back of a forgotten cupboard? These here are eyewitnesses of a lineage.

Pengalin Tirumana Vayasu 21.

A little over a year ago, I wrote a breathless, restless piece about the adrenaline rush that comes from turning 20. Today, here is a less inspired, more rehearsed follow up on what it feels like to turn 21. The words are not flowing half as smoothly and the piece isn’t half as formed in my head but what the hell. Here goes nothing.

Taking a stock of this last year seemed like a good place to start.

Relationships cemented? Atleast half a dozen.

Relationships lost? I can think of a couple.

Adventures had and memories gathered? From Khaltse, Ladakh to Berkeley, California

Hearts broken? One for sure. Maybe more or I kid myself.

Hearts mended? Getting there.

Three hundred and sixty five days came and went by, some agonizingly slow and others flying by before I could say ‘twenty’. Before I knew it, I was at the threshold of another huge set of exams, at the other side of which lay the welcoming expanse of three months without the people or the place of the haloed portals of my college. But that also meant I was a couple of days away from my birthday, the big twenty-one, when it all becomes legal and as the autos on the streets of Chennai remind me – the age for girls to get married. Mind you, the autos don’t tell you it is advisable to or even that you should but rather, as a statement of fact ‘the age for marriage (for girls) is 21.’ No questions entertained and no negotiation.

Before everyone rushes at me in dismay/horror/excitement/variant thereof, let me clarify. I am not getting married anytime soon, thankyouverymuch. Nope, miles to go before I sleep and all that. But somehow, those autos on the streets of the city hit home that morning of my birthday. Between panicking for a Microeconomics exam and nightmares of a professor who threatens to fail us all, I could see the yellow and black tuk-tuks plying the streets, propagating their words of wisdom to those who cared to listen and many who didn’t.

Twenty one stood for all things adult. Through my childhood, that was that holy age when no one could stop you from doing anything – you could vote and drink, be the conscientious citizen and the happy-go-lucky vamp. You could finish your undergraduation and then study, or work, or travel, or laze or do just about anything. And you would be too grown up for anyone to ask you anything. And one fine morning, here I was. Twenty one.

As I sit in rural Karnataka typing all this, I tell myself I shouldn’t lie. Sure, of late I have thought about the bigger picture and the road ahead and the various other meta constructs meant to scare the young brain out of its wits but I have also thought of cheap food and dancing. Questions of ‘what after graduation?’ are followed closely by ‘where are the best momos in town?’ ‘Where do I want to be five years from now?’ and ‘what colour should my room be and what posters should I print?’ go hand in hand.

This birthday, I was lucky. I was lucky enough to have more people who care more than I ever seemed to realise. And I was lucky to have a miracle of a friend put it all together. As an email came in every hour from the US and Germany, Hyderabad and Ahmedabad, I teared up and cried at relationships built and nurtured and the people who come and more importantly, stay. I was one lucky thing. And whatever else twenty one will teach me this year, I got an early reminder of one thing – there are a few things in this world that a beanbag, the best of friends and brilliant food won’t solve.

#throwback: 20-nothing

Yes, not surprisingly I have been miserable on the consistency front on this blog. Somehow that last post became too much of a favourite and I was terrified to top it off with something mediocre, boring, inconsequential. Basically, it resulted in my latest four month hiatus and usual excuses for my absence. Been the Achilles' heel to my writing as long as I can remember. Ah well. I am back now and isn't that what matters? :P

This piece is, in all honesty, a year old - almost to the day. I see a follow-up to this coming so thought it made sense to put up Chapter 1 first. Hopefully then it will drive me to put pen to paper (ahem, type on keyboard, that)? As of now, the next title is in my head with words of a vague introduction floating in space. Hopefully this post will push me to sit down and capture them? Somehow, I have a vivid image of chasing down words with a butterfly net... Anyway, I digress.

This is the piece - 20-nothing

--

A babble of near incoherent voices hum behind me in a language I have come to recognize instantaneously. The words make sense, the tones are familiar and the voice is one I have grown accustomed to after many days of bitching, bonding and bawling. Laws and diagrams are floating over my head, being thrown from one BTech to another, in a hurried scuffle to beat Father Time looming in the distance. The fan above me is whirring rhythmically, in slow circles almost in a bored drone. What it must be like to be a fan, I wonder. Rather thankless job, I would imagine. The lights are at a rather inconvenient angle, forming slanted shadows over my shoulders, lurking just out of arms reach. The scene is mundane enough. Highlighters, pens, open notebooks, watches, keys and wires. I am surrounded by the life of a college student the night before an exam. A life I belong to, engage with, am engulfed by. Yet, right this minute, there is something is amiss. Something small, intangible, even ignorable. Yet, it exists.

My breathing is a just a little shallow. My heartbeat is just a little too fast. I am just covered with goose bumps. The rate of facebook notifications flowing in have just increased significantly. None of them are telling signs and no one would even notice. Yet, I know. I am engulfed by a wave of childish enthusiasm, juvenile excitement for what lies on the other side of the Cinderella hour.

A little red ‘1’ just popped up on my screen. An acquaintance from Singapore wishing me. My phone just vibrated. A friend apologizing for not being able to call. My parents sent me offline texts. One friend said he wanted to get me flowers and another mentioned my ‘orgasmic love’ for stationery. Suddenly, I feel like the two year old of almost two decades ago, staring at a carrot cake with icing in a strawberry summer dress, knife held jubilantly in hand and waiting for what lay on the other side of that slice.

I know. Two hours from now, I will not feel any older, any wiser or any prettier because of the day or the time. Two hours from now, calls may or may not flow in, from those who are supposedly meant to call. Two hours from now, I will be two hours closer to my last exam of the semester, something at the top of everyone’s mind, just as it should be. Yet, two hours from now, I would have crossed another boundary in my head, another milestone would lie behind me.

For the longest time, the oldest I could think of was 20. Grown-ups, adults, people who knew what they were doing, they all fell under the umbrella of 20-somethings. Blog posts and magazine articles that had lists of advice for them were brushed aside as being too far in the future to be paid attention to. Twenty-somethings were cousins in college, older siblings working, the people you aspired to be. She was the girl at the bus stand who looked like she could do as she pleased, phone in hand, ear phones plugged in, wearing a casual kurti with leggings. She looked confident, acted important and dressed appropriately. She was everything the awkward, gawky adolescent in me aspired to be.

Today, I am told I am at that threshold myself, a zebra-crossing with childhood behind me and adulthood on the other side. There is a solace in adolescence, a safety net in the teens, a carpet for soft landing that has suddenly been pulled out from under my feet.

Perhaps I am over-thinking this. Perhaps nothing will change after all and the zebra-crossing will be more of a ramp, a long drawn out process of gradual change. But right now, it is momentous. Seven years ago, a thirteen year old girl squealed at the prospect of joining the elite company of teenagers around the world, marking her official entry into the world of adolescence. Today, the girl is awaiting her exit from that company and the induction into the scary world of ‘young adults’. Yet, when I stare at the mirror, I see a seventeen year old staring back at me. Studying for boards, finding my grounding, shakily rising on my own feet. Nothing has changed. It couldn’t have.

As I get increasingly distracted, I promise myself I will come back to this. I will write about this till the words dry up, the brain clears up and I come to terms with what is happening. As of now, my shallow breathing and inexplicable excitement has a very simple explanation.  Beneath the sleep-deprived, aching, hostelite college student who is meant to figure out the answers to life and love lies a young girl; a girl enraptured by rainbows, cotton candy and warm hugs, craving for vathakuzhambu at home with Ma, wondering how she suddenly got all the way here. The girl in the mirror is scared. 20-nothing isn’t so far away after all. Shit.

Monologue to a future daughter

I logged on to facebook this afternoon to be told that it was National Girl Child Day. A couple of hours later, a friend of mine had written a blog post titled 'If I had a daughter, what would I tell her?' and it caught my eye. Thank you Nandhitha, and as promised, for the rest of you, you can visit her writing at http://nandhithahariharan1.wordpress.com/. For want of something better to do on a Friday evening, I decided to give it a shot myself.

As it turns out, this piece is perhaps one of the top contenders on being the most personal and since personal writing calls for a dedication, this is for you, Ma :)

--

If I had a daughter, what would I tell her? What would we talk about and what would she remember? Would I talk of the birds and the bees, or the loves and the lies? Of people who stay or those who leave? Of memories that last or others better forgotten? Of lessons taught or those learnt or others just lost in the conquest? If I had a daughter, what would I tell her?

I would tell her to not be afraid; to try and then, perhaps to lose, but to try again. Whether it is jumping the hurdle on the sports field or solving a math problem, whether it is threading a needle or writing a paper, to never get bored of trying. She should not be afraid of loss, of failure, of fear itself. She should open her eyes to the world and her heart to those around her, unmindful of how long they would all last.

I would tell her to trust; trust people, plans and perhaps most of all, herself. She should feel confident of her own abilities, her own person and never be ashamed of smiling at the mirror. She should know what it is to feel special and she should be able to give herself that happiness, for I cannot promise there will always be other people for it. She should trust that as horrendous as it all seems just then, it will all work out because if nothing else, she will make it happen.

I would tell her to be confident; in her abilities, her skill and her image. She should feel beautiful all day, every day. But I know she sure as hell won’t so I would tell her to smile and cherish the people who never fail to remind her.

I would tell her to sing in the bathroom without inhibition, dance in the dark without hesitation and act flawlessly in front of the mirror, with only herself as audience. And if she does all this on stage, I will pat her on the back and kiss her on the forehead and congratulate her, for I know how much it takes.

I would tell her to not hurry love and to look for it in places she never knew existed. She should love her work and her home, her space and her independence, her friends and her family. And when the day comes that The Love comes her way, she should have it in her to give him her all while still remaining her own person, not compromising on what makes her, her.

I would tell her to cherish the people in her life. She should speak with a smile to everyone she meets. She should know the names of the watchmen and housemaids, the drivers and the water boy. She should be grateful for the opportunities that come her way and the people who deliver them to her. She should give credit where it is due yet stand her ground in case of wrong. She should have her girls to gossip with and her guys to be boisterous with, her best friend to open up to and a circle of pleasant faces to offer a smile. And she should give it all (and more) back in return.

I would tell her to choose the voices she lets under the skin. She will have people talking of her height and her weight, her grades and her contests, her skills and her flaws. She will have strangers commenting on her clothes and her body, on how she should act and where she should go and who she should be seen with. She will have a thousand voices dictating the script of her life. She should know who to listen to, who to mute out and who to just humour with a (fake) smile and a (polite) nod.

I would tell her to play like no one is watching, irrespective of what people say of girls on cricket pitches. She should feel the joy of keeping gloves in relation to a tennis racquet, a football in comparison to shooting a three pointer. She should be unafraid of grazed knees and dirty hands, irrespective of how old she is. And every once in a while, I will remind her that her mother still bears the scars of adolescent football.

I would tell her to talk, unafraid and confident. I would tell her to write, uninhibited and free. On those few days, I would tell her to cry like the world was ending and if she asks why, I would tell her that sometimes, the tears wash away the pain and suddenly it all goes away. I would tell her to laugh like no one is listening and if they were, to laugh a little harder and spread the cheer around.

I would tell her that I try, I try very hard to be half the person my mother is. I would tell her stories of her grandmother; of how I was told so many of these things. I will talk of how I was taught to live and to love and to be loved, to accept and be accepted, to comfort and be comforted, to teach and to be taught, to learn and to lead. I would tell her I am the person I am today because of her grandmother and I hope someday, I will be worthy of such emotion.

If I had a daughter, what would I say? Perhaps I will talk for years - till my hair is white and skin is wrinkled, till I repeat myself and she knows it all by heart, till she has children of her own and then still go on. Or perhaps, I will lead her by the hand and take her to my mother and watch the rest unfold.

That Indian childhood!

When a senior of mine posted this link as her Gmail status message, I opened it simply because I had an hour to kill before lunch and it was only the first day back in college. ’60 Things that Defined Your Childhood in India’, it read and I was a little sceptical. Thanks to the absence of a truly Indian early childhood, I often find (sometimes a little wistfully) that I do not always relate to these lists of memories. Imagine my surprise when most of these looked like pages from my own personal diary.

Over the last few months, a lot of us have been hit with the gap between our self-perception and how the rest of them see us. Just out of high school versus halfway through a post-graduation, just children versus almost adults, ‘we were freshies just yesterday’ versus ‘you are almost final years’ – the contrast hits us all often enough. With this shake-up also comes with it its own sack full of nostalgia and as I sat in my hostel room, thinking of how the curtains needed to be washed and the dust was creeping its way back into the room while distractedly looking at this list, I found myself hit with a tsunami of memories.

This one is to those of you who were around for one or the other of this list, and each of you desi kids who have a list of your own! Here is a quick list of what ran through my mind when I was reading, more for my sake than yours but ah well. :D

1. Geometry boxes. One of the few parts of Math that I have consistently liked. My brother was recently asking my father for a replacement when I realised it has been about five years since I touched one. Stood around drawing circles for a few minutes, just for the heck of it. As for Natraj pencils, what ever happened to the constant Natraj vs Apsara battle? Which was sharper, darker and longer lasting? :D
2. The number of people I should have gotten married to already! Why bother with jaadhagam when FLAMES provides us all the answers? The one exception to my self-imposed rule of not scribbling on the last page of a notebook was this relationship counsellor!
3. Rasna! The marker of my Indian summers and Frooti continues to be a favourite on long Indian Railways journeys.
4. Fancy dress parties were the best way to reuse old Halloween costumes. Oops :P
5. Honestly, more for the brother than me. Too vivid memories of jamming a hand into a heavy one.
6. AN ugly Godrej almirah? Whatever happened to the rest? I think I can count off atleast three. The safest space to store anything in the house! And the ones with a mirror were always the fanciest.
7. It just hit me when I saw this on the list that the guy in the ad was actually just acting, that it was a job that he got paid for. For the last fifteen years, he has just been the Onida devil. Yikes. As for the Amul girl, if only we could be as spontaneous and knowledgable, we wouldn’t need to blink when professors catch us off guard with something this morning’s papers!
8. Those lunch boxes! And trying to graduate to more ‘cool’ stuff. And fighting the battle with your mother about what looked good versus what retained heat. Sigh.
9. Tiger Balm. Amruthanjan. Vicks. Iodex. All of them, in every house, serving practically the same purposes. My grandmother swears they are not all the same though. I also fought with her recently for switching from Mysore Sandal. What is Paati’s house without that smell?
10. “Your shoes aren’t white. Two extra rounds” the PT teacher could threaten and hence, they shall be rigorously polished. I can almost picture it – wedged between the sofa and the balcony door, trying to get up without getting wet polish on the floors and walls.
11. Granddad during the summers.
12. There were months when there was an actual wound on my fingers. Not that I ever got particularly good at it. Oh, and playing with a gullible younger sibling and bending the rules to suit your convenience.
13. School excursions from Pollachi to Cochin had us Madrasis belting out Hindi tunes. I don’t think I have ever gotten past the chorus :P
14. I think there is still a badminton racquet languishing above my bookshelf at home. Yellow cover and definitely not Yonex!
15. SO. TRUE.
16. When Sachin Tendulkar himself took a flying kick of the football to land exactly in the goal, how could we not benefit from it? Especially since I still cannot stand Complan. My loyalties took a sabbatical only when Milo started giving us free books. :P
17. Wear the nicest outfit, hand out candy to everyone, sure. But who can forget the power politics of choosing who will come with you to distribute, of figuring out who will get two Eclairs and who three?
18. Still is. I rest my case.
19. Hahahaha.
20. Or, if you are at your grandparents’ house, sit around them as they tell you stories of the Gods or the sages or just yet another smart animal who speaks. Or you sing.
21. The fact that Cadbury Celebrations still gives a pack of Gems never fails to excite me.
22. Hahaha. I was home yesterday when my grandmother told me “Nanna yennai vechhu thalai vaarikko nee. Nanna ve ille ippo!” (“Put some oil and comb your hair nicely. It looks horrid now.”) Some things honestly don’t change.
23. Blue pinafore. Blue and white checked shirt. Dark blue tie with golden letters on them. Blue ribbons. White socks and well-polished shoes. ID cards, hair clips and bicycle shorts. Gearing up for a day at school.
24. And learnt quick reflexes by letting the saatai go at the right time and hopping out of the way of a chakram.
25. This was one of the few I had to skip.
26. Yesssssss. The biggest price that the Metro project has taken is that access to the BC library is now obscure!
27. Yummmmm. All of us have faked our fair share of stomach aches for just one Hajmola. And later, when we could, we have bought it just for the heck of it.
28. And ‘Ham, Cheese, Ham-burger, Sauce, Potato, Chip-chip-chip!’
29. And Limca still remains a tonic to queasiness in the stomach.
30. Whether you knew what they were doing or not, you knew when to cheer and when to gasp. I remember knowing that loooong before I asked how many balls made an over during an Indo-Pak World Cup match.
31. Or just the biscuit, if you weren’t allowed the chai. It was also the safest food in town – no matter where you were, you could eat Marie biscuit without falling sick!
32. ...and the rest of your Indian mythology stories play in your head as panels of detailed sketches with speech bubbles.
33. I still get excited at Toblerone. Every piece of chocolate needed to rationed out with great care. Only the very best behaviour deserved an extra nibble. And younger siblings will get yelled at for taking an extra helping.
34. Parle babbyyy! As for whether it really is the world’s largest selling biscuits or not, no one cared to question.
35. Roads, drains, ponds, thotti, wherever there was more water than usual!
36. Still plead guilty to that one.
37. Bindis and that kumkum paste that used to come in little dishes. My first and last experiment with rouge, that was!
38. Pass.
39. And school also taught me how to make diyas with broken bangles. Never quite used that one again. If only I could remember the rules now! A page number ending with 9 was out, was it? The perfect solution to Zero Period, when you were bored out of your mind but couldn’t make noise.
40. Oh lord, yes. Except I used to like the taste of it :P
41. Hahahaha. Vivid memories of passing lorry guys looking worriedly at us in the school bus, showing off through the window!
42. Even much after I knew the meaning of the word, ‘ambassador’ was always the car!
43. I have always called it Hopscotch but whatever it was, we used to make the most convoluted tasks to complete. Stand on one foot with one hand on your hip while bending to pick up a stone three steps away. And obviously, do not break your head attempting it.
44. Cheeslings? Hostel saviour. The end.
45. Pass on this one, too.
46. Ummm, nope.
47. Nirmaaa! Yes, we all knew the words, still do. The constant companion to particular crazy days in hostel and particularly desperate times when playing Antakshari.
48. Blue colour packet, Anna! Always the favourite.
49. Cricket cards, WWE cards, whatever. Pokemon was always the coolest.
50. Hahaha. Still do. Dad has been meaning to have them converted to CDs for ages.
51. It was 4^th for us. Vivid memory of a friend being the genius who tried to blow air into the pen to get it to work. First class, first day of school and a mouth full of ink.
52. Still have a bunch of mine lying around, filled with the gossip of the season – who was teased with who, who should be teased with who. All of it.
53. Shoes as the crease, sticks as the stumps and no wickets. Flip-flops or best case, barefoot. Yes, I have played gully cricket!
54. One of those rare things that still cost near nothing.
55. Yessss! And that one year when your parents taught you to do it yourself. Rite of passage indeed.
56. Mahaabhaaraaaaaat. The deep, bass voice of Time taking us through the epic saga. Somehow this new one is just too filmy in comparison.
57. “Adhu vandhu, andha second cousin ode wife ode father ode brother’s second son, ma” my grandmother will tell me with a straight face. Worse, we remember it!
58. And then the day you sit straight and your head grazes the ceiling, you know you’ve grown to be a big girl!
59. We still carry ‘glucose dabba’ to strenuous exercise!
60. Independence Day, Republic Day, whatever else. When someone hands you a flag, you pin it to your clothes. The end.

If you are a 90s kid, how many of these do you relate to?

Here is the list I used:  http://www.buzzfeed.com/regajha/childhood-in-india?bffb

And here is a magically written blog post on a similar subject. I can just never tire of reading this one. http://thepoetryof.wordpress.com/2012/11/29/a-certain-south-indian-childhood/

My day has been made :)

The Stranger returns

December 21, 2012. That was the last time I was on here. Seems a lifetime ago, and yes, once again, I plead forgiveness for the inconsistency that plagues me, if not my entire generation. What may seem like the most obvious platform of expression for a writer of some sort has always seemed to elude me and the months seem to creep between the gaps of my blog posts. So here I am, trying again - this time maybe biting off just as much as I can chew. This year, maybe I will just post things here that I write anyway - in the papers, for myself and my friends so that for those of you who want to read it, there will be one place you can go.

Happy New Year, everyone! And here is one of my personal favourites, The Stranger. Things often look longer on blogs than they really are, so bear with me :)

--

I sit here, just as I always have. For how many years, you may ask. I cannot claim to have the answer. As far as the mind can remember, I will say. As long as memory can see. Long before those glassed buildings in that corner came up. Definitely far before that child there was even born. I have been here a while, I sigh. Some may even claim ‘forever’. I look back and realise these tags don’t matter to me. Then and now, recent and forever. Do they change me? Impact my life any? The dent is negligible, insignificant, the impact of a dragonfly on the leaves of a century-old banyan tree from the books of yore.

I know what you think, hurrying past me in all your pointed productivity. You don’t have time for loafers like me. You might even pause to curse under your breath. Just look at him, you will say. All hale and hearty yet blanketed by lethargy. To you, I am a statistic; yet another one of the millions unemployed, the economically dependent you pay to support with your hard-earned money. I know you hate me, despise my existence. I know you won’t miss me when I’m gone. But I watch you. Everyday; as you rush from the train to the cafe for a quick cappuccino, from the taxi to the high rise office buildings that hold you captive. I watch you and I know; know more than you ever will give me credit for.

There, that boy over there. It must be 8:55 in the morning. I know no watch nor have the knowledge to read the dials. Yet, everyday, I hear him mutter into the phone, growling at the person on the other end. Every day, I hear how much every minute means to him, not in the sense of experience and emotion but that one dratted number that sends him sprinting up to the fourteenth floor. “I don’t have time for this! It is four minutes to 9 AM and I will start losing money, fast. You can wait.” I often wonder who this nameless stranger is, begging for the tall, suited middle-aged man’s attention. His wife perhaps? Or his girlfriend, the steamy, secret mistress? Or even an old love, a flame that never quite extinguished to a whisper?

Oh, and then, over there! A young couple, smartly dressed and ready to dazzle. They have their hands locked into a habitual embrace, more for stability than comfort. I wonder how many days it has been since they stopped thinking about it, stopped walking by themselves but stopped noticing each other’s company at the same time? Each nose is buried into a smartphone, the free hand tapping away furiously, probably setting up half a dozen appointments, bringing them one step closer to paying their half of this month’s rent. They reach the junction. They must part ways. A quick peck on the cheek and a fleeting smile and then, the second hand flurries into action as well. No harm done, no time lost, no ill feelings.

Once in a while, not too rarely, I see a little girl. Even now, as I close my eyes, I can see her in front of me, wearing that cheery summer dress of blueberries and raspberries, clutching on tightly to a helium balloon that perhaps her dad bought her on his way to work. She stands on the pavement, her eyes glazed by a look of awe and amazement. She seems overwhelmed. I would be too if I spent hours staring at weird briefcases and weirder knees; some clothes, others waxed but all hurried. Her eyes slowly widen and if I watch carefully, I can see them swim, first wading and then drowning in her own tears. She seems lost and most often she is. She looks up. Mommy, she calls, waiting for a helping hand and a protective shove. Mommy doesn’t materialize, her mind probably already preoccupied by more pressing matters of meetings to reschedule and clients to please.

As the world goes by me, I sit in my corner. I’m sure you’ve seen me. I’m the one in front of your favourite coffee shop, the one you have to pass by to cross that busy junction to work, the one who sits against your school wall inconveniencing you when you are rushing to class. You must have seen me, my glazed eyes and matted hair, my worn clothes and holey shoes. You must have heard me ask for a penny in change, a minute of your time, a kind word to spare. You remember that hurried look of pity you threw? The glance dripping with detached sympathy and masked condescension? Yes, that was to me.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I feel like reaching out just an inch more. I feel like grabbing the hem of your clothes and get you to stop for just a minute. Enough of the meetings, I feel like crying. Enough of the deadlines and the appointments, of the to-do lists and the commitments. Enough, enough, enough. Now, you will listen.

You think I am a loafer, a liability. You think you can judge me, standing atop the pedestal of your perfect life. I’m the muck you ignore, the backdrop to your life. The broken tiles on the pavement, the remnants of yesterday’s construction project and me – you describe us all in the same breath. We are the dark underbelly to your spotlight, the pungent odour to your potpourri. Yet, sometimes I feel like calling out to you and reminding you. We think as well and we see, often more than you do.

Do you know what it feels to live amongst the waste of the ‘better’ and the ‘greater’? Does your soul know the all-pervading sense of numbness that creeps in with decades of invisibility? Does your body know what it means to not be able to move for want of somewhere to go? Has your tongue ever craved just one piece of bread that wasn’t touched by another’s lips, either man or beast? I didn’t think so. Yet, every time you walk by, I want to pull on that hem and ask anyway. So you will know too.

You think I am a loafer and I probably am. I don’t fit into your world and unlike you, I don’t try. I will not stand in front of the mirror every morning, holding ties against my shirt, wondering whether stripes or stars are the way to go. I will not forget to kiss my wife goodbye in a hurry to escape peak hour traffic. I will not miss my daughter’s first stage appearance because I was overseas on a business meeting. I will not shush my children at the dinner table to hear the eight o’ clock news speaking of the Sensex. I will not be that person and hence, I am the loafer.

I am the man at every corner. I know that deep down, in those few seconds of calm and quiet, you think of me; of who I am and what I do and how I got here. I know you wonder what it is like to be me. The next morning, you will rush by me just the same but you will throw me a small smile, almost like a secret just for the two of us. Just at that moment, I will know some more. I will know that you thought of me yesterday, and you thought a kindly thought.

You wonder who I am and today, I will tell you. I am the unknown whose tendrils are a little too close. I am the strangeness that disrupts your ease. I am the imperfection in this facade of a perfect world. I am the stranger who is a little too familiar, the man you wish you didn’t know.

But rest easy, little one. You do not know me. It is I who knows you. Each of you, for to me, you are all the same.