When unexpected situations make you smile .

When you tell your mom that you are going to an Adele concert,and she innocently asks you this when you return -

" Adele kutcheri epdi irundudu ?"

:D:D

#Homesick
#Tambram moments

The story that never was...

I have never considered myself a writer - just as a person who could write. So, as any eager and audacious teenager would , i ventured to do something about my supposed "writing skills" , as my teachers put it. If i had had the wisdom gained from the fifteen or so years of experience from my life then, from which i now brand them (teachers)  exceptionally optimistic ( though , i consider it a job requirement for those who have chosen to take up teaching as a profession in normal ,boring and supposedly "best schools in the city"* , for whom i personally sympathize with(I don't condemn the teachers, just the methodology!),  and coming back to my  comedy of errors, I excitedly enrolled myself into a writing class to hone the above mentioned "gift" that i supposedly possessed.

So , after the first class , I purchased an expensive writing pad that was beautifully crafted in handmade paper, ordered a few hot bajjis , settled in a comfy corner of a cozy cafe with a steaming mug of hot coffee, took out my pen and started... well... of course- nothing less than my  masterpiece-to-be! The assignment was to describe something that inspired me to write. The villainous rain that seemed unrelenting must have occurred to me as an ill omen, but unfortunately, being the hopeless romantic that I am , the mental image of J.K.Rowling working her magic on her writing pad and the vicarious thrill of imagining myself in her shoes completely washed aside the perils of underestimating the kind of crap(please excuse my French!) I am capable of churning .

As anybody who has ever written exams in their life would know, writing about nothing tends to bore. It bores, creates a crater, drills a hole and finally collapses your skull inwards , leading to a sloppy, mushy and not to mention -a trashy mess of an article or what ever it is that you are writing.Not only was it a tedious activity, it also had the effect of ripping the creative streak out of  me.After about an hour and a half of spinning a yarn out of my " writing skill" complement, i took a break to review the damage i had done. It was after all my first real writing assignment that i had taken "seriously",so i decided to go with the flow of my thoughts and vowed not to throw out the first draft as i usually did ,simultaneously hoping hard that i shouldn't  be asked to read my work aloud to the class.

But fate never works your way just because you hope really hard and that applies especially to students like me who hope for an "accidental" fire in the examination wing  that cause my exam papers to "tragically" burn to dust . So just like you are probably expecting and i must have been too, my name was called - and worse- called first . Normally  reading out  my work wouldn't  have bothered me. But this was different.Thanks to my parents who had named me in R and the completely un-imaginative system of alphabetical order, I had never been the first to stand before a class.By the time i got my chance , everybody would usually be either too taken by their performance to actually care what other people were doing on stage , half asleep or completely so. And now , here i was , standing before 20 people,clutching an article that i knew would make them vow to stop me from writing anything at all ever again in my life. 20 pairs of curious eyes were looking at me with sweet expectation.And did i tell you? - i was the youngest in the class, so naturally,everybody applauded which had the effect of successfully turning me red-pink-blue-and back to red as i walked to the podium...
Everything that happened then on inside those four walls of the class that day is completely confidential- yes, Confidential with a capital "C".Ha! You thought i was going to tell you my story on the internet, over a public blog when I cant even get the courtesy of seeing your face when you laugh at me!!?? It would be a sin to reveal it that way! (wink! :P)







Good. Now you are angry ,frustrated ,irritated-  thinking why I went on and on and on for three long highly verbose and vividly descriptive paragraphs on something I never meant to tell anyone in the first place .....well, i did it for precisely the reason anyone ever does anything- Just for fun! :D:D :P

Have a nice day ! :P


*This is DEFINITELY NOT meant to disgrace or defame any teacher/school or person in the teaching profession-a profession which I have the highest regard for. It is purely based on a few of my personal experiences in the traditional Indian school system .Don't get me wrong..I love some of the schools I was fortunate enough to study in and some teachers have been the most influential people in my life . Anyone taking offence at these comments is ... well,welcome to do so- mostly because, I can't really do anything about what other people think.

One long look at the mirror.

I look around myself and wonder,
If what I am seeing is what it really is.
Everything seems easy and fast ,up yonder,
But the moment I reach there, it comes to a pass.


I see happy faces walking by,
And wonder if it's a mask- just like mine.
So many dreams, so many hopes,
All drowned in the crazy tide,
Of money, power and pride.
We are told to swallow our hopes, throw our dreams,
Run in the rat race and set  the  bar up high,
So that some forlorn youngster – just like me
Will someday question his own gall.


We are taught to be courteous, polite and couth
“To be patient and kind” ,they say, “is the ultimate selfless you.”
But I am tired of kindness, tired of mercy
My mind  choked by ingratitude , tells the heart to turn away from the truce..


I stare at the mirror, stunned at the image,
As I see myself from inside out .
I wonder when it happened to me...
and try to remember the times I was free.
It's hard to acknowledge the truth,
 Though I try, and convince myself and say “it's you”.
Again and again, the reflection shouts, begs and pleads,
To break the bonds of reality-O! How I wish that the mirror was a lie!
But alas, my fickle mind refuses its own freedom from servitude.

uoY xiF...

When you try your best but you don't succeed
When you get what you want but not what you need
When you feel so tired but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse.

And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

And high up above earth or down below
When you're too in love to let it go
But if you never try you'll never know
Just what you're worth

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

Tears stream, down your face
When you lose something you cannot replace
Tears stream down your face and I...


Tears stream, down your face
I promise you I will learn from my mistakes
Tears stream down your face and I...


Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you.


- by Coldplay.

The ultimate con, the smartest opponent.

I guess this is one of those rare moments of truth when your own mind shouts out -protesting the insanity of the voice you have been listening to, trusting it to be your own "self"-  imploring it , guarding it and finally lashing out to anyone or anything that even poses a slight threat to it.There seem to be no boundries to the lengths  people will go to protect that "voice". All unspeakable crimes done in the name of power,dignity,trust and pride were done to nurture the "I" . The enemies that people create  are the results of the delusions caused by their egos -telling them to destroy the threat that might uncover the voice's real nature. It feeds on them like a parasite. It makes every desperate attempt to overthrow the sane mind that struggles to gain some semblance of acknowledgement .It makes us believe that we are born to be the way we are, that nobody or nothing what-so-ever is more important than itself.   Its roots are deep - deep enough for us to forget our existance without it .The moment a child learns to percieve the "I" of its existance , it is lead to assume that the  "I" is  its  own self. That voice in a child's  mind that makes it look around imediately after a bad slip-and-fall, before it cries (only if somebody noticed the fall).If it goes unnoticed, the child would probably stand up and walk it off. The cry for attention is the "I"'s cry for sympathy and a defence against blame.
It plans every move like a chess game-  planting small and supposedly insignificant ideas and thoughts in our minds , then delieberately reminding us of those "insignificant" incidents when the right time comes to move the queen ... and before we know it- checkmate. Our  naive minds trust the voice, believe that it is a well- wisher, protect it from the slightest injuries and long for its approval. Strangely, we hardly think about its genuinity when it tells us that we are right and will always be , even though, in a dusty corner of our minds we know that it is time to accept our mistakes and beg pardon. The con is so beautifully crafted and executed that we don't realize that we are the victims until the fall , which is so hard because we finally understand that we die protecting the enemy.

And now i ask a question to myself ( and You if you are reading this blog) - Why are we programmed to trust that voice? 
 One answer that pops to my mind without delay is -      "because i said so !!".

I sense deep waters and a definite quagmire.

"You can only get smarter by playing a smarter opponent".

  

"The greatest enemy will hide in the last place you would ever look".

Nostalgia

I remember life being easier,

I remember those days ... when

i was still a child.. when,

i had my own ways..

I remember life being easier,

with mom to fall back on- the one with all the responsibility to take,

when i came home crying for a bad mistake.

When i had no worries -still too young to decide

whether to take the day off or

get up and take it in stride.

I had no obligations, nobody to serve.

No necessity to impress, none to please.

I miss those days when,

I was still a child,

When a difficult task came up,

and nobody said "Its your life!".

I miss those days when we had eons of time ahead ..

to take a decision and not rush instead.

When the school was just another place ,

to enjoy n have fun,

when a day away from campus,

was a day wasted- not left unearned.

I miss my class room ,though small ,stuffy and full,

always there to hide- play or even turned a pool.

I miss my class- always up and greared

for every challenge that the teachers threw- however weird.

The lunch break water games,the inevitable fights,

The noise,commotion and excitement

that turned the teachers red and bright!!

I miss the long waits for the only P.T hour,

that seemed so precious in a schedule packed and sour.

I miss the excitement that mounted,

with every passing class- if it was the the day that we had a P.T. class!

I miss the days when the evening bell was

the most awaited chime any of us could humanly hope for!

when all we wanted , was to get out and run..

though we all knew we would inevitably return.

I miss the fights to catch the breezy window seats,

from which, when we waved , people would not laugh and retreat.

Those days when homework was done over the phone

when this was the modus operandi for most lessons to be taught and learnt.

But what i miss the most is the time of that life-

when we could do what we wanted,without a huge strife.

Now i realise how important some things are,

smiles and secrets we shared,

fight that taught us about each other,

the team spirit that we learnt in the cultural,

the group study sessions, sleep-overs and

millions of silly scraps that were passed during class hours...

So many small moments that were never considered

important enough to contemplate.

And yet, when i look back now,

I realize i should suffice myself with the memories i cherish.