Big Deal

This year, I felt no Christmas spirit. I feel nothing special about New Year. And after all that, I don't think Birthdays are big deals anymore either. Time just flows. In specific about Birthdays, I think, we all love getting older till we are 18, then we pull a face about the ones that follow. New year is just a passing into the same cycle again. But we could celebrate it in June or September! And there really isn't any Christmas spirit. It doesn't matter. I bet Jesus was born some other time and people just celebrate it in Winter to make the season pass more easily. (In European and North American countries it gets bitterly cold. Christmas serves to lighten things up).

We just make a Big Deal about things.

Dread

It’s strange that 8 days before I turn 20, the same dread of growing up haunts me as it did 7 days before I turned 14. If I could, I would fight Time. But, I know this feeling will pass.

I want to know why I dread growing up. Why, despite in general, knowing and accepting life as it is, there are still moments like these before my birthday. The most obvious reason to me is probably that people now see and treat me as a woman, an adult, rather than as a child and person. They excuse me less, expect more, and totally disapprove when I don’t conform.

I’ll miss the wonder I used to cause when I said something profound (I would say these things as most children do; not because I was a genius but because I was a free child). I’ll miss being smarter than most people, now that everyone is expected to know more anyway. I’ll miss the freedom of laughing out loud without being judged negatively. When I reach the end of my fresh fruit juice, I’ll have to restrain myself from noisily sucking in the last few drops.

I look in the mirror. The innocent child is gone. I see a grown young woman. My problem is that I have a form. If I didn’t, it wouldn’t matter.

It’s not that I want my childhood back. I am prepared to face life, but I don’t want to do things that are expected of me merely because I’m of such and such an age. Men will be only friends. Learning will continue to be the main purpose and activity of my life.

Oh, so your issue is men? Well perhaps that is what started this dread because I’m not afraid of responsibility or growing ‘old and frail’. It must be what people expect me to feel. I can’t. I once thought I could but I don’t. Because it doesn’t exist. It’ is just the selfish gene which makes us that way. I wont give in.

Existence

I think that wasting time is criminal. Somehow, there has to be a purpose to everything. And when there is none, I feel like I don’t deserve to exist. They are the true criminals-those who waste time. So I take a book everywhere. Or I study people around me. Why certain faces are more pleasant than others. How so many people make the same gestures for the same things and what that reflects about them. My mind has to be running, wondering and analyzing.

I need to exist. I need to do or think to exist. That is my definition of me- my brain, my body. So is that who I am? Was Rene Descartes right about the criterion for existence? The mind dies with inactivity. That way, the body, the brain and everything dies.

What doesn’t, is the true self. Or rather, what doesn’t, isn’t the self. The self is an imaginary identity just like most others (just as people now acknowledge that nationality and religion are not real) in the world. Identity itself is only a means by which you reassure your existence. You identify your body in the mirror and learn mentally that that’s you. You grow a mind that sees itself as separate form other living and non-living things. Then society teaches you to see more differences. The mind is thus tuned to look for one’s uniqueness. You divide yourself form your mother first then the whole world.

With this division comes conflict. A fight to push ones own sense of reality into another’s. So conflict is the contradiction of different people’s sense of reality.

Our fear of death also arises from this fear of losing our self-made identity. Isn’t it disturbing to consider that in reality, nothing is. Not you. Not the room around you. Not the words you are reading. Not the world outside. Not thought. Nothing.

No wonder we fight. No wonder we are threatened by boredom. We want to prove our existence.

It

(written in 10th...)

It suffered times when It almost drowned

in the unruly sea, in wild tempests.

The sharp, icy jagged teeth of Cruelty

bit deeply into It.

The tearing claws of Anger slashed

powerfully at It.

It was being dragged through shrubs of

thorns that dug, stung

and scratched bitterly.

The ground was hard and cold

burnt by an evil green, raging fire.

Torture…but It held on…searching

in desperate hope for a glimpse of

Light

from the other end of what it hoped

was a tunnel, but was

a cave.

It finally extinguished

There was infinite darkness,

Loneliness,

Sorrow,

Overwhelming anguish and

Pain.

No more hope.

No more warmth.

Just an agonizing silence…

Would it be this way

Forever?

It didn’t want it so…anymore.

Who can enjoy pain?

Thinking that it is love?

It closed its eyes, believed it was

no more there, but in heaven.

On opening them, It saw a glow.

No, it was not a flame that could be

washed away.

No, It was no longer where it was before

This was not that cave but the

entrance to a garden.

Bright, full of light and beautiful

It dared to look back, felt no more pain.

This was real…the garden.

The place of truth and love,

not the cave of unending illusion.

I Hate Growing Up

27/12/01

My birthday is seven days away.

I’ll be thirteen only for seven more days.

After my birthday, I’ll be fourteen years old and

Never again will I be thirteen!

Every second, every minute increases

The time of my existence on earth

It increases my age.

Every second, every minute decreases

The time left on earth

It decreases my youth.

The devil called time is taking my

Childhood away.

Somebody stop it! Please!

I don’t want to grow up!

I don’t want to be old!

I don’t want to become frail and helpless

Like a dry leaf from a broken branch!

I don’t want to be loaded with responsibilities

Any more than already is.

I hate growing up.

I want to live my life again;

Change everything that I did.

Enjoy my innocent days!

Sorry Childhood,

I didn’t realize your value till now!

The truth dawns into my realization…

I regret wanting to grow up,

Just to watch movies.

I’m sorry I was mean to you!

I wonder why birthdays are celebrated

I think they should be mourned,

Every moment should be mourned,

Every second should be mourned.

For every sunset brings you

Closer and closer to death and

Further and further from youth!

Everyday that you live

Will never come back again.

I’ll never be seven days less than fourteen again!

After tonight, there’ll be one less day

To live!

Why?? Why?? Why do we have anything like time?

Why does every thing have to live and die?

Why?

Why does time have to pass by?

Why do things have to change so fast?

Does everyone know?

Can someone do something about it?

Please?!!?

(my my i have a lot to say to myself of the past...why so pessimistic? why talk as if from 13 i go straight to 80? theres so much to learn and age is just a natural process...so is death. my own death doesn't scare me anymore. others' seems too unreal and i don't understand it. there is only a conceptual understanding which relates death to sleep and perhaps life is a dream. and if i had a choice, i wouldn't change anything in my life... i am what i am today because of it all and its been an enriching experience. i like myself the way ive turned out and i know i keep growing and learning. but i agree...wanting to watch 15 + movies was a really bad reason to want to grow up...many of my other writtens talk about my present attitude to adulthood

but im sure many ppl feel this way at least a couple of times in life...but life is best lived when one takes the framework and limitations and works best accepting the inevitable and valuing and really living every second instead of mourning it)

Damage to the Heart

15/3/2

I don’t know what I’m doing

I don’t know what I’ve done.

I don’t know what is true and not,

I don’t know what is what.

There’s nothing I can do ‘cause

There’s nothing in my hands,

But there’s something wrong,

Life goes on with no-matter-what

My heart goes through it too.

It gets slashed, smashed, cracked, thrashed,

Kicked, scratched, beaten and bashed

But it doesn’t break.

Obsession and love

Attachment and affection,

The monsters and causes

Of all heart infections,

Horrible, terrible

Unimaginable!

Life is bad, life is cruel!

Life is ruthless, love is rue!

I go through it, its real to me.

It may seem trivial but

It’s as bad as can be!

Not far away as love seems to be,

The glass I’m looking through

Is playing tricks on me.

Yearning as I am for it,

Despising it now I,

Rather than to live like this

Any day I’d die. But

There’s more to live for,

That’s what people say.

What? What? What is there?

Nothing for me, no way!

It’s bad, it’s sad,

It’s driving me mad!

Rubbish, nonsensical

Loves painful and illogical.

The Path

8/3/02

From where we come, we go back

But where do we go in the middle?

We follow a path,

A path that is not there.

It is then that we realize that we are lost.

Our images shattered.

Where is that path?

The one that is not there?

Where is life?

That which is not real,

What is this?

Is it all a dream?

Then where are we?

Are we there?

Where is there?

Is there a there?

What is life?

Life is a path with ups and downs

Life is a land that has no path

We choose where we go.

But where do we go at all?

To chase the end is to

Chase your shadows head.

There is no end,

Nor a beginning.

Just a path,

That is not there.

Cloud no. 4

Once a piece is published, it is the readers' to interpret it how they see fit. Afterall, their interpretation is only a reflection of themselves.

Sorrows

(again written in my 8th...the second i ever wrote in my life:))

Sorrows

Sorrows exist everywhere, everyday,

all over this pitiful earth.

Sorrows exist in silence

Sorrows exist in mirth

Sorrows exist in the sight of other people.

Sorrows of an un-gettable,

Sorrows of the unforgettable.

Sorrows that lie in the midst of

Every dream.

Sorrows in love,

Sorrows in war,

Sorrows in every up and down of life.

Sorrows we can’t get over,

Sorrows which don’t pass by,

Sorrows which are permanent

Sorrows which don’t die.

Sorrows lie in darkness,

Sorrows are a lack of light.

Sorrows kindled by devils,

Sorrows that leave you in a plight.

Get rid of darkness

Get rid of devils

Get rid of madness

Get rid of riddles

Think sense and wipe away those tears,

Frowns and downs are dull browns,

Life has much more to offer,

I the sea of sorrows, don’t drown.

( i sure am glad my style has evolved)

Rain

Rain

(written in 5/11/01...my eight...will follow more writens that reflect what i used to write like)

Lying in the meadow full of colourful flowers,

I watch the angels flow by…

Big and small, fluffy and white, telling

the story of a child.

When suddenly, there appeared a huge black cloud

And drizzle droplets fell, lightly, gently on me.

The first rains of the year had begun,

The heat disappeared and the air smelt fresh.

Fresh with the fragrance of everything that surrounded me.

The smell of the bark of all the trees

And all the types of flowers there could be

Coincided in the moist air making it

Heavy with the heaven.

A cool breeze so tender so mild

All of the sudden it turned wild

Ferocious, yet pleasant, it rushed past my face,

Running like a cheetah in the animal race.

The drizzle droplets turned into strong

Heavy wet drops,

And each like a balloon crashed with

Sounding pops.

The joy of my heart knew no bounds,

I got up and joined the flowers

In their rain dance.

I became a part of the wind,

Running around, freely, effortlessly,

I became wild with nature,

So unconsciously.

When its dry, hot and everything

In life is down,

I close my eyes, my spirits rise,

To think of the rain which washes away frowns.

Help!

(dedicated to Jazz)

Help me ! I hate this place.

I really hate it. I find no peace.

I wan to run. Far…right into

Your classes where I learnt something.

Fists clenched, frown, teeth gritted,

I didn’t ask for this. At all.

I would bang the table- shoot

some (excuses of) humans

down and

Scream!!!!

I would strangle (an excuse of) a teacher

who repeats too much and

smiles sarcastically.

Evil distorted faces growl and

Sneer at me.

Dark grey black with goosebumps

Green- gooey with radioactivity.

Help me -! Help!

Windows

Windows can be seen as our outlooks to the world. There are times when one’s window shrinks to the size of a peephole, moments of fear or hatred. But in moments of illumination, the window is the highest one in a skyscraper with walls of glass, a panaromic view on life. These rare moments are when one feels big, and full of life and love. (One could say then, in these terms, enlightenment would be the state when windows and walls alike all break open and one is lifted to the clouds.)

The size sometimes changes according to one’s mood and circumstances but for most people, the general structure is consistent. And our up bringing, and perhaps genes, play important roles in determining this. What is our family like? Were we brought up in fear of certain people and things? Were we let out to play enough or trapped inside to cram up for an exam? Were we allowed to question anything and everything and speak our minds, or threatened into blind obedience? How much of TV did we watch and from what stage in life? What kind of exposure and education did we get? All determine our approach to the world.

My own window would be a large square one, framed in strong, brown wood uninterruptedly crossing into a plus to divide it into four equal quarters. It’s a pretty simple outlook, bright, open and optimistic. And it gives more focus to the outside world than its own structure. But the square does symbolize the edge of rigidity that I come with. I tend to be mentally organized and systematically analytical. I don’t compromise on certain principles and I’m pretty hard to convince when it comes to many attributes of my fundamental attitude. The wood is impeccably smooth but not varnished or treated artificially to give it ‘a finish’. I don’t like dishonesty in any form. Perhaps I am crude and unconforming to the rules of the majority.

I don’t have glass in the frame or curtains to block things out with, only the plus-frame. It’s only a delight to have such a big open window if the world one sees through it is for the most part, intriguing and wonderful. I have been quite sheltered so my window offers little defense from the illogical cruelty and insensitivity of the world. I’ve been thinking of getting some drapes to give me the option of shutting out the world but perhaps it’s safer to go with the trends these days and attach heavily tinted glass, build thick metal grills and put up occluding blinds.

Idealism Knocked Down

Channel the feelings into art and in that preoccupation, the feelings are absorbed with more easily; like a flood, which suddenly found the porous route to the storm drains.

Disillusionment. Why does it hurt?

As we grow up, we are taught ideals, values and morals by which we should approach this world. But, sooner or later, approaching real adulthood, we children realize that the world doesn’t work according to these values. We are the only ones who still believe in and live by them. When we realize and choose to give up hope, we become a true adult. Who says life is pleasant? Who says adulthood is fun or anything we imagined it to be?

Each time (it takes more than once to ‘grow’) the non-logic of peoples minds translates into an action that affects us, it stings. But we are quickly lulled back into a general optimism. Why are we brought up that way? Why not simply teach us the truth from the start?

I went to a funeral today. The death was caused by lack of communication and misunderstanding, perhaps, of objectives and method/focus of working. But why play the blame game? What purpose does it serve?

The first time I entered to office, I expressed my awe, “Wow, I cant believe I’m actually in --- office!” What did I think then. And what do I know now.

Beware, all idealists and hopeful youngsters out there. There’s so much of what you believe in which is not true. I don’t ask you to lose faith and become cynics. Nor do I advocate total optimism. Just be braced with strength to face these things when they hit you.

What I felt in the office during the announcement was not only my pain but the whole groups’. It was the pain of helplessness and anger about not being understood.

But why talk when there’s nothing to discuss? Why argue when no ones listening? Why fight when there was not to be battle in the first place? Why bother…in the end?

The organization may see us as a tool that they can discard or disown, but the disbanding, in the true sense of the word, can’t be done by them. We’ll go on now without the support that we never really had.

What’s to hurt in this? The funeral was of the relationship, which wasn’t all hale and healthy anyway, and also of the idealism some of us carried about the world. I saw one of us break into tears over this death. While another commented on the freedom we now have.

That’s a perspective! Is death the end or liberation?

City Streets

City Streets
(in the oct hols 2007 for journalism hw)

Vehicle fumes bathe me as I walk the city streets.
The roars of blue and white paid concentration cells, and lorries carrying rough blocks of granite vibrate my stomach. Various pitches of horns intrude my ears. The bikes and autos, unpredictable as flying insects, irritate the voluminous cars.

On the road, there is spit of different colours, cow dung, unstable slabs and sudden holes.
The flyover has plastic tents under it. Dead bodies of the trees still lie beside the widening highway. The smell of the nearby market is a strong mix of flowers, open fruits, urine and smoke of cigarettes and vehicles.

Some men with drunken red eyes sing songs as they pass young girls. A conductor and driver refill their water bottles and empty their bladders. I look away. The cobbler’s children are playing broom cricket.

Men with dark shining skin catch bricks in time with rhythmic hammering. The women ignore the incessant motorized slicing of granite as they sieve sand and cement, and carry the mixture on their heads. They seem to grow shorter by the weight.

A group of boys in faded clothes boldly share a partially used beedi and walk past the disabled artist who draws the same picture with chalk on the quiet road every few months. The vegetable vendor’s bare soles are dirty and cracked. But his eyes are bright. His voice rings out loud and spirited.

Ban the Bulb

If u really want it off and switches don't work then
rip the circuit.
'Ban the Bulb'

Mirror

I look for my reflection

I love my reflection.

It isn’t me but my only companion

Through life.

And sometimes it is me.

When we talk I wonder who’s speaking to who.

I cry unashamedly on to my reflection.

Because that’s the only direct truth.

Only me reflection knows me my way.

Only my reflection knows me at all inherently.

Others understand me, in their own ways

They just carry impressions, untruthful; coloured by their lives.

So I am a woman, an adult to them all

But to myself, I’m just me.

I don’t need them. But I forget it sometimes and get lonely.

All I need in my life is a mirror, my reflection

And my need to be understood by another

Is fulfilled

Or perhaps I fool myself.

Adult

25/5/07

I suddenly realize I am a machine. I do the same things everyday. I’ve stopped feeling. I’ve stopped thinking.

I’m too busy with my life. I’ve grown far away from childhood. I’m passive. I’ve stopped caring…cold, inert, dead. I’m insensitive and superficial. Everything I thought I shouldn’t grow into. I’ve become that machine.

I can’t think further than logic. Logic isn’t enough. I run form introspection. I run. Rapidly run from being alone. I am afraid and now I know it.

I used to burn my blood for work, for the love and passion. Now I only burn to fool myself of love of work, for the rain, music and nature.

I am an adult. I am a machine. Monstrous. There is no love in me. I’m a danger to myself and to humanity and all of dear earth.

But now that I shine light on this state, it will vapourise.

Let us love like children

In this moist breeze

That sways the branches

And trees

Let us become children

Again, my love, and play

In the rain.

Let us get soaked

Laugh and roll around

On the warm wet ground,

Let us throw handfuls of mud

And drop hail

Down each other’s clothes,

Let us tickle and giggle

And chase each other.

In innocence.

Let us love purely

And carefree

Let us love like children.

..

9/4/07

..

Two dots

Bothers me.

Two spots on white

Could mean so much.

It could be doubt

Or fear or a response

That has no words,

He could love me

Life fire or be as

Indifferent as a stone.

He could be shocked

Speechless

Or acknowledge that he

Expected it.

He could be patient

Or be asking for mine.

He could expect me

To continue.

It wasn’t whole,

Perhaps he isn’t.

It could’ve been

?, or !,

*, or yes,

Or and?, wait, or oh!

But

..

A mere gap between

Two conversations.

This Pebble

(24th October 2006)

This Pebble;

Pure while at heart but
a tinge of brown outside.

Smooth, but for a few cracks
through which the blankness
gives way to the crystalline insides.

Cold at first, but as it's held,
grows warm to return the warmth
its given.

So soft, yet so strong.
Searching for balance in all its rolls.

Its real; but magically intangible
And incompletely percieved.

The Silver Haired Goddess

The Silver Haired Goddess

about my grandmother
19/10/06

The sun lights up her silver hair
She walks gracefully past in her fresh light sari.

She's a goddess from above.
She is her name, Saraswathi,
Wisedom in her soft wrinkles as she smiles.

She holds a book in her hand
And sits upright in the light.
Her round glasses rimmed
Her sari in flowy folds.
She is beautiful;

The Silver Haired Goddess.

Love from nature

3/4/07

Lower your lashes to the Rising Sun
As he, powerful and giving
Rides into the Sky
The cool Breeze feather touches your skin
and passes the Trees' kisses on.

Thirst

4/4/07

The clouds grow darker over her
The age old metaphor gains new meaning
A simple genuine basic thirst
Breaks her into pain
'Rain!' she cries to the Sky
'Don't just show me you have water!'

Faith and Toil

Faith and toil.

This system gives no room to be human. There is a formal way of doing everything. Asking why doesn’t feature.

One can ask any teacher who has ever taught me. Not one would disagree that I’m an honest, sincere and exceptionally hardworking student. I come to class on time, I ask questions, do all my work and sometimes even ask for more. I want to learn. And always have.

I’m proud of the fact that I’ve been consistent about the three values that are closest to me in every aspect of life.

Honesty.

Sincerity to everything I commit to.

Acting with love no matter what.

Perhaps I got diarrhea on the day of the microbiology test so that my faith and strong hold on the first two of these values will be tested. And now I do seriously wonder why I bother when it’s so much easier to bribe a doctor to claim that I nearly died on that day so they’d let me write the retest. Is that what will let a good student get the marks he/she deserves? Then may dishonesty prevail!

So much for my ‘faith’ in my values. And as for ‘toil’…ha ha ha ha!! Sorry, I can’t help laughing. I don’t think hard work pays either. I studied for the test and for this retest. I made notes like how I would’ve in school. The love for studying that wore out only at the end of my prolonged board exams had finally returned! But why?

Its not worth it. No one expects a BSc. Student to study at all. Mediocrity is ok, lack of detailed understanding; even less than my 12^th standard, is ok. (My ‘intellectual frustration’ even caused me to tell a teacher that I couldn’t be given handwriting practice as a substitute to learning, and bunk two of his classes.)

But my point is that this world is full hypocrisy. Every system is full of it. The only thing one can still, maybe, believe in is the individual’s inherent humanness. That’s what I’m calling out to.

Hey teachers! You know me! Would I bunk a test without a valid reason? Don’t you know me even that much yet? And hey controller of examinations! Firstly why do you have such a long title! And if you don’t know me cant I be ‘innocent until proven guilty’?

Why are all of you so distrustful of sincere students? Why are you all so stuck in your ‘formal world of system’? Can’t you be human?

To hell with the marks…just be fair.

For the sake of ‘faith’ and ‘toil’.

In College missing Mountains

This prison. Walls. No trees.

No where to hide

To be alone or cry.

No one to understand the lover’s yearning for the mountains

And the pain of missing my

Second home.

The touch of that book this morning,

The tone of those words,

The reassuring sense.

No one to understand

The pain,

The desperation of the caged,

To Get out and go!

Back to the beloved Mountains

With my loving family.

Or merely attend crazy

Chemistry classes.

Trapped here. Noise, too many

People. Watching. Too closely.

Cant be alone

Cant scream in frustration

Do you know how it feels

To be surrounded and filled

With Whole Free Beautiful Love?

To live in that medium-

To breathe it?

My home. The immensity of the

Mountains,

Their splendour.

It calls. I will go.

Volleyball

Volleyball

Was my class’s game.

We played it all six years

In beating heat sweating,

Or in slushy mud rain

And all free hours.

His eyes near the net would

Follow mine before I set to serve

It would give me the power

To get it over.

It was friendly. When it

Mattered I didn’t play. Just

Watch or read with Aaku,

Su, Pri, Pro, Niki, Peeni, Hemal,

Amu and Jyo squealing or

Calling in the background.

Here I am, watching the dynamic

Game in college, my new class

Playing.

Flakes

(27th Feb 2007)

The season changes
Clouds cover parts of
The sky. I lose peace.

Moisture in the wind
Falling leaves; dry and
Brittle. Wait for rain.

Some bright green leaves and,
some branches, leafless,
Flowers in some; pink,

Yellow, purple. Seeds
Float in transparent
Flakes,. Rocks melt, trees bend,

All that stood alone
Now clings desperately
To the universe.

Sore

(Feb 2007)

Do not touch me
For I am sore
Do not speak
Your voice hurts my ears
Just be here
Go
I cant live with
Or without you.

Familiar Air

(written in january 2007)

The air is familiar,
Fans on.
Summer setting in
Boards time.

Sky blue,

More clouds,
Same smell- temperature,
Humidity.

Thin layer of
Sweat.
Separation, farewell
Flowers in the Valley.

It may rain in the evenings
Wind tells me now.
I'm tuned to this part of
Earth.

I remember, as a child,
This same air
In Trichy and Mettupalayam
Heat degree varying.

City

written mid december 2006

There is no wholesome plant here
There is no learning
No passion.
Being with the dead kills me.

There aren't enough trees
Not enough shade
Dry dust and plastic.

My tears are not water enough
to give life to this
Nor my anger or frustration.

The only thing thats constant
is the blue sky above. So

I wish to be a bird that finds freedom in the blocks
I wish to be the clouds again
I wish to be the trees, my friends and the ever moving breeze.

I see machines everywhere
They never walk alone
But they are.

There is no freedom or intelligence.

I need water and sunshine,
I need leaves, insects, streams, lakes,
I need Home.

Cloud no. 3

For no specifiable reason I feel sure.
Something tells me the improbable is possible
And real.

I am not one who believes without proof
I am a scientist
Yet I'm sure.

When logic is questioned so strongly by intuition
What do i trust
And act on?

A passing thought...

The brain stews some ingredients

When the time is right, the aroma emerges...

Thoughts are like passing clouds...

It strikes me that respect is a rare feeling amongst people.

The way men look at women...I mean both perspective and actually looking...
It has always bothered me that everyone seems to accept this.

'Thats the way it is'

Language is full of patriarchal references.

Chivalry is a polite mockery that most people neither understand nor intend.

Well, one can perhaps accept a generalisation that women aren't as muscular as men and also that they are far more organised and good at seeing things through than men be it at home, with children or in 10th grade where every year, 'girls outshine boys'. But somehow, these qualities are never taken seriously. When an intelligent woman states that she is could be more capable of ruling this world than many a silly man, she is termed a feminist and dismissed.

But i digress.

Language. I tend to read into language and the hidden connotations of some striking words...
I was examining 'chick' the other day. Firstly it sounds as if the woman is some bird brained silly object, then to my great joy i discovered that its roots were in Europe where chice or come such French word and i associated it with the Spanish chiquetta. (Forgive my spellings if they're wrong)

Both these words suggest fragility and soft innocence. Perhaps when the 'lady feels demure and shy' this would be an appropriate personal endearment.
But how is it used? 'Hey dude! Check out that chick! Is she hot or what...'
That's nice. Full of respect, isn't it.
This usage reduces a woman from an individual to her appearance.

[....................................................And one can safely say that when a girl 'checks out a guy' (as is supposed to be natural), she wouldn't so vehemently die for him on the spot! Of course it differs from girl to girl but they are definitely more likely to call the men they're in love with, unbearably attractive, not the any-many guy they see.

(As a disclaimer, not all men are open about their finding a woman attractive, but none of them will deny that their eyes roam a lot more.) ..........................................................................................................................]

Babe is another such word.

Anyone who has the guts to call me either one, wishes to burn in hell. More than being liked, I need respect. Respect me and hate me and I'll still respect you and even love you as a living thing as I do everything else. The moment I'm disrespected, the guilty becomes beneath my dignity to associate with, egoistic as that may sound.

But by respect i don't mean the 'Good morning ma'am' crap. (Thats just formality that some people are taught to expect.) I mean the dignity of being a person as a whole. One who has feelings, brains, idiosyncrasies and strength of character apart from a physical manifestation of a body.

If only i could disappear so that others would give more importance to the invisible.
Many times I wish I were a tree or a bird just to escape the looks and comments i receive. To be so far removed from anything human and male... I wonder whether anyone talks of trees and birds with the kind of derogation they attribute to women.

Perhaps, and people will say so, i take this all too seriously. Perhaps its just part of being young. But if the young don't respect each other, how on earth will grown ups? We do grow into them you know. And with age only comes more filth and corruption into the mind. Its pretty obvious that only intellectual understanding of many things sometimes occurs with time. But it remains conceptual. Habits are formed. And one finds it too difficult to change one's ways after a point.

So what can i do, since i can't disappear, nor become a tree or bird...
I had fantasies of a soft blue cotton burkha to wear in public, when i feel reduced or threatened. When it is forced on women as a culture, perhaps it reduces them, but if its a choice I make, am I reducing myself?

My mind wandered...I'll go monk! Shave off all my thick beautiful hair and really prove my point. Wear only one colour, blue (because I like it) and lead a simple life. Or move to the forest! (I would love that:)) Run away from man-kind...

Escapism or protecting myself?

Well, these thoughts I had yesterday. I wore the baggiest t-shirt my brother had, and his pants, hid my hair under a scarf and a clip and made my way to college. Apart form those who I'd shared my thoughts with, everyone else thought it was a style statement! Only those who knew, used word like…’ridiculous’, ‘weird’, and ‘crazy’. But it was directed probably more at my intentions than at my actual clothes.

One of them pointed out that this change is only going to draw more attention to me than to my character and serve no purpose ultimately. Good point. He added that if a generally expressive person, to become one with the crowd, quietens suddenly, that too would draw more attention than his/her usual behaviour.

But perhaps today was only ‘first day symptoms’. They will hopefully come around to accepting this change as normal, and stop noticing it. Then my purpose will be achieved…for then, no one will Ever refer to me, in baggy clothes as a chick or a babe! Instead, perhaps as ‘weird’ but I don’t mind being called something I perhaps already am.

But…

This move if I continue with it, contradicts what I myself keep saying; why should a woman change her ways to accommodate the faults in a man’s (Ok lets stop attacking men. Not all of them deserve this.) Society’s outlook?

Again the answer perhaps lies in the difference between the way of dressing as a rule laid down by a college and a personal choice. But am I reducing myself? Or protecting myself? Or letting ‘what others think affect me’ bother me though I usually dismiss it?

Let the questions wander and float. When the time comes the stew of thought will be ready and the aroma will rise again.

Walking Home

Walking Home

(story based on a dream written in 9th std)

It was just another day and she was returning from school. After a long ride, the bus reached the last stop. Several students got off along with her. She stood alone till the empty bus turned a corner and disappeared.

She started walking slowly along the side of the main road. She remembered her brother. He had gone for a camp with his class. She wondered what he’d be doing then.

Her brother was two years younger than herself but she trusted him like her best friend. She missed him now.

She turned the corner and it occurred to her that the streets were far less busy than usual. Everything seemed to be moving rather slowly. The men and women who walked in the park, seemed to be less in number than ordinary days. The watermelon seller at the corner of the park wore a strange, forbidding look. He seemed lost as his blood-shot eyes stared into mid-space. Maybe he’s drunk, she thought.

She dismissed the slowness of the atmosphere thinking that it was her perception after a fast day at school.

As she walked along, she noticed groups of men turn to walk behind her. They were dark skinned and wore their colourful lungis up. Their clothes were shabbily worn and frayed here and there. Their skin shone with sweat and was occasionally stained with paint or mud. And the way they walked, so carelessly, as if they owned the streets made her feel out of place.

They noticed her glancing at them a bit nervously and smiled at her; their pan-stained lips parting to expose crooked, yellow teeth. Behind them there were more such worker men. They whistled and sang songs. She remembered all the stories she had heard about the street men and walked on, quickening her pace.

Just then, like an answer to her prayer, she saw a man ahead of her. His hair was neatly cut and combed. He wore an impeccable white shirt, which seemed to have been ironed, and blue jeans. In his right hand he carried a black briefcase. Although she didn’t know him, she was relieved to see a civilized looking man.

She caught up with him trying not to make it so obvious that she was afraid of the worker-men behind her. She said hello and as he turned to face her, she saw a clean-shaven face smile at her in a half questioning and half delighted way. His face was sharply cut as if chiselled out of a rock. His jet-black eyes looked amused, surprised and shrewd all at the same time. His eyebrows were pitch-black and were lifted up in angles that matched the other angles that made his face.

As they walked she engaged him in a general conversation. But he sensed that she was nervous. He noticed that she frequently turned back in a fearful way, and realized she was scared of those men. Soon, he put her at ease and she was telling him all about herself. She felt completely comfortable with him.

“Yes, I’ve heard some pretty nasty things about these street men too, but lucky me,” he paused to smile at her, “I am not a pretty little girl!”

She laughed delightedly,” Do you really think I’m pretty? Some boy in my class called me a fat pig today!”

“How cruel of him! But don’t you worry, he’s probably just got and inferiority complex himself. What’s he like?”

“He’s nice to everyone else, not to me, but that’s only because I’m new here-“

“New? Where were you before?”

“Not in this country.” She stated and quickly changed the topic as she saw that she had reached her street to turn into.

“I turn here. Thankyou for- “

“I need to go this way too. “

“Really?”

”Of course, and I would take the detour just to walk you home even if it wasn’t on my way.”

She blushed at his flattering tone and the sincerity in his dark eyes.

They turned and continued walking. She observed to her relief that the worker-men walked straight and forgot about her.

A few puppies trotted across the road in front of them. Their mother knew the girl well and didn’t growl as they walked closer to them. The girl gasped in awe as always when she saw the tiny creatures.

“Do you like puppies? I adore them so very much! They’re the cutest things on earth…” She went on talking to him now in an excited high pitched voice about how much she loved puppies and how she was thinking of getting one soon.

But suddenly she didn’t have his attention anymore. His black eyes were shelled thickly, the sharp edges of his face had turned rigid and a hard look came over his face. But she was so caught up in telling him all about her plans and her parent’s objections that she didn’t notice the change that had come over him.

He turned to her and eased his expression. But the tension didn’t leave his eyes. They soon reached her house and on the opposite side of the road, there was a small white car parked.

She stopped briefly. “Well, good bye then, and thank-” She had again vainly attempted to thank him for protecting her from those eve-teasing, indecent worker-men who weren’t even half as civilized as him. But just as she was speaking, she saw the queer way in which he was looking at the man in the driver’s seat.

He suddenly pulled up his sleeves, thrust his hand into the open window, grasped the man’s neck and with a steel hard grip, twisted his wrist. She heard a snap of the neck and stepped back horrified. Having done this, he dropped his briefcase, opened the door quickly, jerked him out violently and broke his hand bone as easily as one could break a long pencil. But he didn’t stop at this either. He broke his other hand and gave him a winding blow in the stomach. With this he calmly shoved him back into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut.

He straightened his back into a cool posture, pulled down his sleeves, smoothened the wrinkles on his shirt and picked up his briefcase. He then turned around to face her and she saw the smug satisfaction on his face. And in his eyes, an unnerving glint of violent, sadistic pleasure and excitement sparkled.

He had killed the man in broad daylight! And how casually! Without screams or bloodshed like the usual murderers that she had seen on television, but in such a neat and sophisticated manner. An icy chill spread into her blood and the bewilderment and shock of having seen a real life murder shook her.

What scared her most was that she had been walking with a psychotic murderer all this time! One, who didn’t even bear a trace of being afraid of being caught on his face. And worse than anything, she had trusted him to be the civilised one.

Terrified thoughts ran disorganised through her mind as she stepped fumblingly backward confused. He started to laugh crazily at her and she opened the gate to her house and ran in, in utter fright.

Neighbours and Water

(written 2-3 years ago)

They say that World War III will be due to water, but some people just don’t care.

I have a neighbour next to my house, and for four years, that I’ve been here, their tank has been overflowing every time there is supply of corporation water.

It’s one of those things that really irritate me. How can one know that they’re wasting water and not do anything about it? I have told them personally, asked my parents to convey the message, and even bothered them in early hours for some days continuously, to simply fix a valve!

A valve isn’t one of those expensive, high-tech kind of instrument that needs a lot of effort, energy or money to install. It is simple and easily available. They have three men in the house, two of them are engineers (ahem!), who could’ve easily done the job in five to ten minutes. And if they didn’t want to do it themselves, they can easily afford a plumber too.

But no, it appears that they just don’t want to!

Each time I approach them, I try to be polite, (for it is not advisable to damage relationships with neighbours), and tell them to install a ball valve. Once I even gave them a speech in their language, (the best I could), about how so many people on earth don’t even have access to clean drinking water, let alone for basic hygiene, and that it was so very wrong of them to waste the same precious resource this way!

After this too, I’ve tried talking to the ‘educated members’ of their family, the head of the family, and when this too didn’t work, I merely yelled about sinners, hell and dying of thirst through the window every time I heard the water overflow.

I don’t think they care at all! (And by the way, I wonder what this says about education.)

I’ve thought of sending them a false threat from BWSSB that they will not get water any more unless they get a valve fixed. Next, I thought of complaining to BWSSB about it, but my parents thought that they would not care either. What a system! Talk about abuse of subsidies! The poor in the slums have one common tap every few blocks and irregular water supply whereas the rich have a tap in every room that can run 24/7! Isn’t the whole point of subsidies lost?

But what on earth does one do about all this? Please do tell me.

Just yesterday morning as I woke up, I heard the loud pouring patter outside. I got so livid that I would’ve gone up on the terrace and started bombing them with the most vile curses I knew till they woke up! But fortunately my Dad stopped me. That wasn’t the way. I thought later about what else I could possibly do about it.

The pen had better be mightier than the sword.