The Homo sapien has a Sub-Species...

...and I'm naming it Homo sapien pedestrianis.

Found in various pockets around the world, you can see the H. sapien pedestrainis right outside your window. Just look for a road or a sidewalk or the pavement. Any humanoid figure that is walking by is a H. sapien pedestrianis. I am one too.

I know that it isn't taxonomically correct, or even biologically, as there is no change in the genetic structure of a H. sapien pedestrianis, but for the sake of this piece, I am going to be biologically incorrect. 

A common name for this sub-species is 'pedestrian', or someone who walks rather than travels by a vehicle. Of course this means that they are more susceptible to accidents on the road due to a sub-species of impatient drivers. It's quite the challenge to stay alive, what with Herbert Spencer's phrase 'survival of the fittest' putting so much pressure on the pedestrian to compete with moving machinery.

I should now add that when I started writing this a few years ago (in 2016 it would seem), I was only thinking of my experiences at home. Now that I've lived in or visited places outside the country, my perspective has widened a fair bit. 

The social order in some other parts of the world places the H. sapien pedestrianis near the top, where there is almost no need to make survival checks on a sidewalk. It's an experience being able to walk down the pavement or to cross the road like you're royalty. That is, till the odd bicycle or electric scooter goes whizzing past you. There's no sticking out your hand in the desperate and unsure hopes that the vehicles will stop for you and let you cross — my friend says they call this the "hand of god" as she too recalls similar differences between here and her home-country — because when you do stick your hand out to a vehicle, it will be to signal a thank you for stopping and waiting. 

Though I have to say, as a pedestrian nothing beats the rush of being able to stroll slowly in front of a line of motorcyclists as they honk incessantly at you to move out of their way, despite them riding on the sidewalk. Not even the thrill of getting the right of way in other parts of the world.

« after passing through / before goodbyes »

I watched Before Sunrise a few years ago, during my bachelor’s studies. I did not appreciate it back then, and I can’t say I appreciate it now either (I don’t really remember much of it). Mine is not a popular opinion as many people have made it clear to me. That said I’m up for giving it another watch, though I can’t say when. 

But the reason I bring it up is because today I remembered a particular day from 2018.

Those who know me, know me. I’m not someone who feels entirely comfortable going up to random people and having conversations with them (though I do find myself doing this more often now). It’s not that I don’t like talking, I just like listening more.

Anyway on this particular day in October two years ago, I attended a sound workshop part of BLR Design Week. I had hoped that we would get to record sounds and put them together, and had taken my laptop along with me in much excitement. But for the three hours the group of us sat there, we listened to someone talking about the process and its technicalities the entire time.

It was a mixed bunch, present for different reasons and interests: a 50-something-year-old who’d started making podcasts, a fresh-in-college kid who wanted to produce their own music, a fashion-graduate exploring something new at Design Week, and me, a confused-art-and-design-graduate wanting to go deeper into sound design. While the Q&A session afterwards was slightly more interesting, I was still fairly disappointed. And my plan was to leave, grab a quick lunch and head somewhere else. In the process of doing the leaving, two people approached me; I’d apparently asked a question that struck a chord with both the fashion-graduate and college-fresher.

Needless to say, the rest of the afternoon and evening was spent with the fashion-graduate and college-fresher. The conversation was surprisingly easy during (the best) lunch at Indian Coffee House and our walking up and down Brigade Road; it was easy, but it was also open, deep and maybe a bit raw too. We impromptu performed Riptide by Vance Joy at Music House Instruments (we were linked by sound/music): I’d picked up a ukulele, college-fresher has a beautiful voice, fashion-graduate joined in with enthu. (We’d gone in for different reasons: to buy guitar strings (me), to check out guitars (college-fresher), to play around with different instruments particularly the hang drum (fashion-graduate); not that this matters though, I just want to remember it later).

It all just happened on its own and it still is a surreal moment (and day) for me. Even though we vibed so well, I can’t remember their names, and of course we didn’t exchange any contact details because we wanted to Before Sunrise the day.

We’d all ditched our plans. I was thinking of surprising friends at my old workplace (I was talked into not going, and am very glad), college-fresher was in two minds about meeting the person they had a crush on (we convinced them to just go for it), and fashion-graduate was planning-to-but-unsure-about meeting their ex/friend (we talked them out of it).

At some point in the evening, we sent college-fresher off in an auto to head to their crush’s place, before the two of us head on towards Koramangala. Fashion-graduate was looking for a particular store they’d mentioned earlier in the day, and I was looking to kill time before heading home for dinner (we didn’t find the store, and I can’t remember what made it particular).

Before leaving, college-fresher had suggested meeting at a night trek trip that they’d heard about, organised on a specific weekend. But to keep with the Before Sunrise theme we were going for, none of us agreed to it — we wanted to leave it to chance. We didn’t know if we were going to bump into each other ever again in the future.

I still don’t. I hope college-fresher (probably a grad now) is pursuing their music and fashion-graduate found something they really like doing. And if I get to bump into them ever again, it would be pretty cool.

I had the Chutzpah to Wash Myself Free of Her

I wrote this poem while at work, simply to use the various words I had up on the wall as inspiration but never did use. There are some words that I can no longer remember the meaning of...

But I love the way they all sound nonetheless.

I had the Chutzpah to Wash Myself Free of Her

It was pure and utter serendipity.

The first time I saw her,

She had all the panache of a Victoria’s Secret runway model.

It was in a department store.

She was standing still.

Achingly so, like all the world couldn’t have inspired a movement.

I stepped closer.

‘COWABUNGA!’

I knew our relationship could only be quixotic.

In a few weeks I took her home.

Our life together was a labyrinth,

Bamboozled by my idealistic dreams

And her ataraxic nature.

She always smelled of fresh laundry.

And I, of petrichor.

But our shenanigans were fairly transient.

She was acting ridiculous and I,

Was pernicious to her health.

And so I,

In a lackadaisical moment,

Left her standing out by the door.

Where she haunts me every day

In her ephemeral beauty.

Her pizzazz fading with the days,

Weeks, months, years.

Saudade.

Saudade.

Saudade.

Our time together lingers,

Festers,

Obfuscates.

My current quandary

A riptide through my being.

This vermicious pain is quintessential.

But it’s such a buzzkill.

Her body is now a palimpsest.

Rust, leaves, metal, vines.

Green, white, brown.

Her pulchritude even more irresistible.

Only she could smell fresher than laundry.

Saudade.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

And now if you are wondering who she is, as so many people have, I present to you, her:

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

COVID Quarantruths

I sit at my desk having binge-rewatched five seasons of Community after years. And it’s left me slightly unsettled as to how much I have been escaping or avoiding facing certain things (and also that I can apparently binge-watch a show at all – Community is just that good; definitely recommend it, the humour is brilliantly meta).

I’ve been Abed-ing my way through the last few months, and as much as fiction has always been a way to create/escape to utopias, I have been actively avoiding reality. While I physically distanced myself from people as recommended, I also did virtually. I justified it as a coping mechanism for excess stress, or that I was too busy with coursework to talk to others, but the reality was always that if I did talk to them I would have to face what was happening within my 17-square-metre apartment. I would have to face the fact that I was not doing okay/good mentally, as I had been telling anyone who asked. And I didn’t want to face it. Taking care of others and making sure they were doing fine was my way of staying out of my head and in others'; it helped them, but it also helped me. And I guess it is incredibly selfish of me to do so. Taking care of myself on the other hand was very low on my priority list.

I became anxious about multiple things. I wondered whether I would ever see my family again. I had irrational fears about never meeting my grandparents again. I missed home-cooked meals with my family, and their warm safe hugs (I cried and hugged myself when watching Coco, which I rewatched too many times). I missed home. I worried about the situation back home, because it was so much worse than where I currently am. And I felt helpless that I couldn’t do anything about any of it. Everything was so compounded, each issue tangled up in too many different other problems – and it wasn’t just COVID-related.

I wanted to distance myself from my family so that I wouldn’t give them the chance to find out something was wrong, so they wouldn’t worry about me from so far away when they had their own things to stress about. But I knew if I did distance myself, they would know something was up and worry about me anyway. And so I talked to them every weekend and swallowed any negative feelings I had accumulated over the week.

I distanced myself from friends as much as I could. And as much as I wanted to stay away, I was also worried about their well-being, mental and otherwise. And I’m glad I reached out to some of them; I was right for being worried, and it gives me peace of mind to know they are doing ok if not well. Of course if they asked how I was, I stuck to ‘okay’ and ‘fine’ as a response. Not the truth, but not lies either. I tried to make them laugh when I could with my overall silliness – sometimes I had really good timing and I don’t mean comedic.

I missed eating at uni with my friends here, since I couldn’t meet all of them anymore. I am grateful for the people I did meet with in person, initially occasionally, but later every day. I kept in touch with some of them virtually, but most of the time, with all the online classes, I just wanted to stay away from everything school-related. It was exhausting and I sometimes wish I had stayed in touch with more people, but I also knew I just couldn’t. I also wished summer would come faster so the courses would end and I could just be done with everything. I don’t know if taking too many classes to distract myself and fill up my free time was a good or bad decision.

Keeping in touch with people has always been a bit more on the mentally exhausting side, and so this situation was just more intensely tiring. In the end with all the deadlines piling up, I just stopped talking to everyone except my family and the friends I met in person.

I grew tired of taking care of myself. I got tired of cooking meals. I stress-ate/binged on junk food. I forgot to water my plants. My room got messier. The laundry and garbage piles stayed for a little longer. I stayed in my room for hours on end. I stayed in bed for longer most non-working mornings. My overthinking went into overdrive; I began questioning myself about who and how I was as a person, it was not a good place to be mentally.

Social media was the worst/best distraction.

I’m a month into summer vacation now. Things have relaxed a little. I have some projects to work on, so I’m not completely bored. I’ve binge-rewatched way too many shows (ATLA, Gravity Falls, Community), movie-marathoned myself to sleep or got caught up with some food-related shows on YouTube. I have stayed away from social media as much as I can. I stay outdoors for longer and more often. I’ve tried to meditate and do yoga again. I have been able to meet up with some of my friends from uni while also being anxious about using public transport to do so.

Most of them would be going home for the summer, and I was glad my friends were able to go back to be with their families. But it made me realise that I wanted to be with mine, even though I knew and was mentally prepared that I wouldn’t be able to. Though I knew I would see most of my friends again, it was still disheartening and it also felt weird – like a feeling of loss. There were some I knew I wouldn’t see again, at least not until way beyond summer ended, and that felt much worse.

I have never been good with goodbyes or writing endings, and so I think the music I have on in the background right now is quite fitting – a bittersweet score from FMAB. After I spent the last two days rewatching Community (and too many more of escaping reality), I’ve resurfaced. I’ve begun cleaning my room, shuffling things around, eating healthier, trying to get pending work done. Much like Abed goes through his mental coping mechanisms of escaping reality only to face and maybe adjust to the truth at the end of the episode, binge-rewatching Community provided that cathartic experience for me. And I feel a bit lighter than I have in a long time.

Holes

Depth, size, shape, location,
Factors that affect your mood,
Your state of mind.
Bottomless pits are the worst.
They'll hit you the hardest
Scientifically because of potential energy
If you ever reach the floor.
But psychologically,
There's a loss of earth,
Weeks are light and floaty.
Reality is an illusion,
Like a magic trick performed all wrong
Got you stuck in another dimension
Because the science behind it wasn't fleshed out.
You're living in two parallel universes
Running through both
Crossing into the other
Each different but can't be told apart.
You can't survive in two worlds.
You can't bear that pressure.
It's inhuman.
You're delirious.
In search of the answers to questions
Or is it questions to answers
Questions that lead to questions
Lead you to your mind.
A piece of muscle
That can't be flexed
Without a crossword with hidden meanings
Codes and ciphers to drive you crazy
Are you even in control of yourself?
Actions that are inexplicable
Like that wrong turn on the way to the supermarket
Away from that crime scene
Which had clues to your existence
Scrubbed clean of luminol
Nothing to decrypt it.
It's left you empty without purpose.
The quest is over.
That heaviness in your chest
Is a hole in your brain.
A mere bit of data that went missing.
But bits fit into bytes
That grow into gigabytes
And soon you're left with
Traces of information.
Incomplete, inconsistent, incoherent
Incapacitated.
Scattered in forks of time
You're getting left behind.
Catch up to yourself.
To that brain that keeps whirring
In constant need of comfort
From unknown familiarities.
A separate part of you
Detached from the world
Nothing to keep you grounded.
Missing soil can't hold you in place.
Patched up holes leave a mess.
Rusty computers
With information half lost
The rest recovered
In attempts to fix the memories
You'd rather not remember.
Old mixes with new
Sand replaces clay
Or clay replaces silt.
Soil that is lost
Has more likely been used elsewhere
To cover up other holes
Put a lid upon
The remains of disturbances.
It'll happen to you too
So that you may not
Further dig into rock while
Prospecting for gold.
Gold found in rivers
Washed along with the flow
Of time and space
Sieved into nuggets
By astronauts looking for moonrock
During a supernova.
Supernovas can go two ways:
A new star or
A black hole
That takes in everything
Leaving large blanks in your mind.
Your attempts at filling those blanks
With forceful words
Leaves you with bad grammar and
Too much punctuation.

Weirdly Normal

They were twins. Fraternal twins to be precise, seeing that they couldn’t have been identical although they looked it. You see, one of them was female and the other was a male. They were inseparable, always hanging around the other when they weren’t actually standing next to them.

Normal grew up to be the favourite amongst her peers and their parents. She almost always wore black. Even if she wore any other colour, she wasn’t one to experiment with her clothing and always played it safe. She was always dressed properly, her hair always in place, combed and pinned back. The only thing out of place was her fringe, and it irritated her to no end.

On the other hand, Weird, with his wild and curly messy hair, played pretend with himself, carrying out social experiments in his head. He always wore mismatched or rainbow socks, and ended up being made fun of for the very reason. Because he was bullied so much by his peers, he grew up to hate them and people in general, never really making any friends.

Though Normal was shy, she was always surrounded by people. They included her in all their circles, even though she was always standing in the wings and never in the spotlight. Weird always hung around Normal, never talking to anyone but her, never enjoying being in other people’s presence and was always lost in his own thoughts.

All through elementary school, Weird was bullied. For being different and simply too weird. And because Normal was too shy to speak up, there was no one to stop it. Their parents were too busy working to notice what was happening in their home. Although they spent time with their kids over the weekends, playing games and cooking together, there really never was time to sit down and talk about school or work. Weekends were days when they all just wanted to have fun and forget about the week. There were a few times Normal tried to talk about Weird’s situation and would bring up the topic, but Weird would always nudge her to keep quiet.

Middle school didn’t stop the bullying, but it did lessen it. While Normal found her place in society, Weird could never be a part of it. He would never fit in and he found he didn’t want to either. He also found that sticking to Normal helped in his self-preservation. As long as he was with her, no one could say anything. She never let anyone. He didn’t like it one bit, having to rely on her, but he admitted that getting only dirty glares was much better than the verbal attacks. She knew he hated relying on her and feeling like a coward, but she was happy that he wasn’t suffering as much anymore. If being with her helped him then she wouldn’t let him be alone.

When high school started, things were different. No one had time to bully Weird anymore. Frankly he was glad, as it allowed him to worry about things other than what was going to jump out at him as soon as he turned the corner. Everyone was stressing out, especially Normal. Normal fell ill more often and Weird was more than happy to take care of her. Weird still hung around Normal, as was his habit, even though no one bullied him anymore. No one noticed him anymore; they didn’t glare or try to trip him. It was as though he had never existed. Weird quite enjoyed his invisible status, even if it meant sitting in a corner, in his own little world, at someone’s party. Normal was invited to a lot of them, and she always dragged Weird along for company. She was always on the fringes of the groups she was a part of and it left her feeling lonely at times. Weird sensed this and was always dragged along willingly.

She never admitted it, and she never wanted to accept it, but there were times when she wanted to blame Weird for her loneliness. Because he was always hanging around she never had any close friends. And because she wanted to make sure nothing happened to him and so had him stay within her line of sight, she was angry at herself for blaming him. This predicament, and all the stress of school, affected her health adversely. Despite Weird nursing her to health each time she broke down, Normal never recovered completely. Her guilt ate at her continuously and in the end, she was so sick she had to take a year off before college.

Weird was adamant about taking a year off too and going to college with Normal. Normal wouldn’t agree to it, telling him she’d only feel guiltier if he did.

Reluctantly Weird got himself into an art college. Their plan had been to study biology and get into genetics or microbiology. But if he was going to do this alone, he thought he might as well choose to study what he really loved. It wasn’t easy being alone all of a sudden. He had to talk to people, interact with the very species that’d made fun of him for most of his life. But he found that people were like-minded and didn’t approve of bullying others just because they were different. He found that they each had their own eccentricities and that it didn’t stop them from doing anything. It didn’t stop them from being who they were.

Weird finally felt free. Most of all he was happy. Seeing his happiness, Normal felt happy too. She started to get better. She loved to hear Weird talking about his day and what he did with his friends. She loved that he could express himself so freely in front of people, his new friends and the faculty, but most of all their parents and even her. She loved that there were people Weird didn’t hate and could talk to. She loved that there were people who didn’t make fun of his mismatched or rainbow socks, who actually appreciated them instead. Weird finally felt like he belonged.

Two sides of a coin

Normal and Weird are the same.

Who is the odd one?

Spiral Staircase

It’s a staircase for sure.

There are steps one after the other and they’re decreasing (or increasing) in height at equal decrements (or increments).

It’s definitely a spiral. I’m quite dizzy from all the circular walking.

I’ve been on this spiral staircase for a while now. A long while.

I walk endlessly, taking the odd short break.

Time is an irrelevant factor, as is direction. As variables, I have no idea of either of their values.

Sometimes I can tell. The direction I mean. Whether I’m going up or down. Most days it doesn’t matter; I just keep walking aimlessly in that same direction without being able to figure if it’s up or down. Maybe I just don’t care enough to figure if it’s up or down. Then there are those few days when it’s absolutely certain which way I’m headed. And it’s almost always most likely to be downwards.

Of course it also depends on how you look at the entire setup. In all honesty I’m the only one with the key to the giant room. Sometimes, if I’m willing, I’ll let someone else do some poking around, although it never ends well. I always end up in tears and it doesn’t look or feel like anyone cleaned the place up. It’s as though they took a pile of the mess from one side of the room to the other. I would’ve done the same anyway, just alone, with no one else’s help.

Getting back to the setup. There’s the aforementioned giant room with one key. Within it is a small room (to which the someone elses are invited for a good poke and clean up) with a view to the setup that occupies the greater remainder of the giant room. When I say giant I mean giant to the power of unimaginable vastness. A never-ending spiral staircase (the entire setup; no really that is the entire setup) floats in this interstice of a space, contorting itself, unravelling slightly, nonetheless staying a spiral, filling up the space in entirety, almost as if consuming itself.

I, but a puny little pawn, walk along this staircase, climbing step after step.

One step, two step.

Go ahead a step.

Back-up a step.

Skip a step.

Fall off the step.

Step-by-step.

Step after step.

Step, step, step.

Step, step, step, step.

Step. Step. Step.

Step.

Unfortunately when I installed the Pay-per-view, I put on a permanent zoom lens. So now if I invite someone in, they can only see a close-up of where I am standing, instead of a breath-taking whole view, of which I have no patience in describing to others. A painting is only as beautiful if it has been viewed upon carefully, as a whole and as smaller parts that have come together.

While the viewing room that saw different people invited in had only that one lens to offer, the giant room itself had two tiny windows, which couldn’t really be seen even when inside the room. But if anyone did find them and gaze into either, they’d see a lot more than through the Pay-per-view. I can’t say many have dared to opt for that option. I also can’t say that I’ve given them that option. It’s more or less a discovery on each individual’s part.

Just as walking on the spiral was a discovery for me. I hadn’t noticed it until much after feelings of love towards staircases had consumed me enough to make me want to consciously ignore the elevator. Such disdain for an elevator I’ve never felt before. Now, even though I yearn for the elevator, I can’t seem to get off the staircase. Ever since I got on, I’ve been looking for the end so I may step off.

There are days I run around, under the impression that I’ve reached the end, having apparently seen it in the distance. An illusory glance. Sometimes I turn around and walk back, having forgotten a piece of the eternal candy that I would’ve left behind on a lonesome step. That candy is the only source of energy to keep me climbing those stairs.

On more days than is usual, I slide on the banister, whooshing past. These are the days I usually fall off as well and I have to pick myself up and trudge all the way back to pick up whatever might have fallen out of my pockets (all of them being pieces of eternal candy). The picking-up-after-myself part is super hard, but I like keeping things clean and so it’s more or less a necessity. And because I like cleaning, most of the time I’m glad I picked up all the pieces till the very step I slid off of.

Sometimes, I find myself going around in circles on the same step. When I suddenly realise this and stop, I sit down to regain my bearings, but by this time I’m so confused about which direction I must’ve come from (and there are only two to choose from) I just turn around some more, slowly this time, and whichever way I’m facing I walk in the opposite direction. I don’t walk backwards. I tried it once, it didn’t end well.

But there are some days I take my time on each step and walk slowly, step by step by step. These are the days I look out at the vastness. At the nothing that surrounds the staircase. At the tiny speck of a viewing room. At the someones inside the viewing room. At the two tiny pinholes of a windows. At the multitude of anyones outside the windows. It overwhelms me. And calms me. It makes me wonder if there are more staircases out there to climb. And if I’ll ever get to climb them.

I wonder if they are all spiral.

Teeth

White teeth.

Glowing pearly white teeth.

Not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Freed of dental structures, not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Not tied down by rubberbands, freed of dental structures, not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Able to bite into an apple, not tied down by rubberbands, freed of dental structures, not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Saved from inner-lip lacerations, able to bite into an apple, not tied down by rubberbands, freed of dental structures, not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Corrected crooked misalignments, saved from inner-lip lacerations, able to bite into an apple, not tied down by rubberbands, freed of dental structures, not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Artificially-altered smile, corrected crooked misalignments, saved from inner-lip lacerations, able to bite into an apple, not tied down by rubberbands, freed of dental structures, not encased in metal, glowing pearly white teeth.

Antarctica

Last summer I went to Antarctica.

It was covered in ice.

White ice

Cold white ice

Cold melting white ice

Global warming was taking over.

He was blowtorching the polar ice caps.

At Antarctica, I saw pink penguins.

It was warm so they’d taken off their feathery jackets.

They were nude penguins.

Nude and pink like people who’d just sunbathed.

Penguins are cooler black and white.

The Thing

A poem from last year

Nightmare. It’s only a nightmare.

The-there’s a thing.

An odious object sitting at the foot of my bed.

An article so astronomical I can’t see behind it.

The terrifying tool sits still, while I lie quaking under the covers.

Immobile, the item seems innocuous enough.

But could I trust it?

The artefact had appeared quite abruptly, and I definitely hadn’t put it there.

Did you?

Did you dump this dubious device on my duvet?

Is it a gift?

Is this great gadget a glorious gift?

Now this is interesting.

What is this curious commodity so covered in cotton cloth?

This extremely endearing entity that draws me closer as I crawl across to the contrivance.

I opened it to find a glossy glass gizmo.

With polished planes and cool curves,

The instrument has intricacies etched on every exterior.

The insides of the implement were equally elaborate with

Serpentine strokes scratched on the surface.

This breath-taking body, manufactured of manual muscle work, how could I ever use this utensil?

I can’t.

It’s too phenomenal a form to be flawed.

This piece of work, perfect from every perspective, I plan to preserve perpetually.

So storing the stupendous stuff, I go back to sleep.

I wake to warm water, sprinkled on my idle eyes.

Fragmented figures flash from the previous night.

Dashing to the drawer I find that forged form was a

REFRIGERATOR?!

In a Pot of Bubbling Sauce - The Result of a Quick Poetic Exercise

He had been prowling the streets
The usual routine
Checking for spies
Or even traitors
But the godfather could not save him now
He was far too deep in his own pasta and meatballs
The spaghetti ropes were overcooked and falling everywhere limp
Like the clandestine antiestablishmentarian establishments
Fuck. He thought...he was stuck in a pot that he had not wanted to even step into
Magenta walls towered over him as he hoped someone would find him
Down this dark alley vertical in the ground
He looked up hearing a voice...Bharti? Was it her? Was it that no good mother of his come to rescue him everytime he couldn't solve his own problems?

An Uprooted Being

Just like plants, humans have roots too. And just like a plant's roots, human roots play an important role in our growth as individuals.

This piece stems from a common question and an attempt to understand my missing self.

"So, where are you from?"

I've been asked this question so many times in college. Everyone asks this to every other one. In a way, it's a question of curiosity. Do you fit the stereotypes that exist around your place of origin? Are you one of those nomads, meaning someone in your family is either a diplomat or serves in the armed forces? Or are you simply an NRI?

I've said different answers to different people. 

Sometimes it's just 'Delhi', assuming they're asking where my 'hometown' is, which generally translates to "Where do you end up every summer to visit family?"

Sometimes it's 'Bangalore', referring to my city of residence and where I've spent most of my life so far.

Most of the times though I end up answering with this: "I was born in Delhi, but I've never lived there. Then before I was one we moved to the States. I lived there for 7 years. After that we moved to Bangalore. And we're still here. So, you can figure out for yourself where I'm from."

There are times I go into a rambling story about my ancestors and where they're from, but that's only when people are asking for it.

Although people say it's quite clear where I'm from, all the while failing to mention the place they think so, I really don't feel the same.

In college, culture plays an important role in your work. A lot of motifs and illustrative styles emerge from the culture you would have immersed yourself into. This holds true even for patterns you weave into textiles, your choice of colours, even the look and feel of a product/piece of furniture you might create.

Culturally I've never been rooted to anything in particular. I've read about different cultures from across the world, spanning various time periods. While they're all really interesting, I didn't find myself wanting to follow any of them. I should be following my own culture, whatever that is supposed to be, but with my formative years being spent in one place and the rest of my life elsewhere, I've kind of gotten lost. Not to mention my parents are more spiritual and disciplinarian, with Western ideologies but Indian upbringing. Culture did not take up a very big part in my growing years. Maybe if I'd spent more time with my grandparents, I might have known more about 'my culture', but that's all pointless speculation.

Although I walk around like a lost soul with a part of my identity completely missing, it's not like I know nothing about my cultural ways. I just can't seem to associate myself with it. I'm not sure I ever will.

Mundu Mime

A poem I wrote for my character, which is now a mural.

Mundu Mime had no head. Well almost.
But the poor thing was almost dead.
Mundu Mime, he felt terribly stupid 
For his body was entirely crooked.
He felt so bad for his shape.
In every house, he hid behind the drapes.
The hosts, they always stared.
Poor Mundu Mime, how much he cared.

Mundu is the traditional attire for men in Kerala, India. It is a long piece of cloth that is tied around the waist in a specific manner.

Only the Paranoid Survive

I've lived for 19 years being paranoid. So far nothing bad has happened. But then nothing has happened either.

Being paranoid has its perks. Every time you venture out at night, you make sure there are at least 10 people with you. Sometimes you don't venture out at night at all, just to be on the safe side. Not even if there are 10 men along with you. You don't want those creepy, lusty men on bikes after you now, do you?

Available as different thoughts, fears and intensities, paranoia can be related to health too. A mosquito bit you this morning? Better to get tested for dengue and malaria. Sneezing are you? It could be the symptom for hundreds and thousands of fatal diseases. With paranoia, you wont have to worry about all of this. Why, you ask. Only because you would've taken the necessary precautions to avoid all these horrifying situations.

Paranoia would also cause you to question your parents plans for anything, from a trip to the movies to a trip to some exotic beach resort. You will begin to question what they are saying when they shut the door to discuss something private (and if you happen to open the door without knocking you'll find out they were talking in a foreign language... A sure sign you should prepare for the worst).

As you can read, you live in constant fear of anything and everything (for instance, I'm in fear of my parents reading this right now). Now, you must be wondering "Well, nothing bad happens... But what about the good stuff? What about letting go and having fun?"

No. As a person who's constantly paranoid, you tend not to. You don't go for parties at night, because someone might try to harm you while walking back home, if not at the party itself. You tend to stay away from people till you think they deserve your trust (which might take them time before they deserve it). You don't even go for group dinner outings for fear of getting home too late, thus giving you insufficient time to do your work. You can't even make it to your friend's surprise midnight birthday party, even if her house is 5 minutes away by cycle.

Paranoia can prove to be quite an annoyance when you're wondering where your social life went. But it's easy to get rid of too. All you have to do is take the leap of faith. And maybe, if you keep a tiny little bit of leftover paranoia, you can manage to survive in the jungle we call society.

Seasonal Somethings

Temperatures rise,

Clear skies, no rains, happy times.

Perfect beach weather.

Rumble, rumble, boom

Drops of freshness, petrichor.

It’s bath time, dear world.

Aging trees, red, gold.

Like wine, maturity gives

Priceless, crisp beauty.

Blankets by fireplace,

Warm comforts in crunchy snow,

Hot chocolate, books.

A change in colours,

The leaves metamorph again,

New season is here.

A Hotel Room

On a backpacking trip alone, I stopped at a hotel on the way due to an unforeseen change in the weather. I was lucky to have carried a lot of money. The hotel turned out to have pretty posh accommodation and I ended up staying there for the rest of my 7 day trip, a total of 5 days. What can I say, the view was so beautiful. Overlooking a lake, I’d sit on a beanbag in the balcony staring out at the cloudless sky, day and night. Stars would fill the sky in millions as I spent my time in a hotel room in the middle of nowhere. I’d sleep whenever I wanted to, in a plush bed with feather stuffed pillows, while the television provided a soft lullaby. It all seemed too real to be true, and I was completely comfortable with it. The fact that the hotel’s name was Mirage didn’t bother me. I had been lulled into the lap of luxury by a lake.

It’s a surprise I hadn’t stayed any longer. On the fifth day, as I sat staring at the lake in the morning, I noticed a tiny detail. One of the guests who jogged around the lake everyday had been wearing the same clothes and was in the same position at the same time as the previous days. I found it odd and decided to get out of my hotel room. The minute I stepped out of the door, my head spun and my insides felt as dry as a desert. The heat was getting to my head. I looked around and noticed the crumbling ruins that once made this lonely hotel. When I looked back into my room I saw torn bedsheets and a broken television set. I looked further at the pristine lake, menacingly clearer than a clear sky. I grabbed my backpack and ran out fast and far away.

It was a rocky road, with nothing but sand everywhere. Green was a rare sighting. I ran on and on, the scenery the same on either side. Suddenly I saw a building ahead, a solitary standing structure. As I came closer, it seemed to be familiar but I couldn’t figure out why. I stepped in to find out it was a hotel, and was taken to a lavish room immediately. I looked out the balcony to see a mirror lake, calm and composed, almost as if it were a placid person. The bellboy said “Welcome to Hotel Mirage.” I smiled to thank him, closing the door as he left.

5 Minutes to Signup

There are 5 minutes to signup, our chaotic, evil system of choosing a course via a website (custom built I assume).
So if this makes no sense, it's probably because I can't see what I am typing due to the darkness on campus (no one is getting up to switch on the lights for fear of not signing up on time... It's a fastest-fingers-first sort of system...) or because I am in a hurry to put everything down on this so I don't miss my course.
I am sitting in an almost empty campus save the few people from my batch all waiting restlessly to get this over with. And some people in the admin office and the security staff.
Shit I am so nervous. Almost everyone wants the same courses in the VisComm department.
My friend just told me the time... I have 3 minutes. I should go start endlessly refreshing the website...
OH MY GOD!!!!!!!
I got my courses...Screen Printing and Calligraphy. Which I should say are the most wanted courses for the workshop weeks. Oh my god!
That has got to have been the shortest and most intense signup I've ever had.
Usually I'm chilling at the p.g. in my room with music, an hour to signup.
This time it was a roller-coaster ride.
My adrenaline is still rushing...

Let me give you a brief background to what generally happens.
You access a website, login with a unique ID used for all our college official work. Then you wait, refreshing endlessly, for checkboxes to appear signifying the start of signup. Click the checkbox, hit the save button all fast enough and you will be lucky to be ensured you will get those courses. Otherwise you're stuck looking for a nice course which hasn't been filled up. And they get filled up fast. Speed of sound fast.
And that's pretty much it. Later you feel like you've just run a marathon. And then there are all the sighs of relief or disappointment.
You have tense people, restless people, excited people, people with no hope all around you before and during signup. The atmosphere is mostly thick with stress. Music doesn't help most of the time.

Yep that's signup for you.
You're in trouble if you have a slow internet connection.

Out at Sea

The waters are still, eerie and salty black.

I remember a poem from long ago,

One of stranded sailors and a lone survivor.

Of many nights at sea,

And albatrosses around necks.

I sit on my wreck

No compass, no map, nothing to guide me.

It’s dark.

The sky has no stars

As if telling me there can be no hope left.

There is no way back.

I look up, at a cloudy sky.

I can only hope there is no storm.

But what is hope anymore?

For despite so many clouds

There is not a silver lining.

It begins to pour.

I’m soaked to the skin.

There is nothing, I realise

That I can light to make a fire

Save the raft.

Afloat, with nothing but my mind to keep me company,

And the darkness all around,

I stay up for hours playing games with myself.

‘I Spy’ in the clouds, ‘Tic-Tac-Toe’ on the raft,

Until the delusions of life fade away.

I fall into a silent stare.

One that reaches far beyond

Into the vast nothingness.

And I’m lost once more,

In real dreams

With dying embers of hope.

The stars have taught me well

As they have any sailor.

Without them I would truly be nothing.

I am nothing.

A wave pulls me out of the murky depths.

The raft and I

Drift along

Complying with its gentleness.

We are anchorless.

We have lost our bearings.

We have nothing to keep us grounded,

Nothing to hold us.

There are more now, waves pulling us with them.

Lulling us into a sense of safety,

And comfortingly sleepy warmth.

In this old unfamiliar land,

There is happiness,

There is hope.

I can always find my way back.

But the stars are hiding today.

Falsehood grows

Becoming a storm,

Crashing through my reverie

Wreaking havoc upon the raft

As I wake to find it my reality.

The stars are right.

There can be no hope left.

Piece by piece,

The raft and I disintegrate.

We are laid bare to the storm.

Yet we hang on for dear life,

But for what?

What is a sailor without the North Star?

What purpose does life have if you have been lost?

Questions that will never be answered.

Questions that are silent screams.

The raft creaks in pain.

The storm only hears itself.

I laugh hysterically,

But no one hears me.

I have nothing to lose anymore.

I have nothing.

It has been lost,

I have been lost.

I am nothing.

Not Good

The day was bright and warm. After a lavish lunch, I went outside and sat on the porch. From afar I could see a young girl with eyes that twinkled like the glinting drops of rain, running in our huge field. She was a faerie in her pale, floaty dress and was carrying a small basket. She looked cheerful and it made me feel like a paedophile.



Made with two of my friends for an assignment in class. The original paragraph, which we had to rewrite:
It was a very good day. After a good lunch, I went outside and sat on the porch. From afar I could see a beautiful girl running in our big field. She was wearing a nice dress and was carrying a small basket. She looked very happy and it made me feel good.

Walking in the Woods

Two roads diverged into the woods.

But the right path was the one I was on.

So I ignored the two diversions on the side

And walking ahead, I went along.

Based on the poem The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost.