Mercedes' Mind Mirror

House of Cards on a Windy Day

2011-09-05T17:50:00.000+05:30

I built a house of cards on a windy day
Played in twos and fours.
How it mocked,How it jeered
The evening breeze at the window peered.
Still I built my house of cards
with a quivering hand and a steady heart
Built four walls and one around,
built one floor with more to go.
Just once I heard an evil screech
through the window pane within my reach.
I built my house of cards,
feeling proud at every third
I dared not reach the window glass
for it might cost my house of cards.
At this once the top floor fell,
The wicked rustle had done well.
Yet I built my house of cards
So close to a palace now.
In flew the wicked wind
and the uninvited beasts of the evening.
They played around my house of cards,
buzzed in circles around my head,
played tunes of little melody,
bit me, itched and irked me so.
I edged to the window to push it close
but my house of cards warned to fall
So I let go and picked a spade
started my house of cards again
I built a room, I built two
I built and built, with diamonds too
till I found a peak enough
to put my king and queen
At the window to see through.

2011-09-02T12:52:00.001+05:30

Two weeks ago I thought I should start some serious drawing and have been going through a lot of online tutorials. Reading some theory and all. So I started off with the hand. Learned a few simple techniques like foreshortening, block drawing and stick n circle. I planned to learn the head next but ended up looking up horse anatomy :P

Dream Job?

2011-08-26T00:40:00.002+05:30

The chilly air wrapped around me,sending a cold shudder through my frail little body.I kept glancing over my shoulder expecting someone to pounce any instant.Ten o'clock. Dusk was coming around and the sky was erased of light and life and a terrible screechy wind had sprung out of the other end of the high pine-specked horizon, whistling of ill fortune.

I pulled my light coat tightly around me and rubbing my shoulders for the fear of being frozen in this god forsaken estate.I tried to remember when I had got here but the persistent howling of the wind wouldn't allow me to think! Just as I thought I was about to die of the cold, the thick heavy black doors before me opened with a thorough bickering of bolts.I could see little of the hall except it was washed in yellow ochre- a fire,warmth!

"Come!" I saw the woman only a second after she barked the order in an icy voice.A face, bone white. But for the wicked wind I wouldn't have for the death of me stepped into the colossal mansion.I picked up my two small bags and stepped in. The corridor, terribly narrow and short, was panelled in dark wood,unpunctuated except a picture of a beastly woman who might have look prettier in the light.

Nervously I entered the gigantic hall bathed in fire light adorned with a myriad of ornate paintings and antique objects,rugs and furniture that seemed from a few centuries ago. It looked a like a scene straight out Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's books. I edged closer to the mantle piece and fought not to touch the dozens of bronze curios cluttered.

I couldn't imagine what sort of work demanded my expertise out here in this sinister European bunglow buried in the heart of a thousand trees. I could see absolutely no trace of technology save the electric lamps bottled in their old fashioned crystal shades. No power point whatsoever. I looked across at my old Thinkpad cosy in its bag, which looked futuristic for once against its quaint surroundings.

"You!" the raspy, cold voice returned. I barely turned to find the white face a few inches from mine, tall and willowy I saw her properly for the first time, dressed in black and wine red.Her thin lips curled into the slightest of smiles and the light eyes motioned to the windows on the left I had failed to notice. The fire lost all warmth. I wanted to run but I knew I couldn't.I couldn't move a muscle nor speak a word.A whirlwind of confused thoughts spun up inside my head!The room around me vanished and suddenly for some reason I couldn't fathom, all I could see was numbers,algorithms.

Next I knew I was screaming my throat split.The ice cold jet of water almost broke my nose leaving me gasping and choking for breath.The woman waved the jet away, threw me against the papered wall and seethed "You will listen when you're being spoken to!". "Ye-yes Ma'am" I spluttered.

"There is a man outside. He will not come were I to ask him myself.Bring him.Tell him nothing." She opened the enormous windows and gave me slight push."Good luck," she smiled, and looking beautiful for the first time the whole evening. "I..," my eyes fell to the floor.Horrified, I saw her feet,floating a few inches off the ground.

At this point my sister awoke.Today was her first interview at the IT firm she always dreamed to work for.

The Dream Lender

2011-08-24T20:42:00.002+05:30

Image courtesy : www.josephinewall.co.uk

Dreams are a wonderful gift The light, cushioned sensation, as we sink into bed and gently begin to fall and then awaken to new world so real yet so magical, is indeed wonderful!

Sadly I don't have dreams so often, nightmares too evade me most times.And I begin to think it's something wrong with me- maybe I'm not creative in my active mind,maybe I'm much too a realist. Maybe I'm not in sync with my environment and am probably a mere juxtaposition in such a happening world and have numbed senses. Or maybe I'm a heavy sleeper. Unfortunate really, when I hear of highly animated fantasy-like dreams of others. My sister is most blessed with such midnight matinees. The weird, the wicked and the heroic seize her unconscious world and spin full length fairy tales , some of them really scary too,adorned with elaborate detail. Whether it is her charming narration or simply my longing for such dreams it's tremendously fascinating to listen to her encounters with the impossible over the morning tea. It's probably to her advantage that she tends to imagine herself in situations highly exaggerated that translates into these quixotic dreams.

I have asked her to tell me about her flights of fantasy so that I can put it in words and colour to the best of ability without tampering too much with the detail.

eugene

2011-07-20T09:32:00.000+05:30

Somehow I feel he must be called Eugene. :P

Iruthalapakshi :)

2011-07-19T09:47:00.003+05:30

The tale of the two-headed bird from the Panchatantra stuck with me. Iruthalapakshi :)

hUMBLE sTROKES

2011-07-18T10:49:00.000+05:30

iT''s been some time since I picked up a brush. Not the most impressionist, but for the love of oil pastels,here is a ballroom couple!

Tried to stick to Red,Blue and White in this one.

Intended to be Katrina Kaif but turned out a hybrid of Katrina and Penelope? or some man? Originally a pencil sketch that the scanner cast a spell on. So this is what you get.

A tryst with Uncertainty,and then some

2011-06-28T19:04:00.001+05:30

It has been some years since we've been living together
I can't quite recall how we met
One thing is certain, I wasn't a little girl anymore.
It wasn't at a party, I seldom socialise.
Now that I'm trying hard I remember,
it was at Nowhere,at Nothing.
both of us masked,deception in vain however.
Not the most pleasant of encounters,the Stranger scared me
the enigmatic smile and the distant eyes.
I had kept quiet and walked away.

Next morning I awoke dripping in sweat-
the Stranger's face flashed first on my empty mind
Couple of moments later I regained reason,
filled my barren hall of thought,made some decisions.
I would go out to meet the World today.

Lost at a busy bus stop I wondered,Where.
And there again the wretched face! He strode across,
his gait so elegant that vexed me more.
I leapt onto the bus that stopped first,
before the mysterious man could follow,before he called out.

The day sped forth,poured people cars sights and sounds.
Soon I stood at the same old place where
the six-fifteen would take me Home.
I took the seat by an aging window,by a changing world,
watched the shrinking skies and a sinking sun, and thought of Tomorrow.
I was seeing myself at a distance when an uncalled chill clutched my heart
The Stranger! I fled!

In weeks that followed I saw him again,everyday and everywhere.
This stalker I described no one believed or cared.
I took to the normal life to fight my illness-
I worked,ate,slept,dreamed ,laughed,wept.

Many good months later into the new regime I felt choked,
strangled and suffocated by an odd feeling.
Ask me not why, but I missed the face.

Of course I knew where to find him,I knew his name.
He wouldn't leave,seldom do such things leave.
He'd be waiting at the Crossroads, Indecision, in Loneliness.
Or probably with Fear and Confusion,or Hope and Faith,
for they are his usual companions on our encounters.

So I travelled to the seaside,alone.
And walked past the Dreamers and the Escapists
and reached my share of sand to stand upon
and gazed at the far horizon to which
crimson clouds raced,and then..
And then I felt the hand of Uncertainty close upon mine.

Every morning I awake to Uncertainty.
Uncertainty I have grown to love
but never understand.

Magda

2011-04-04T20:58:00.002+05:30

Magda was a girl I knew
Though I doubt she did me
She was better than the rest
thought I,twelve year old

I always wanted to talk to Magda
But I was scared my "hello" wouldn't sound right
She was kind to others and let me play
Not like the rest of them

They called her Maggie
I wanted to too
But may I?
No,just play rather,what's in a name

Magda was pretty I thought
Big new teeth,yes
But pretty I thought
I wished Magda and I were best friends

I stopped going to Magda's street
Her friends scared me
How could she like them!
No matter,Magda probably did not even know me
I stopped going to Magda's street

One Christmas later I went to Magda's street
Not to see Magda of course
Simply on an errand at the corner shop
Ran into Rosie her old friend

I could talk to Rosie
She had been playing hide and seek she said
With Maggie!
Oh yes, I pretended,Maggie

They had been playing when...
Her eyes widened to break sad news
She slowed down her speech
always a bit dramatic,but I too
puppied my eyes in concern

Maggie lost her father!
How I wished I knew Maggie
I could console her
I would have been there
Alas Maggie hardly knew me

I bade Rosie goodbye
Bought the apples
and slowly walked home
Praying for Maggie.

The Longest of Days

2011-03-08T22:56:00.000+05:30

On the longest of days

she spent only half in the sun

She stepped into the shade,

rather her own shadow,

foolish to fear herself getting burned.

On even the longest of days,

did sparkles dim,

and Dusk drew in deep,

shadows grew darker,

her flickering smile went out,

Wisps of a far,happy past

faded into nothing,

as did the old laugh lines.

At the end of the longest of days,

A single white hair

against a deep blue sky

Said, a new dawn was near

Spend in peace the last few hours

The last one only in happiness.

Lend Me Your Earrings!

2011-02-03T22:49:00.001+05:30

Bringing her lips to a full pout she would carefully dab on her mauve lip gloss.Then she would wipe clean any extra around the corners while examining herself in the mirror.Then she'd put on her kajal or Kohl,whatever that is.Meticulously. Her kurtie is purple today. She rummaged her numerous little boxes for a pair of studs that would go with her top.She is my sister.

I always find it fascinating to watch her fuss over the minute details. She would throw a huge tantrum if she couldn't find her white and gold, enamelled bangle that would go perfectly with her bag or if her wristwatch looked out of place. On those mornings you can find me at the table ,eyebrow raised and sometimes trying hard not to laugh. What is with girls and make-up and jewellery!

Maybe my opinion is in accordance with my poor sense of style. I'm sorry if you think big flat strap-on sandals are unwomanly and a trusty digital watch is an ugly bit of junk to be on a girl's wrist.But that's what I am most days.Comfort comes before cool. Oh I nearly forgot the bunch of greys that stick upright like soldiers on top of my forehead and my mostly unplucked brows.The piercings in my ears are like some kind of historical reminders, "Here is where they stashed the Gold back in 1994!". I've no time to look after looks. Plainly said, LAZY.

Once the woman at the roadside coffee shop nearly cried her heart out on seeing "such a young girl with greys". I listened to the Baba Yaga's advice,greysfully. I had to slick my hair everyday with gooseberry oil.Sure, when I'm your age! On a funnier day when I was waiting at bus stop I met the lady at the photocopy shop. I had seen her for the first time in my life only the previous day. We got talking and before long she asked me which division I was. I didn't quite get what she meant. "Aren't you Pentecost?".Now I did. I waved and laughed, though my earring-less ears burned. (Why in the world does she care?!). Once when I got my hair cropped below the ears I had to endure months of lamenting over the gone hair.

This year on the top of my imaginary resolution list I crossed "focus" to put "remember to wear the little tacks on your ears just so they all keep shut!" on top. But I must admit, first impressions do count.

PS. I will never get rid of my huge black sandals!

Wait unto Empty.

2011-02-03T22:48:00.001+05:30

We waited at the bus stop for the 9 o'clock Volvo that would take my parents to Calicut. It was half past 8 and night had just set in. There were still a good many vehicles on the road.But the crowd was thinning as the sky grew darker.

I leaned on the dirty,greasy pole of the shed and watched the people on the street. There were men with satchels slung over tired shoulders,women with infants and hand baggages,worn out and sleepy-eyed boys and girls going home late after their night classes.Out on the road there were those heroes on their Apaches and Bullets who never missed a second glimpse at the pretty girl on the footpath.After a while I began to categorize them---the lean,average build men with satchels had to be construction workers, saree-clad stout women with spectacles and an old fashioned leather handbag had to be a middle-class clerk,an office employee of some sort or teacher, bike boys with backpacks (and sometimes a girlfriend) were the techies.

The "fancy-stores" and the most of the restaurants had already closed at 8 pm. Eventually the auto-rickshaws disappeared and rarely would a battered old bus rattle past. The giant night coaches began zooming by one after another carrying doze passengers.I kept my eyes skinned for a bus called "Madathil",the one my parents were to board.

At about 9 the medical store behind our bus stop too pulled down its shutters.So did the bakery across the street.The men who had been talking animatedly over some local feud too were gone.Suddenly the air felt cooler and the amber glow of the streetlights seemed more pronounced. Someone made a catcall and it rang out through the nearly empty street. The prowling cat with bright eyes had slunk away. It was as though everything had stepped back into the shadows waiting for the night to cross.

image courtesy: gettyimages

At last "Madathil" came. We bade goodbye to my parents and left the empty street.

See you

2011-01-16T18:27:00.001+05:30

"Goodbye!"" Cya!""au revoir"---everyday phrases chucked about like candy wrappers.So hollow,so impotent. Do we really care if we meet them again or not? How many people do you really really care to see the next day.How many are important to you that you can't pass a "goodbye" without feeling?

The University has been one of my favourite haunts since last year. I love the 19th century palatial college with huge magnificent halls of wood and giant windows and walkways adorned with very old banyan and tamarind with a thousand golden blossoms that sail down helically in the afternoon breeze.So I found myself wandering into the English department last Thursday and sat down at my mother's desk with absolute authority.Often I watched her students come up to her and talking in a very friendly manner but with due respect. She would often tell me how some of the most unassuming of her class would ask her to correct a piece of translation they attempted or a perhaps a prose. There are some special persons in her class too.

One of them has no parents,only a brother who works as a mechanic.and together they keep each other living.He takes tuition for school children on most weekdays ,classes that begin as early as 5 o'clock. Another girl comes from another hapless background.Her father is a fisherman and nearly always at sea,their family of four live in a shack of a home close to the sea.Her young face,dark and weatherbeaten wore a look of determination. She wants to become a writer.What a different dream for a girl like her!Her English teacher is very proud of her. Then there is Anish.

Anish is blind. No, nothing can be done to help him. They have been through all that. But it does not annoy Anish one bit. He is as good or in some cases better than some of the others in his class. Of course he needs some help finding his way through the labyrinthine corridors of the University, but his friends are always there to do that.

My mother and I were walking to the parking lot when we saw him.My mother asked him how his exam went and he said it was good. And he said "See you tomorrow Ma'am".His head hung low but a smile lit his face with happiness-- happiness the rest of us fail to notice.Blind aren't we?. Selfish, ungracious and ignorant!

As we got into the car my mother said quietly "He can't see me tomorrow..he can't see me ever"

A perfect '10

2011-01-02T12:35:00.002+05:30

What started out like the most boring chapter of my life, about as interesting as the obituary page Year 2010 had one too many surprise packages for me. I started out with a couple of resolutions (hah!)and tried to get a mental makeover.One of the first things I did,however, was crop short(and incredibly short) my hair inviting month-long jeering and gasping. People! If I were the Queen of Hearts it'd have been "Off with their Heads!!"

Then came along YENTHA! One helluva place! Some time in February I took up my first Job.(no pay of course.too bad eh?..I thought I'd spend them on oils and photography). Well who cares 'cause once You're at Yentha you're at home,that is if you are crazy like us. By the way, Yentha is an online web portal/online newspaper whatever you wanna call it exclusively for Trivandrum,one of the very few of its likes and we were off the charts in a couple of months since its inauguration in Feb.The two months I worked for Yentha was nothing short of Awesome Fun!I miss the story hunts around the city clutching a scribble pad and camera with the Yentha Id slung over the neck, meeting some brilliant writers and thinkers, the hangouts we had, celebrating every moment of the day. Oh yes, we have a Chief too.And Chief's the Chief! High browed and critical but always open to ideas,Pradeep became my first ever boss.Oh yeah and I was allowed to call everyone by first names (we followed a coequal policy).I miss the ed team meetings where we share our insanity and burst into fits of laughter over the day's adventures or Cris' goofs.

Hah..Sabin Iqbal(Pacman/ Pachan affectionately) our chief Editor the most adorable,irresponsible,fat,loving, hopeless romantic , Manu Remakant (The joke machine! He can make you look like an ass and you won't know it!), Rasi (Animal Lover), Cris(well, Cris is one funny mad person..and its a she-Cris..hehe..Cris is about just being yourself and being Happy all the time.Enthusiasm is her second name), Akshaya( one serious poet i actually know personally), Syam(Arrrghh.. hehe chori sathanam(imp in malayalam,roughly) but the most resourceful person at Yentha.Hyper!), Sambhu, the silent hardworking (awesome singing voice) most responsible man,Ashik,all about eating/riding and making a total jackass of people and Adarsh, the movie man(The Pune Film Institute must have no sensibility or else they would have pounced on this man on sight) always lost in thought..and the one who first called me Mercedes..not to mention cutie pie-energy-bomb Shradha, and green-eyed Hari .Some of the few mad people I just had to meet!

Do visit us on www.yentha.com

Then school started,and I could no more go to Yentha. Then the days took the pace of a roller coaster and some of us realized it's time we quit cribbing and just go with the way things are..I'm always among the mad people and so its no big surprise that at the end of day I got myself thrown in with Aswathi,Keerthana and Aishwarya,Sangeetha..then the more practical and ever so sweet Aparna,Pyari,Varsha,Neeraja,Jessita...i'll miss the times we walked from school ogling at Mar Ivanios hunks on their Bullets and Apaches,bunking classes and singing on the rooftop with the band guys..

I missed my old friends.I couldn't call Shyam as often as I wanted to but when we talked in ages we'd spend hours roaring with laughter over each other's encounters..not long back he managed to have his phone confiscated too.

That's when I became friends with Vivek. This testimonial is an understatement but it'd be a shame if I don't mention it because he's one of the best people I have met this year.The guy is the happiest person in miles around.He's so damn cheerful all time whether he's flunked or otherwise and when he starts to laugh it gets infectious.Too bad we don't get to meet that often,pathetic since we live only a block away from each other.

Sometime in July we had a reunion at Achachan's.Family, fun and food- all the good things in life. The whole clan ,from grandpa to toddler had a great time.We cut a cake for 3 birthday kids (two of which have hit their 60's),ate, drank and sang old songs and danced while the little ones raced up and down the house.

Things slowly fell back into the sine wave except for the 5-day excursion to Bangalore and Mysore-a good break from the terrible rut..

And then it all reeled to a quiet end.Another decade has come to a close.Do you realize we'd write 10/10/10 only after a 100 years from now?Or would we? With tons of resolutions to only to keep till the end of the first day I'm still walking on.

Mercedes
A5 Yentha HQ
Jawahar Nagar
Kaudiar

a Cocktail's toast to Coexistence

2010-12-24T22:38:00.002+05:30

Let me get there straight. Yesterday was the last day of school.Photographs,goodbyes,girls and slam books,hugging each other Merry Christmas and new year..I'm not the hugging-kissing kind but I made it a point to wish everyone.

So I walk up to one of my teachers and wished her a merry Christmas.She gave a displeased snort and muttered something. I took a moment to comprehend her reaction.I was first confused and when I understood the slightly repulsed expression on her face I was taken aback.I was left in utter disgust after the incident. Christianity is not her religion, which was why she refused shake hands or return the greetings. Apparently she thinks I follow her religion.I follow it only on application forms,purely an official blank filled.Religious intolerance-it was not something you'd expect of a person of this age,and particularly a person of her profession. I felt the sudden urge to tell her my mother is a Christian. She would be appalled to know I'm a cocktail much less a Christian. I decided against it and spoke nothing more.

I believe in a superior power and am humbled by its awesomeness. God is a name people gave that power. I can't read the Quran and haven't got past a chapter of the Bible. I'm no atheist either because there is an ultimate why we can't answer.

I been wondering whether I'm missing a community life. Yes and no. Yes because the idea of being together ,with a family beyond family, to belong somewhere is wonderful. No, because it makes it easier to respect all faith and religions dispassionately.

Excuse the sudden momentous halt. I really gotta go.Wait, here's a toast to Tolerance, co-existence and cocktails. Merry Christmas!

Image courtesy: traditionsacrosseurope.worpress.com

Wars of Nobody

2010-12-16T13:20:00.000+05:30

Sleepy town woke up to dusty dawn
To deafening rumble an roar,not a sign of fear
But indeed War had come

Men were paid to pave
Paths to pestilence an' pain
thick with stench of the slain

There lay in ruthless neglect
upon a soaked red earth
the dying limbs of green friends

As they grew black of death
Man's monster machines
played on,their game of destroy

The tree of thousand years
lay in a mangled heap
no one to mourn or weep

Of love,war and peace it
had had many stories to tell
but for the blade of man
whom it once let breathe

buddy ol' friend ol' pal

2010-12-14T19:46:00.003+05:30

I was walking back from after school classes with Aparna whom I barely knew two years back.She has become one of my best friends. Waiting beneath the old banyan bus stop with the rest of Mar Ivanios, we stood talking about how things had just fallen into place. How we ended up doing everything together. Like best friends.

It's funny because we had been in the same school for 7 years back in Muscat but the only thing that we had in common was Christy as our best friend. Nothing more than a hi-bye person.

I am a very bad friend. I don't always remember birthdays and text at toc-12 or walk people to their house (which may be on the very next right) because they are afraid of getting mugged. Bottom line: i'm not "sweet".

I detest people who put up silly quotes (and worse their own) on friendship as stats--and those who like them.

Coming back to live in India was like some sort of a test. Except it was more important that one made mistakes.The right mistakes.

Friends are good people.

the riGht to arroganCe

2010-11-21T18:08:00.002+05:30

Of all human traits I find arrogance most interesting. I believe there are two sides to it.

There is plain unworthy arrogance and there is reasonable justified arrogance. Sometimes I'm drawn to arrogant people. To those who are really good at what they do and know it themselves too. Some call it being over-confident.Some call it sheer arrogance. I too call it arrogance sometimes.With a bitten lip and a grudging smile.

Why do you secretly admire that arrogant son of a bitch?Simply put , because he's so AWESOME!~ *droool*. Why do you seem to overlook the fact that he nevertheless is arrogant. Because arrogance becomes an attribute to the person (though I always make it point to keep that to myself). I don't encourage arrogance but I don't want to criticize it either.Sometimes arrogance provides what humility does in terms of inspiration.

Humility is a good thing.Being modest and not boastful, yes I do respect such people.But put both kinds on the counter and I'd pick something with a punch.*the grin*

Mercedes likes haughtys! (no pun.) :D

the heaRT...or noT?

2010-11-18T16:41:00.004+05:30

I remember the beginning of this year. I felt I were in a race car with a shaky foot on the throttle. Everyone was very considerate and all I heard them talk was about how not easy the Class XII examinations were going to be, tuition,grades,entrance examinations. Gah!

I pretended to be dumb and deaf for some time. But inside I felt uneasy. Everyone else knew what they wanted to become or at least had had someone make the decision for them. Sometimes I’d wonder aloud, “Maybe I should become a movie director” after watching some major Mani Ratnam or Spielberg flick. One thing I knew—I would never join the zombie fray of doctors and engineers if I could help it. There are already too many of them in the country.

Six months into Grade 12 I’m somewhat still in the same condition. I haven’t bunked or flunked much. But I haven’t started learning my lessons or doing my homework either. You can find me glassy-eyed and distant in my physics class. I'd be floating in outer space. I’d be strolling the cobbled streets of Europe in the autumn when everything is gold or perhaps be trekking out on those white peaks. And, suddenly TAP!TAP! goes the teacher’s ruler. And pop goes the thought bubble!

* * *

Marnix is the 17-year-old son of our Belgian friends, Ilse and Ivo. When we visited Europe in the summer of 2008 we stayed at their place during our first week. Marnix showed me some of his drawings and sketches. I was at a loss for words! And he said those weren’t his best. They have 12 hours a week for drawing and painting classes at school. I felt envious comparing it to the measly one hour a week we have for art classes in schools in India, most of which are stolen by other-subject teachers. Later we visited the Royal Museum of Fine Arts. I walked from painting to painting lost in admiration, Jan Van Eyck, Pieter Paul Rubens, Antony van Dyck.

Although I couldn’t pronounce the names of the dozens of other Flemish painters I was absolutely awed by their skill, the attention to detail. Infinite emotions and expressions echoed off those walls. The words I can use are too small to give the true picture. Such was the magnificence of each piece of canvas. I then wondered. How many galleries do we have back home? How many of us visit them?

I watched the visitors at the museum. I was surprised to see more youth than funny-looking, bearded old men with ponytails and spectacles. A pack of schoolchildren cheerfully babbled their way through into the gallery hall, clutching their sketchpads and pencils. Does that happen here in India? Do we encourage arts as much it deserves to be?

* * *

Once I made a random survey. I asked several people the names of three Indian painters. Almost immediately they said Raja Ravi Varma and MF Hussein. They fumbled for a third name. A few managed to remember the popular cartoonists RK Laxman and Namboothiri. I too was embarrassed knowing too little about our artists.

I’m pretty sure there are thousands of budding Husseins and Varmas out there today. But who’s to feed the fire within them? Where are you headed? What is your dream? You want to paint, you want to fly a jet plane, you want to act, you want to save lives. Why hesitate? No one is in your way except yourself. I realise the tough part is not about finding out who you want to be. The tough part is to make the decision for yourself.Trust me you wouldn't want to ask yourself 'what if.." later once in your rockers.If you've got it why kill it? The most beautiful part of you. Passion.

At the end of the School corridor

2010-11-12T11:33:00.001+05:30

Looking back at some of my earlier posts I laughed.Frivolous things.I must have grown up a lot but it feels like Peter Pan. I don't want to grow up. In my final year of school I suddenly want to do all the things I could have done under kids' rights. Sigh...

In kindergarten it was about best friends, about saving that special candy for your best friend on your birthday,about cards and crayons,about sharing,about being ourself.

Then in elementary school it was about nerd vs cool wars.How silly! hehe..About beating your best friend and 'that nerd' in exams.

Then...(smiles nostalgically)..came high school. Sure there were cool vs not-cool tension,he-said-she-said fights but it is most certainly the most beautiful time of youth. Like Taylor Swift's lyrics. A cluster of memories that will stay sparkling in our hearts.

And now we're all going away..far away. Someday we'll meet again..

Bringing me back

2010-11-11T20:05:00.002+05:30

I've been trying to revive my better half..I want to write I want to paint, I want read,I want to pack my bags and set out to see the world..

I've been trying not to give up a lot of things..

Something I did on a outburst of energy .This one was for my uncle Sabin Iqbal aka Pacman

who blindly believes "my instincts".

On a Wilder note

2010-11-11T19:17:00.005+05:30

..

Them greybeards speak of forces and falls

those things don't apply to me..

i'm not bound by rules and fancy theories..

i run wild..free...my thoughts

they defeat gravity..

i sail the skies ,fly on the seas..

a dragonfly is beautiful to me

just as a butterfly can be ...

To Phoenix

2010-08-22T13:15:00.002+05:30

I remember the beginning of last year. I was ripped off roots and stuck in new soil. I struggled ,I kept falling over, I couldn't breathe ,I couldn't sleep. I lived on memories and yearnings and had no idea where life was taking me. I missed my home across the sea. I missed the old faces, the protection I felt back home.. I felt as though I were in a video game. On reaching this new place I felt as though I were suddenly switched from Demo mode to Level I. If it had been dummies i'd been fighting before it was now all too real.

Two years have gone since I said goodbye to golden sun and sands. I'm in love with the rain and green. People change. I have heard it only many times.

The teak planted eleven years ago now towers over the house. It has grown older and more beautiful. Every year we call Mani and the 60 year old "thandaan" would come scale the beauty and axe down her hundred hands. She'd look dead and defeated for the next couple of weeks.

And then she would be born again. She'd rise towards the sun, to the infinite sky in her new robe of green.. Simply beautiful!

Proving Your Salt.

2010-07-23T08:22:00.004+05:30

Last week my chemistry teacher told us all to get lab coats and goggles. And this year we were going to have droppers in the reagent bottles. Yes yes, this year things were going to be safer in the chem lab. So on Tuesday we all walked to the lab, coat-clad, feeling proud.

The chemistry lab has the aura of funeral meeting. It is deadly quiet even when a class of forty-two is inside. Then the once friendly chemistry teacher turns severe. She begins to talk in a hard stony voice. “You will not talk to anyone. You will look for reagents yourself and follow the procedure yourself. If any apparatus is broken you will pay. You are to put back the reagents where you found them. We’re short on reagents so don’t perform so and so tests.If I see anyone talking you will be out (pointing to the door). If you have any doubt don’t ask your friends.Come to me.” The last sentence after all instruction did not in the least sound comforting. “Start.”

We took our positions according to roll order. I waited nervously. The two teachers went about ladling salt into the watch-glasses. I took out my borrowed salt analysis scheme. ‘Note the colour’. It looked white at long shot. I brought it to the end of my nose. It could be colourless. Next, odour. I may have sucked in the whole lot but nada. No smell. I usually relied on the smell. Gone. Now what?! I moved onto the next few tests without much trouble or result. And then came the one. The big one. The terrifying one. The Concentrated H2SO4 Test. I came to a halt. I glanced at the scheme. “...salt is boiled with conc. sulphuric acid”.I no longer noticed what was happening around me. The chink of test tubes and glass rods and the fizzing grew fainter. I could hear myself exhale heavily and cold sweat running down my temples. Now it’s the filmy flashback. Everything in black and white.

A coat-less goggle-less I was standing at the same spot for my final practical exam. My hands were shivering as I tried to pour out the concentrated acid into the test tube. Standing two feet away I gingerly touched the bottom of the test tube to the bright blue flame. Nothing happened. I glanced sideways. People were already flaunting their blue lakes and golden spangles and flashing victorious grins. I turned to my test tube exasperated. I sunk it deeper into the flame. It all happened very fast. The thing grew white and started bubbling furiously and made a nasty ‘gidegidegide’ sound. Before I could do anything..Spurt! White spots covered the back of my right hand !Aaaaaaargh! I didn’t stop to think before I tried to wash it off. The acid penetrated to form Big Black Boils! Aaaaaaaaaaaaarghhh! I tore across the lab to Ma’am who threw mounds of some powder at me.
* * *

I looked at the my right hand at what was remaining of the boils.I inhaled deeply. It’s okay. I ‘ve got the lab coat this time. I have got the scheme.I have got the goggles. Nothing could possibly go wrong. I hurriedly got through the scheme.At the end of the lesson. Ma’am walks up to me “ Amiya, what’s the anion?” “Acetate ma’am.,” I said confidently. The glare! “Cation?” “er..I..I think it’s Pb2+ Ma’am.” She turned expressionless. I can smell no salt but I sure can smell danger when it comes. “12.50! Clean your apparatus! Out”.

I struggled out of my lab coat when someone came and asked “Didn’t you get the pink ash?”. I could have punched them in the face. It was Magnesium Sulphate! Everybody else had discussed the what the salt was. Ma’am told us not to talk! I said indignantly. “You actually listened? C’mon it’s not the board exam” . Ah ..the price of obedience.

Being the Pet Peeve

2010-07-10T21:47:00.003+05:30

“Amiya okay now stand up!” I stood up slowly and hung my head, my face still red from laughing crazy. I stifled the treacherous torrent of laughter making its way up as Mr. Hussein said: “Okay now Anantthhha stand up okay now.”

“Idiot!” hissed Anantha.

The little embarrassment I had felt a second before evaporated as fast as it had come. Anantha Venkatraman was one of my best friends and partner in crime. We were the bickering twosome. All our fights usually ended in uncontrollable spurts of laughter.

“Now okay if you continue this okay behaviour it will affect your okay performance. This is not a joke,” continued Mr. Hussein. I tried my hardest not to laugh when I caught sight of someone in the next row making tally marks on his desk to count the number of times Mr. Hussein said “okay now”. Anantha, eager to get back into the teacher’s good books, said: “Sorry Sir”, resetting his features to a grim and sorry expression. I feared he would get away with it because Anantha was one of Mr. Hussein’s favourite students.

There wasn’t a time the guy passed without distinction in Hussy’s subject, which was Maths. But not today, no sir! Mr. Hussein said with tightened severity: “Now okay Ananthhaa! You will okay now say you’re sorry now and repeat this nonsense. Do you okay know the meaning of sorry?” I could have exploded! Stifling your laughter is worse than stifling a cough. The lecture continued for another fifteen minutes and every third word punctuated with ‘okay now’. After he had sobered down, we humbly said sorry again and took our seats.

The class always enjoyed Hussy’s lectures, which sometimes lasted more than half a period. There were times when we would throw some random topic at him making it sound very important just to waste the lesson or postpone a test. Once we told him an exaggerated story about the unhygienic water in the cooler and that kept him talking till he realised there were only ten minutes to the bell. We kept silent for the rest of the period and listened to him faithfully. When the bell rang I stood up to check the day’s score. Apparently Mr. Hussein had hit 121 ‘okay nows’ that day.

Being Hussy’s pet peeve was one of the things that made grade 10 unforgettable. There were many other funny incidents in Mr. Hussein’s class. Once Anantha and I were caught with our mouths full of chocolate chip cookies. I can still laugh thinking of Hussy’s werewolf-like face glaring as we were trying to come up with an excuse while trying to push down the delicious cookies. The class roared with laughter as we brushed off the crumbs and smacked our lips as we queued up to Mr. Hussein with our school diaries for a bright red “Eating in class!” remark.

When sometimes life takes little nasty turns I bank on these lighter memories to get by.