To read or not to read

I have tried more than once to break what I think has possessed me over the past year, almost- the writer's block. I agree that my blogging was sporadic even beftried ore then, and every time I put up a post, I almost felt like I had successfully finished an essay for my English class. But over the last few months, things have been busy and as a reaction my body became more reluctant to work. My mind followed the body's course, it seems.

I dont know when it is that I started reading. I cant say that I was one of those children who was naturally inclined towards books and libraries. I remember that the day I bought books for the new academic year, the first one I would reach for would be the English textbook. I dont know if that was a budding love for reading or just an escape from reading the other more boring textbooks. But a few years later I realised that I would rather read than watch the TV or play even. Maybe it was that I had to play all that the kids in my neighbourhood did, and realised that the only way to not be humiliated for being bad at all of that was by pretending that I just wasnt interested in them to begin with. Anyway, what I do remember of my childhood, or some parts of it is that my friend and I would go to the Mobile library that would come near my house once a week, pick up three books and read some while sitting on top of the tree every day until the library rolled by a week later.

Why all this about reading? Because my father always said that to write well, one has to be well-read. And I wanted to write. My father studied literature and in an effort to prove to my mom that there were more of his genes in us than hers, he tortured my brother and me through school. So while my classmates got ample help from their parents for their assignments, I was pushed to write on my own with the ideas that I had. Poor me!My mother was a kinder soul and would plead on our behalf, sometimes even threaten him of consequences if he didnt do our homework for us. It was, I think, the only time that her threats didnt work on him. At school, the stark distinction between my classmates' fluently written pieces and my amatuer work didnt go unnoticed by my teachers. And just so I dont end up committing suicide, they'd compliment my writing. Only it had the exact opposite effect on me and I took that as an indication of immense talent to write, within.

So I began to read, starting where most kids start ; with Noddy and his friends. Only I was probably 10. At the age of 11 I had finished a book that my father had bought when I was a year and a half, in the hope that I would read it some day. That book was atleast a thousand pages and had in detail the rise and fall of all the empires on earth. Certainly not a kids' book if you ask me. As time progressed I read books that are popularly considered "better" and thereby was ostracized by all the groups in class but the nerdy one, which partly explains the stinted adult that I am. From that day on, when someone asked me what my hobby was ( yes, it was important to have a hobby to be socially accepted then), I proudly said that I read.

Well, coming back to my reason for not writing in the past year. It was mostly because I had stopped reading. I had found better things to do in my spare time, that required less physical and mental exertion. Watch movies. Bollywood is a big industry because Indians generally tend to like wasting time in large chunks. I am one of them. When I came to the US, I saw an opportunity to catch up on all those movies that I had missed out in the last 23 years and a couple of generations before then. Aided by Netflix, I watched them all, atleast one a day. Needless to say, my main objective for coming here, to obtain an MS, suffered. Once Netflix thought that they had lost enough with me as their customer they started degrading their service and sent fewer movies. It was around the same time that guilt, which I had managed to stiffle for about 5 years, re-reared its ugly head. I realised that wasting 2-3 hours was unreasonable and that I had should concentrate on studying and research. Also my attention span had started to go down and it was getting impossible for me to sit in one place, even if was only to watch a movie.

So I restarted my reading. Around that time I also wrote half a post. Before I could finish the book, one of my friends introduced me to the world of sitcoms. And the past half year have been spent in watching every episode of every season of almost every sitcom enjoyed by most of my friends. They seemed like a good idea to begin with. They served as a good distraction and didnt last more than 25 minutes. Only they are addictive like cocaine is and it would maybe take some sort of serious rehab to stop watching them once you have begun. So I would end up watching 8 or so episodes a day by the end of which my eyes would scream and my brain would go into temporary inactivity. A few days ago, though, my brain refused to sit through even one tiny episode of a series that I had almost finished. And suddenly, I remembered that there was something else fun called books.

So I decided that I would start reading again. Meanwhile, I had graduated from school and moved and so had lost my source of books. I drove 25 miles to get to the nearest University which I knew had a good library. I tried to use a friend's card to check out books, was embarrassed in front of a bunch of students for trying to cheat the system and was threatened confiscation of my id if I tried again. My friend, who is almost not one anymore for he refused to be a part of the mess, as one last gesture got me the books. And here I am, reading and writing. Only I just heard that there's a new show on air. Maybe I should just check it out?

What's in a name?

If you ask me, almost everything! When Shakespeare penned that immortal line, he hadnt met any of my namesakes.

I have never been lucky with names, from the looks of it. Most of my life, all my family has, with love, called me by a sound that stands for 'doll' in some Neanderthal language. Even my youngest nephew calls me that. I have had nightmares where people would throw away my wedding invitation thinking it had reached them by mistake, since they didnt know the groom, and definitely not the bride! My parents would have to reprint the cards, putting an alias next to my real name. And a few years from then I would have my grandchildren calling me that, with a 'paati' added to it. I tried shaking it off, until I saw what happened to those who called me by my official name.

My father is a nice man. He used up all the sadism and cruel feelings towards the rest of mankind, in one act. He named me. I was born in Calcutta, but immediately after my naming ceremony we shifted to Bangalore. Dad had a transferable job, but he made sure that he moved not more than 30 miles from the previous location. The result, I have never known any but South Indians with long names. In my growing up years, I didnt think names were such a big deal. I responded to most of what people called me, including my kid brother's 'ga-ga'. A little later, it was in fashion to represent second name by the initial only. The initial came sometimes before and sometimes after the first name. When in tenth standard, I was asked to pick a name which would stay with me the rest of my life, I decided to append my already long name with my father's full name. And so here I am, a tongue twister!

When in Madras, my name made up for what Tamil I didnt know. The Tams I knew, defeated by the fact that I had a longer name than them, disregarded that I couldnt speak a word of that language and took me in as one of them. Also, at around the same time, I met four old men, aged 60 and something, who thought I had a beautiful name. All in all, I actually had started to believe that my name wasnt so bad after all and only begun to forgive my dad for the one thing I held against him. Then, I landed in the United States.

My name has been the single most embarrassing thing in my short existence here. The day I came here, I noticed my Uncle and Aunt who had come to the airport to pick me up, think twice before addressing me by my name. I thought it was the joy of seeing me that had gotten them tongue-tied. After two days, I attributed it to the fact that having been here long, there had crept up an American accent in their speech. Maybe the accent didnt quite agree with the complex syllables that exist in the Indian language. I came to the University, and found a lot of Indian friends. Most of them Tams again. I forgot about my name until the first day at school.

Day one, while I wandered the corridors, hopelessly lost, an American chap found me. He seemed friendly, and offered to escort me to my destination. We walked along, me thinking that I would have no problems making friends here and he thinking 'what a strange creature!'. Oh yes, I who while in India, made my mom beg me to wear a salwar, had decided to wear one for the first day of classes. With jhigale earrings, bracelets and all. Anyway, in course of our conversation, he suddenly put out his hand and said a name. His, I suppose. I said mine. Short chuckle, ' Can you say that again please'. I did. Flush, 'Once more?'. This time, realising that he was mentally demented, ( he couldnt even say my name, remember?), I gave him a sympathetic smile and did a school-for-differently-abled pronounciation of my name. He turned pale, offered me an incoherent excuse and left. I later saw him in my class. But he looked through me like I didnt exist. Maybe it was a twin I met? Or maybe he thought, I had been pulling his leg, real hard!

As days passed I said my name and added a 'I know its tough'. Two months and when people asked me to repeat, I said a very indifferent ' forget it'. Nowadays, when someone asks me for my name, I usually go, 'Why dont you tell me?!'. I called myself SS, someone asked me to elaborate on Nazi history. My department wanted to unofficial christen me Sarah. But with the profusion of Sarahs here, I, who had been used to uniqueness, could not settle for it. So I remained still, my full name.

Not all is bad though. My name has helped me pick out real friends. It has served as the acid test. For those foreign nationals who have remained, have learnt it. I wouldnt say it sounds like what it used to, but seriously, I would be cruel to not recognize sincere effort such as this. Also, all my professors know me, by default. In the rare case that a roll-call happens, my existence is acknowledged by looking up from the record-sheet and a raised eyebrow. Not once am I needed to go 'Present, saar'. Also, when papers are distributed in class, the teacher walks up to me to hand me my paper, while he just calls out the others, who have to themselves walk all the way and collect it. I'd like to believe, that in these 6 months, they have seen some hidden brilliance me, that makes them want to treat me with this kind of respect!

Meanwhile, I still have one small problem. I dont have a middle name. Maybe I should get one that starts with an 's' and definitely has a 'shree' in it. Yes?

Tagged and ragged!

Well, not being a regular blogger( would you call 15 posts in a year and a half regular on some planet? I'd like to go there), I had no notion of what it was to be in the tag game. Until a few weeks ago, my room mate, a regular and popular blogger, explained me the works and tagged me. That was after a thousand hints. In any case, that was a movie tag. I, rather the child within me that still exists, lost all enthu for it once I had actually been tagged. But today, a genuine tagger tagged me. And what a tag, about what I'd want in a soulmate. Hmm..that requires a lot of thought, more self-introsection, and recalling movies with breath-taking, blush-inducing characters.

In any case, here they go. 8 of them, as asked for.

1. Should be a male human being.
2. Should be tall, over 6 feet, so I can wear high-heeled shoes and still look nicely small next to him.
3. Should not be in an advanced stage of balding.
4. Should be able to make conversation, when I run out of it. Those who know me also know that it rarely happens that my mouth shuts up.
5. Should know how to play the guitar so he can seranade me from under the window.
6. Should know how to cook.
7. Should know how and when to laugh.
8. Should not make a fool of himself in public often.

If you are a guy and pass the above criteria, congratulations! Post your applications. I am not looking yet, but when I do you know you stand a good chance!!

Now visit these three people and see what they have to see about their dream soulmates.

1. Nandini
2. Shankar
3. Maalika

The journey

Today is going to be a big day, no matter how many times I tell myself to act like it is nothing out of normal. The flight in itself is not. I am used to all that comes with it. There’s the joy of flying among the clouds, and the horrible pain in my ears just before landing. It’s going to be a long journey, they say. Do I have a choice but to smile and get on with it? It’s going to be a little tough, to be away from everyone I have ever loved, everyone who loves me. I am going to miss the sights and sounds, the people, the smell in the air, of spices, of smoke from the cars. But I leave these behind, in the hope that there is indeed a pot of gold at the end of this rainbow.

The interiors of the aircraft look familiar. Plush cushions, cramped leg-space. But familiarity stops right here, for I see people who are not like any I have seen before. It’s only on the TV shows that you see such colours. Hair-curly, red, blonde. Skin-some black as coal and some white, as a canvas before paints. The only I have ever seen is a shade of brown topped with a mop of raven-black hair. The sight starts a small tingle at the pit of my stomach, a feeling that is a blend of a thousand subtle emotions. Apprehension, excitement, fear, loneliness, doubt. What do I look like to these people? Certainly not as one among them. Will they take me in and make me feel at home? Will they overlook my skin colour, the way I dress, my slightly different accent? Evaluate me as an individual and see that I am not too different from them. And that I need all the help and love just now, not cold stares and a curt greeting. I cuddle in my seat, wishing for the protection of a womb while sleep takes over me.

The 24 hours gone in a daze. Open skies again after having been locked up for so long. The sun is bright after a long night. I have made a few new friends, a lady from Thailand who is back from visiting her daughter, and who tells me that I speak like her. There is the man from Bangladesh who wants to know whether things are still the way they were when he had to leave the country. Then the American, who is impressed that I am traveling so far to study and who hopes that I’ll have a wonderful stay in his country. Maybe I just will. Yes, the sun shines, without blinding my eyes.

Red, Orange, Go!

This is a post that I started off a long time ago, in those days when I was learning( or rather mastering, for the learning had been done a long time before then) how to drive a car. In the winding narrow streets of Bangalore, for the larger streets were forbidden to a student still, I polished my skills. Of apologizing, delivering the killer looks and mouthing words I hoped would be taken for the dirtiest swears.

People have always complained about Bangalore traffic. The myriad traffic jams just when you have to get to work and potholes the size of craters can drive even the most patient into a foul mood. For the craters, there is the government to blame. Or maybe its the official language. Would it be fair to blame the politicians who spend the funds assigned for the 'infrastructure maintainance of state' to add a new lawn, an extra floor or solar panels to their already palatial residences. For is that not infrastructure maintainance, and are they not the state? One way or the other the potholes remain. Once every five years, just before the elections, one kind-hearted and scheming candidate does do the roads. The road-rollers are a welcome sight. The freshly tarred roads become playgrounds, and little boys walk-race with leaden slippers. A week after the road repair, the world is a happy place. It's spring time. The Bangalore rains take a cue from that and come as a mighty downpour. The green returns and so do the holes in the roads.

The traffic jams are easier to understand if you hail from Bangalore. The increasing number of immigrants, who for one mistake the language spoken here for Kannad or Kannadam(the northies and the Tams respectively; its called Kannada), are stumped by the driving ways of the native man. Its not in the blood or the soil, trust me. Its in the way they teach us. The good thing though, is that these immigrants learn quickly and mingle in the general pell-mell smoothly.

My driving classes included not just the basic lesson on gears and brakes, but also a list of reactions when caught in difficult traffic situations. They taught me the subtle art of recognizing when a situation demanded me to go on the offensive and when to get out with a meek 'sorry saar, tappu aagi hoyitu(sorry saar, mistake happened)'. They also had practice sessions, in which I had to scrape a car just right, so the other driver would be left wondering if he had been wronged, or if he was lucky to have escaped an accident which would have been his fault entirely.

Changing lanes are a game of power. If you can squeeze in between two cars on a lane, you are good. If this means you have stopped the car behind you and a few behind that one, thats a bonus. Jumping a traffic light should become second nature to you. And if you see a traffic jam, you should not wait. You should find the smallest free spot, squeeze into it and create a deadlock. If you hear a thousand different voices shouting at you, you have graduated in the art of driving. Did I mention learning the Kannada swear words, the looks and speaking through clenched teeth?

All that remains now is obtaining a license. This exercise builds your patience and perseverence like none else, with the intention that you may be prepared to remain stuck in traffic endlessly without complaining. Usually the driving schools charge you extra money, so you can bypass the trips to the RTO and not have to visit it until the day of the exam. The Officer there though, has the weirdest notion of driving and you invariably fail when you try to demonstrate the tricks. But after a few attempts, he remembers his own days of learning to drive, sympathizes with you and lets you have the document that doesnt question your driving skills for the next 20 years.

I had it easy though. The officer was my neighbour. He advised me to not pay the driving school the extra money since it was for the officers. He claimed he was an honest one and wouldnt really like to cream the neighbours. Noble man. Since I had refused to pay the driving school the extra dough, they wouldnt let me drive their car for test. My father, for all the claims of his love for me, wouldnt let me touch his car either. So I stood in the RTO office, in front of the neighbour-officer(NO from now), without a car, ready to take the test. NO taking pity on me said I could drive his car, which was parked in the basement. Only I had to stick to the parking lot and demonstrate my skills there instead of on the road. Not that he didnt trust me, he added. When asked to drive in reverse, I did so not stopping until the car hit a pillar at the back. I smiled sheepishly. He grunted, asked me to hop to the passenger seat, took the steering and parked it back in the spot where it had been a couple of minutes before then. Without another word, he signed my sheet, asked me knew how to ride a two-wheeler and signed against that as well. Maybe he feared I'd ask to borrow his scooter( bought from people's license money, I suppose) to get a two-wheeler license.

So here I am with a license and the wish to drive. In Los Angeles though, they need me to get a permit before I can drive for which I need to take a written test. I dont need to take another driving test for they trust the Indian authority. I have a date booked sometime next month. After then I can zoom around in a car. For a while though, I'll drive safely, stop at stop signs and keep to the left at all times. Wait, did I just say left?

Sahi jawaab!!!...kahaan?

Well, it all began a long time ago, in a fancy dress competition when I was three. I was dressed up as a cute little doctor. For a long time after that( I won a prize for my act), people started adding the doctor prefix to my name; my family in the hope that I'd become one when I grew up, the others just because they had been taught the social rules of being nice to friends' young ones. I grew up with Florence Nightingale as the role model, with the intention of alleviating the world's suffering.

Then one day I realised, doctors were not only supposed to give injections and scribble down prescriptions in gibberish, but treat diseases like piles and handle all that blood during pregnancy. My respect for doctors went up 5 rungs, but the desire to be one was obliterated. My career path changed. I decided mathematics was my forte and I was carved out to be a theoretician. All this because I topped my maths exam with 68 marks( says a lot about the rest of my class). But a couple of years down the line, and a few more math courses later, I realised the field of mathematics was not ready for me yet!

Then there was this short period of time, when things cleared up and I saw sense in pursuing engineering, as most sensible people of my age group seemed to be doing just then. So a couple of years struggle for one exam that would apparently make my life and a little luck, I climbed the first step towards being a promising engineer. In those four years, I must have thought of as many careers as a person could in that period of time. There was journalism, theatre, English literature, counseling, free-lance writing (oops!) and the sorts. Note that most of it steered clear of all that was science.

Life went on, I graduated as an engineer and not knowing what else to do, I landed half way across the globe to continue further studies. My parents are proud of the fact that their daughter is going to be a postgraduate (ugh! The word makes me sound so old and boring, which I assure you I am not). While life goes on in the fast lane, it's once again brought me to the crossroads where I need to know what I want to do next.

I could climb Mount Everest up and back ten times if only it would give me the answer to the question. 42 you may say, but that doesnt help. I toss and turn in my sleep, while I dream about all the wrong choices I make that leave me on the streets. I ask people around me if they know what they want of life, if only in the hope that most of them will reply in the negative, thereby not making me feel like a freak. But they disappoint me by rattling away about all they want to do till the minute they die.

There's all the talk of oppression against women. They say it was the mean man who wanted to feel good about himself and confined woman to 4 walls and pots and pans. Lately I wonder if it was some smart woman who set up that system of life. Do a little cooking and cleaning and have the rest of the day for yourself. Not a bother about wasting time, for that's what you were supposed to do. Who wants to go out into the world and earn bread and make oneself useful. So if any of you know a rich guy who wants a wife just to sit at home( I understand such a man would be in need of immediate medical attention for his state of mind), do recommend. Till then, I shall sit around and try and find what it is that I want to do with my life.

This....

This, after a long time. This, when I have a thousand other things to do, that anyone would put higher on the priority list ( and would definitely expect me to do the same). This, while I look with my big sad eyes like a puppy, at other bloggers blogging away to their heart's content. This, because my roomies would kill me if I used my vocal chords to give vent to my thoughts anymore. This, as a modern-day ( no poetry, so)ode to my life.

Ah! My life is horrid. Or rather was, until one month ago, when I decided to change the course of things. My first month in the US of A didnt help much in reducing the not-too-good-a-feeling I had about it to begin with. I lived, akin to an African slave of the 17th Century who wandered off into the promised land only to find himself hand-cuffed and put to work. Only those hand-cuffs in my case, were invisible, though just as strong. It used to be a constant stream of classes, research( oh yes, I know not too many of you can believe I can pronounce that word even, let alone be actually doing it), labs and what-not. This after that 4-year holiday in IIT, where you studied only hours before an exam, but were confident because you knew you neighbour hadnt done any better!!

When at India and trying to get my admission documents to reach me, I was both amazed and irritated that this whole country just stopped working through the weekends, that starting friday afternoon. I came here and found out that those who were assisting me in my paper-handling had actually been working part-weekends. For the weekend and all the partying that it is synonymous with, starts thursday afternoon! In the first month, thursday evenings would see well-dressed men and well-undressed women going to have fun, while I trudged back home after a long day and smelly grocery shopping. I used to smirk the smirk, telling myself that it was not my age or maturity any longer to lead that frivolous life.

And then came the day when I had to present all the research I had accomplished in one month,in front of my professor ( who I could call a lot more names, but refrain, lest he googles for my name). That evening after the presentation, I felt like the Greek guy who carrying that big boulder on his shoulders would have felt had it been taken away from him. I relaxed, I went out , that day and the next( it deserved a longer than normal celebration). Before I knew, I was back to living the life I was used to. Freaking out with friends, making merry, eating out, watching movies; until I forgot all about those classes and research. The guilt that had started to resurface had been put to rest yet again.

There is this slightly sick feeling that starts to build up a couple of days before each Saturday, which is when my weekly report is due. But then that is taken care of quickly enough( the sickness). What with the other million things on your mind about what clothes to wear and what earrings to go with them.

So this, because my life is not so bad after all. This, because I cant decide if 'this' is a pronoun, an adjective or an adverb!