The idle musings of an almost adult

Think, everyone told me. Think and it will come to you. Think and it will dawn upon you. Just think and the world’s answers will appear in a heartbeat and clarity will come giftwrapped in a nice little box miraculously left behind by the Tooth Fairy one Tuesday morning. All you need to do is think.

I’ve thought on planes and trains, buses and bikes. I’ve thought while I was meant to be thinking and much more when I wasn’t. I’ve stared just to the right of my professor’s face during class and doodled pointlessly in the corner of my notebook. I’ve made more To Do lists than anything I’ve ever done and then stooped from putting ‘Figure it out’ to ‘Shower’, in an effort to check something off. You can’t say I didn’t try.

When it all fell apart all around me and all the same advice kept pouring in, I turned to clichés. I took a long, hot shower. And I thought some more. Or atleast I tried.

What do I write my paper on? And once that is done, what do I do my thesis on? And once that is done, what do I do next? Where do I work? Do I let go of a great job just to leave home? Do I accept another great job even if the cash isn’t great? What qualifies as good enough and how do you identify a challenge? When you can’t differentiate the road less travelled from the well trodden path, how do you choose to be conformist or rebellious? And how is it that the more I think, the more questions seem to need thinking about?

This thinking thing is a lie, a web designed to keep you in a never-ending loop. You think you get more questions, you kid yourself into thinking you can answer them all. For now, I’m going to take a break. The paper may happen, or not. Reading all day is fun in itself. The thesis will definitely happen. On what, well, epiphany shall strike before graduation some time. As for a job, I’m only almost adult for now. Please don’t burst my bubble?

The Dead Man's Woman

Yes, it has been a while. Ah well.

This is pretty much all the good that can come out of late night exam mugging. I was recently told that this blog is 'all serious' and in that spirit, here is a piece inspired by Albert Camus' The Stranger, fiction written from the point of view of Marie. Title credits, a play adaptation I was a part of a couple of years ago :D

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I’m tired of being the mistress of a man sentenced to death. How long am I to hold on, hang in there, not let go? To cling to a sliver of hope by the tips of my manicured fingernails? To shut out the voice in my head crying for rationality, for a better future?

I love him. Or at least, I did.

We met in strange circumstances, we did. His mother had died, my boyfriend had left me. It is unsettling, speaking of these situations in the same breadth, almost writing off the death of a progenitor as being the same as a spineless, transient relationship. Yet what can I say? That queasily unsettling feeling of the very first day set the tone for our liaison. I became the mistress. He became the stranger whose unidentifiable charm drew me in deeper than I expected.

I want to marry him. Or at least, I did.

He grew on me, that man. How and when, I do not know. He had an abrupt way about him, always answering questions off the top of that intelligent head. If one didn’t know better, one would claim there was no heart in the man, that he was merely a machine with bodily needs. God knows I knew of them. Yet, I walked up to him one sunny afternoon. And I asked him to marry me. What possessed me, I have not the slightest clue. Did I expect him to gush with emotion? No. Did the long forgotten memories of girlish romance threaten to rear their suppressed head? I think so. I should have known better. He said yes because I was the first woman to ask.

I know him. Or at least, I did.

He didn’t do it on purpose. He is not a bad man. We went swimming that morning. Out in the middle of the ocean, our legs intertwined as we floated in the calm waters, I almost felt happy, normal. His hands found their place on the small of my back and we kissed. The salt in my mouth mixing with the salt in his mouth mixing with the salt in mine. Four hours later, they found a man with five bullets in him. They said he had done it. No. I don’t want to hear more.

I believe him. Or at least, I did.

He told the world it was an accident. A series of unfortunate events. A set of bad circumstances. A mere coincidence. He didn’t speak to me at all. His lawyer said he hadn’t meant to kill that man. It was Raymond who had a bone to pick after all. Maybe it was the sun at the wrong angle or something about the sand. There was a dead man on the floor and the gun in his hand. This is all we know. But he isn’t a bad person. He isn’t.

I want to wait. Or at least, I did.

I visited him at prison. Once. I sat on the other side of the glass with a plastic smile plastered on my face. I asked him if he was fine. He said he was. I felt stupid asking. So I spoke. I spoke to fill the awkward silence. I spoke to hush the nervous beating of my heart. I spoke. I told him of work and tennis and swimming. Of Raymond and Masson. I spoke till my jaw hurt. Till the men came to take him away. I spoke and I smiled. And I never went back.

I’m tired of being the mistress of a man sentenced to death. They say he will die and I will live. But I want him to survive. At least, I did.

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 :)

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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.