Malladaptive Behaviour

A hundred posts and you would think I've finally been cured of the cheesy title syndrome. But then again, what's the point of writing a blogpost if you can't give a Margherita pizza an inferiority complex with a cheesy title?

So yes, if you haven't guessed already, this post is about malls. And how they've completely ruined the simple childhood thrill of going to a local market, turning us into a malladaptive lot.

When I was a kid (not too long ago, as I'd like to believe, thanksverymuch)...I used to hate going to the market. My parents would make a weekly customary trip to Sarojini Nagar to buy vegetables, and I hated going there because the vendors would all call me baby. I hated the squishy tomatoes that rolled off a pile and aided the formation of a red carpet on the muddy floor. I hated the green leafy vegetables glinting beneath a swinging 100 watt bulb from a lopsided roof. I hated the mounds of fresh paneer that smelled like cows when you went near them. I would fake stomach aches, pretend to get lost  in the milieu of crazy-vegetable-fanatics...I even tried getting accidentally locked inside the car so my parents would leave me there while shopping...but all to no avail. Except the ice cream cone that was my bribe to come to the market, I found every second of every trip an ordeal.

And so, when malls entered the country (not unlike the locusts entering Africa in Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart), I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Now my parents could shop for vegetables in a fancy store while I could peruse books on the same floor. All was well with this new air-conditioned world and I bid Sarojini Nagar a fervent farewell.

Several years later, when Forum opened up in Bangalore, I was the enthu-cutlet who did a recce of all the half-opened shops. The McDonald's, that HUGE food court....the clothing stores...the multilevel bookstore...I could've died and gone to mall-heaven.

My affair with the malls continued through college, as I wandered from store to store in huge buildings, took many a movie in multiplexes, had every food stall cognitively mapped out and knew exactly where I could buy what. I had turned into the quintessential mall-rat.

Let's cut this love saga short and fast forward to today. I visited this swanky mall that should ideally be my paradise. I stepped into the grand facade, looking at everything awestruck, like a kid (or me, even) in a candy store. Every store had a name that was spelt in one way, but pronounced in another. Shimmering fabric was enveloped in glass cubicles, daring you to come closer to see if it was for real. Shoes were glinting under lights that could have lit an entire village for two months...heck, the cost of one pair of those shoes could educate children from an entire village for two months.

I thought I'd be enthralled at visiting such a place...it was, after all, the king of malls. But I cringed at the sight of frozen, diced vegetables looking sanitised enough to be wheeled into an operation theatre. Instead, I found myself searching for the rustic thatched stalls selling fresh vegetables. I heard the murmur of Burberry-Chanel-Jimmy Choo  around me...but yearned to listen to aloooooo-gobieeeeee-matarmatarmatarmatar. I lost myself amidst the suavely dressed people walking from store to store as if they owned diamond mines...and wished for that corner of my mother's dupatta that I used to wrap around my pinky, while manoeuvring in a chaotic crowd.

I found myself wishing I could go back in time to when I'd begin my stomach-ache faking...tell the seven year old (ok, so maybe it was a long time ago) to take in every sight and sound, that it wouldn't last very long. I'd tell myself to watch that tomato roll off the pile in perfect rhythm to the cacophony around. I'd convince myself that being called a baby as a kid is far better off than being called a babe as an adult...umm...maybe I'm pushing it with this one.

From Gandhi Bazaar to Sarojini Nagar, markets have this charm of bringing back childhood memories like nothing else. Today, as I drive out of the mall on that spirally multi-level parking thingy, I can't help but wonder if there will be a day when I'll look back at that mall with the same nostalgia I have for a market.

Dumbbells and Whistles

Long, long ago...I had written this post about Yoga . I had been coerced into taking up Yoga because my mother felt I needed some form of 'Anger Management' (She caught me fighting with an auto-driver just outside the house...and using some interesting words in Hindi..most of which she didn't understand, but was smart enough to infer from the context and decide that immediate intervention was needed.)

 But there is just something about group exercise classes and live music singers that triggers the giggle button within me. I can neither exercise well, nor can I sing like a rockstar...but being part of either, makes me giggle uncontrollably...resulting in awkward consequences. (During this one dinner, I ended up sitting right in front of a ghazal singer...and chortled through my meal so diligently, I'm sure he was mentally singing a dirge before the night was over.) So while I'll be graceful enough to admit that yoga did help me, I had decided that I would never join group exercise classes again. Ever.

And then, in the words of a teenaged memory obsessed with Britney Spears..Oops, I did it again! This time, I joined the epitome of group exercise classes. The one place where you are judged on everything...from the brand of your shoes to the amount of sweat you work up in an hour. Where extra-teethy women smile at you from huge posters, promising you that you can look like them too. Where people drink water out of the same bottles we used back in kindergarten. Where the weighing machine is treated as a holy object, that has to be paid homage every hour. 

I joined the GYM. Honestly, this time around, no one coerced me into joining it. (Even though, I had caught the glares of my family ever so often, every time I bit into that delicious chocolate cake). I decided that I needed to become fitter...and gym seemed like the best option for it. Of course, I was wearing the rose-goggles of optimism, with the distant dream of looking fab tempting me...so I missed all the vital clues. 

My first clue should have been when I entered the gym. The first thing I could hear was Justin Beiber pleading with one random Baby. I should have realized that this song would get stuck in my head like a makkhi on gud. That I would end up saying Oooh in the same pitch as Beiber when my limbs ached in agony. That the gym had this song on a loop, so I'd be subjected to it every twenty minutes. But no, those rose glasses were sitting firmly and I had decided that nothing would deter me from becoming size zero. 

My second clue should have been when I noticed far too many people looking at my 'gym attire'. Pink sneakers does not a fitness freak make. And wearing an old Google t-shirt that says "I'm Feeling Lucky" became the ultimate irony. The best way to become invisible in a gym is to wear undecipherable logos and drab, dull shirts...with gray sneakers. A good way to check if you're well dressed is to see if you can camouflage with Bangalore's monsoon skies. Any lesser shade of gray, and you're subjected to The Look.

And of course, the actual work out. That should have been my final, and biggest clue. First they made me run on a treadmill. Then do walking on a walking type thingy. Then cycle. All this with the stationary scenery of the opposite building. After every session, I used to limp back home and dread waking up to strange and painful experiences the next morning. Then, when I figured that I had finally mastered the art of running 5 kms in the same place...they changed my entire work out plan...and made me jump on boxes and squat with dumbbells. A whole new set of strange and painful experiences would begin.

Today, I stand on the brink of freedom. I may have turned fitter (but we can only judge that if I have to save a twenty pound dog from a raging fire...or summat). I certainly haven't turned thinner (because my only way of battling with the gym-pain was eating lots of ice cream.) But I have become wiser. My membership ends when the monsoon begins. I'm going to dust off the gym-ness from my *pink* sneakers and take in the freshly drizzled air and jog instead. I'm going to appreciate the scenery for what it really is...a moving green blob...as I watch life outside a glass box. I'm going to listen to the birds chirping and the children gurgling with laughter. Most importantly, I'm going to run far, far away...the next time I hear that Beiber song. So yes, the gym taught me to appreciate what we already have...a green (at least on this side of the town) city, brilliant weather and a vibrant atmosphere. I'm going to soak in all of that in my next attempt to be fit.

Or....


I could always join Salsa! ;) 

All Geek and Latin

Howard: I guess times have changed since we were young. Smart is the new sexy. 
Leonard: Then why do we go home alone every night? We're still smart. 
Raj: Maybe we're too smart. So smart it's off-putting. 


I grew up believing in the 'Knight in Shining Armour' theory. From fairy tales to chick-lit, almost everything perpetuated the theory further. That, you know, when you're in trouble, a mysterious man will appear out of nowhere, looking ridiculously handsome while balancing on a rioting white horse, and sweep you off your high heeled feet which are miraculously holding their own, in a tulip field where the winds could put a tornado to shame. (Okay, so I ripped that scene off Baazigar...but you know, we all dreamed of that scene. Admit it.)

And then, somewhat accidentally (I still haven't quite figured how it happened), I grew up, aced a couple of exams, landed up with laurels like 'Best Student' awards and a gold medal for my Master's and got labelled a Geek.

Geeks are, apparently, inversely proportional to the degree of attractiveness, according to a friend of mine, who claimed this to be true as soon as he heard I was a rank holder. To phrase him, 'Damn. You've just slipped a few notches down on my hotness scale', said he.

I could handle that, what with these uber-feminist How dare you brand beauty to be so shallow type lectures just waiting to spout out, but then I realized, that he may mean something after all. Being a Geek does have some effect on how people judge you.

And you know what's worse than just being a Geek? Being a Psychology geek. Not only does it mean you can read minds....duh...but you can now read minds accurately. 

So is that why all the Mills and Boon books that I claim to be a closeted fan of, make the girl all hapless and hopeless? Is that why the knight is the one doing the rescuing? Because the damsel is perpetually in distress, something she could have averted, had she been smarter? Is that why teenage rom-coms always have the college jock transforming the local geek into a supermodel and then falling in love with her? Is that why intelligent men are termed *hot* and intelligent women thought of as *opinionated busybodies* in conventional stories?

When we were kids, being a geek was cool. I remember people in my class (that I labelled intensely annoying, because they would do bizarre things like calculate relative percentages of everyone in class and give individual report cards of their own out of sheer lack of any constructive activity) would hanker to be around the dude who scored a 100 in an exam, just to 'pick up a few points'. How getting the most number of A's in class made you the ultimate champion of sorts. Most importantly, how Nirula's awarded you with a free chocolate float if you got above 90% in your exams.

So what happened to all those little charms of being a geek? (Sadly, Nirula's seem to have stopped the scheme...or so they claimed when I asked them...for my school going cousin, of course. Only.) Today, being a geek is all about wearing thick glasses, mismatched clothes, using words that can put a dictionary to shame....and of course, being hideously unappealing to the general public.

I wonder if that will ever change. As I open the latest Mills and Boon book (which, technically, as a geek, I shouldn't be reading in the first place), I wonder if the hero will ever let the heroine's intelligence speak for herself, rather than her limpid pools of turquoise eyes or shimmering wave of spun gold hair. I wonder if there will ever be a book on someone who is smart, and beautiful because of that.

I guess, some things will always remain Geek and Latin to me. 

Of Love and Leptospirosis

I can think of no other 'young adult' who would use Love and Leptospirosis in the same phrase. But then again, what's the point of a blogpost if the title doesn't catch your attention. It's monsoon time (okay, meteorologically speaking it may not be. But where I come from, it rains perpetually.) Time for two conditions, both equally debilitating and capable of losing your sanity over. If you clicked on this post because of the title, then you would belong to either of the given two categories.

a) Love - Ah, so you're a sucker for the 'Happily-Ever-After' *Heart-Heart* type stories, aren't you? I don't mean to sound like a cynic, but they only exist in Mills and Boon. If those books weren't so darned unputdownable during turbulent flights, I would've been the first person to diss them. But they really cure me of aerophobia and I have nothing against them. It's just the illusion that they create about eternal love, which makes me cynical. And I hate that. I want to be able to believe in things like 'Love at First Sight', bumping into Prince Charming at a completely random place, reunions with old friends - the fodder for all these books. But reality steps in and takes over my hyperactive imagination.

Actually, reality steps in a little too hard.

Now when I see the rains, I don't worry about not having someone to dance around the trees with. I worry about...

b) Leptospirosis -- In case you haven't heard of it, it is a rare case of rat-fever that occurs most commonly during monsoons because of rats and waterlogging. If there is such a thing as a perfect couple, its rats and sewer water. (You must be thinking what on earth has happened to this person, jumping from love to sewers in a single page!!). But its true. A disease that is rampantly gaining awareness (if not patients), due to the ideal conditions this city presents.

Sigh. I want to go back to being the old me. Seeing rains and running out to the terrace. Seeing kochhe (kichad, for the non-kannada colloquial connoisseurs) and jumping in it with full force so I can get my friends' shoes all icky. (if you haven't already concluded I'm weird from the title, then this should clinch it.) Walking in a drizzle to eat ice cream with hot chocolate sauce. Just staring at the pearly downpour.

For love, I'd trade my Prince Charming for Pied Pieper anyday.

Driving You Crazy.

It's 9.10, and I have class in ten minutes. I gulp down the last bite, race down one flight of stairs, race back up to take the keys, then race down three floors (stopping at second floor auntie's landing to check my hair in the mirror) and sprint to the parking place where my stately car is parked, knowing that it is about to endure another arduous journey.

Driving in Delhi is always fun. It's like one of those roller coasters that offer a thrill, but you know you're not going to get a cardiac arrest halfway through because of its steep turns or sudden twists. Like a predictable, tame, roller coaster. Leaving you with a warm fuzzy feeling, that you generally get after drinking Hot Chocolate on a cold night.

No, I'm serious! And this is coming from someone who only drove a car for the entire distance of about ten meters into the garage. After having had a license for over five years. Among other things, Delhi gave me the courage to get behind the wheel. The wisdom to calmly step on the accelerator when you may have caused havoc due to a bad U-turn. The knowledge of profanity in several languages (mostly Kannada, though. Given that Delhiites don't know the native language of us Bangaloreans. Or that this language even exists.). The thrill of overtaking a flashy neon car with weird bumper stickers and yelling 'Baap ka Raasta Hai Kya?' And the suspense of watching a signal meltdown as two irate drivers bring out their weapons to fight about a harmless bumper-touch-bumper accident.

But living near the ring road spoiled me completely. In two minutes, I'd be cruising along the flyover-ridden, signal-free wide lanes with no worry about oncoming traffic. And the campus spoiled me further with ample parking space and empty lanes.

But then I came home. And so did my poor car, which no longer had the distinction of being the only KA on campus. It has to endure a 7 km journey across narrow roads with two way traffic. What's worse, is that I go on this creepy flyover that becomes a one-way after 9 in the morning. So if I'm caught on it at, like 8.59, the oncoming traffic just decides to bombard me.

The other day, I was harmlessly stalking a auto-trailer type gaadi. No, seriously, I was going on the same road as him for over twenty minutes, and the man sitting at the back with all the furniture or something was convinced I was following him. Of course, I didn't feel the need to overtake him despite having lots of room. And I kept smiling cheerily at him. And it hit me (a thought, not the gaadi.)

I missed driving in Delhi. I missed switching on the morning radio and listening to Mausam Mausi's bekaar vichaar, despite having the mad rush to reach on time. I missed cursing every git who drove in the wrong lane on that IIT-Delhi-Adhchini crossing. I missed turning smoothly into my green campus and having the choice of picking *any* slot to park. Most of all, I missed being the sole KA in a roadful of DLs.

Delhi, it took you just two years to drive me completely crazy about you. And now, I take this wisdom and drive everyone else crazy with my crazy driving. And it's totally worth it.

*Evil-Mad-Driver-Laugh*

Note: When I'm bored, I like to drive at the speed of 40kmph on an empty road while singing 'Hey There, Delilah!' loudly to myself. This is just a statutory warning for those who sit beside me in my car, or have the misfortune of being behind my car. No, I don't let people overtake me. And yes, I get bored easily. I have the attention span of a fruit fly.

A Crime called Coffee

'A lot can happen over a cup of coffee', goes the cliched tagline of a chain of Coffee shops. Truer words have never been said. Coffee is a crime for me, and a lethal one at that. Karma plays its cards well when it comes to retribution, and coffee justifies that perfectly in my case.

Most people I know cannot function properly without their morning dose of caffeine. In fact, it isn't too hard to state that the levels of caffeine in the body is inversely proportional to the grumpiness in a person. How a simple drink can change the mood of people, I really can't fathom. The seemingly simple brownish liquid manages to elevate even the Scrooge-est of moods I've known. Oh well, I make do with an Apple (which, according to Scientific reports, has an equivalent amount of the 'waking-up' ingredient as a cup of coffee, or several even.)

So why did I bring in Karma for a post on Coffee? Fair enough question to be asked, if you didn't know me. Since childhood, I've had this urge to drink what the grown ups drink. After having fussed and fumed, I would have my wish and my grandfather would dilute some of his special coffee. (incidentally, at my grandparents place, the only person authorized to make coffee was my grandfather. No one was ever allowed to touch his little coffee making corner. And his coffee was the best I'd ever had, so no one dared infringe upon such culinary mastery anyway!).

When no one would look, I would add about two huge tablespoons of decoction to my Bournvita and sip it like it was the usual healthy drink I needed to live the life of that ideal 'kid' in TV ads. I've abused coffee to the extent of even adding excess of it in this homemade Tiramisu, several years ago...creating a masterpiece that could cause war between Italy and India.....a more lethal and poisonous weapon you wouldn't find.

Cafes have also played a role in building up Karma against Coffee. From trying out every single coffee shop near home in Bangalore and laughing about them, to replicating horrendous recipes at home, clearly, the God of Coffee was not amused with me blatantly abusing his gift to mankind. (Why do I feel that Coffee has a male creator? Because of what happened to me. I would like to take this moment to regress back to childhood and think all boys are snot. Therefore, Coffee has a Male god.)

So today, as I write this, I can no longer taste another cup of Coffee. No longer experiment with the marvels of random coffee related desserts. No longer agree to meet people in Coffee Shops unless they have more than just coffee to order. Why, you ask?

I'm allergic. To Coffee. When I tell people that, they look at me incredulously. How can someone be allergic to 'Coffee'?? Aren't people allergic to Peanuts and Strawberries and seemingly common but exotic things that are respected in the field of allergens? Pollen, even? But no. Of all the allergies I've had (and believe me, there have been quite a few...I went through a phase when I was allergic to Chocolate. *shudder*), I had to pick the one ingredient that I loved so much, I would twist and turn and change its shape to fit into any comfort food I ate.

So I walk into a coffee shop and order tea. And bury my face inside the menu until the waiter walks away after giving his customary *Oh-my-god-she's-ordering-tea-in-a-coffee-shop* look. I begin my mornings with Bournvita (which, if you have a creative enough imagination, could come very close to resembling a cup of coffee.). I make do with Cocoa in all instant vending machines as people pick out coffee and tea. And the worst of all, Tiramisu is a long forgotten dream now. Unless, I can manage to master a way of making it without the coffee....but that'll just be incomplete. And don't even get me started about how I cannot eat Coffee Ice Cream.

I now have two extremely bleak options waiting....continue to be the old lady drinking cocoa as the cats watch her outside her lonely apartment, singing 'All by Myself' in a slurry tone (Sigh. This technically shouldn't happen, but it fits the 'bleak option' category brilliantly). Or just sit out this allergy spell and wait for my auto-immune system to pick out something else in a couple of months I'd have to abstain from.

Till then, Coffee, my love, you are a but a Caffeine induced memory of a life that's behind me.

The Illusive Eyes

Illusive eyes. They peek at you from behind the bushes. They seemingly camouflage amongst the rustling leaves when you look at them. You can feel them watching over as you drink your first cup of tea in the canteen. You feel as though they laugh with you when you crack up over a joke with your friends at the 'adda'. They're always around. Sitting two rows behind you in the bus. Driving behind you as you customarily peek in the rear view mirrors at the signal. You picture them sitting in front of a screen not unlike this one, reading your every word, feeling every emotion.

Why are they illusive? Because they don't exist. But the trauma of one experience is good enough to make you believe that they do. The eyes gaze at you once, and you just know. They'll never be satiated with one glance. The eyes will return to torment you in nightmares, day-mares and probably year-mares even. They have the power to turn you into a paranoid twitcher who constantly glances over her shoulder, almost as if the eyes were to descend on this very second.

*That's* the power of being stalked. Words can never probably justify the feeling, because the eyes do the talking. You haven't seen the eyes before, maybe not in a long while, but you know that they're there somewhere. Watching.

But then again, maybe they're not. Maybe the stalker was content with one look and disappeared into oblivion. How would you tell, though? The paranoia that the stalker leaves behind as a remnant of his deed lurks about you constantly, enveloping you in a cold blanket of suspicion.

It is a strange phenomenon, stalking. Perhaps not everyone falls in the category of those people who seek voyeuristic gratification. Maybe they're simply shy to walk up and talk. Maybe they fear, or even resent, rejection. But how can one tell the difference? Once stalked, the victim pigeonholes all peeping toms into the category of treacherous villains. It isn't easy to extricate an innocuous follower from that pigeonhole, once he has been categorized. Attempts to do so would only show a momentary lapse of caution, maybe vulnerability even.

The illusive eyes fade away with time, one hopes. Maybe, just maybe, the phase is transient and the eyes find another object. Or maybe the eyes come to terms with the fact that some meetings and relationships are simply not destined to be. The Illusive Eyes that they are, the illusive eyes they'll remain.

Bibliophilia!

Donald Duck did it. He got me hooked to books. In a desperate attempt to quieten my constant chatter, my mother found me a couple of tattered Donald Duck comics in her library and gave them to me at the age of two, to flip through and amuse myself. However, her plan failed horribly, because not only did I NOT stop my chatter (I would make up gibberish and substitute them for the dialogues I was too young to read), but I demanded to be taken to the library every second day, to find and 'read' more!

It's been twenty years since then, and the bibliophilia in me has spread like an epidemic through all possible genres, even giving me the eternal hope of writing a book someday. Recently, Facebook had the BBC Booklist Buzz that got me thinking about this post. (If you've been tagged in that note, how many books have YOU read?) While some part of me felt immensely inferior, thanks to the insane number of books I have NOT read, the other part of me felt like documenting the fun memories of those that I have read.

Through my entire childhood (uh...I would define childhood as 2 through 22), I've been gifted books as birthday presents. Of course, having a birthday in book-ridden March when exams are scorning intently at you would put people off at the prospect of more books, albeit for entertainment. However, I'd wait eagerly for my birthday presents, tearing off the wrapping of all gifts that resembled books first. Within the next few days, I'd stay in a blissful oblivion of the outside world, as I floated in and out of pages and pages of wonderland.

The first books I was gifted was a twin pack of Snow White and Cinderella by my neighbours. The beauty of fairy tales began with those two books...and has lasted ever since. (That can't be truer, since I spent last night on the couch, weeping happily over the ending of The Princess and The Frog - a really beautiful movie!) After pre-school years of 'I have 20 ladybird books how many you have' discussions, I finally moved on to greener pages.....the Enid Blyton series.

Enid Blyton is the rite of passage to childhood, if you ask me. Blyton and Dahl were such prolific writers, that they can be indisputably credited with the ability of sparking creativity in every starry eyed child. From getting scared while reading 'Witches', to getting ravenous while reading about the sumptuous feasts in Malory Towers, my holiday train rides were never complete without a brand new, crisp, Blyton book. When I finally ran out of bookspace (which I unfortunately did, thanks to the 3 generations of Reader's Digest my family has been collecting since forever), I gave up all my Blyton books to my cousin, so that she could be introduced to this magical world of the English Countryside. However, a couple of years later, when I went visiting there and saw all my books looking so out of place in her shelf, I secretly collected them all back and brought them home to re-read them all over again! (And uh, this wouldn't be too far long, so it shows the sort of childish insanity I develop around Blyton books!)

While Blyton introduced me to Girl Power, Carolyn Keene, Ann M Martin and Francine Pascal reinforced it. After years of constant reading, increased glasses power and countless taunts about reading in low light/moving car/upside down, I can officially claim to have read ALL of the Nancy Drew and Babysitter's Club books. (Uh, I somehow gave up after reading about fifty Sweet Valley books. I had discovered Judy Blume and Harry Potter by then.)

So after the overdose of girl power, I had the next obsession with books...and magic! Anyone my age would instantly connect with Harry Potter best, because we grew with him. When I was 11, so was Harry. Reading and re-reading each book over and over again made me sink deeper into the world of fantasy and charm. Watching the movies, and then dissing them for not having stood up to my creative vision of Harry's adventures made excellent pastime. Of course, randomly playing Harry Potter quizzes in class (and I'm talking about college here, mind you) was so entertaining.....as I tested the depths of my memory trying to figure out the actual meaning of Dumbledore's name.

Today, I have read so many books I'd NEVER be able to remember them all. The fact my very thick glasses (now replaced by very thin contact lens) testifies to. My tastes in books have probably changed a lot. I've been through the:

'Classic' Phase - When I would devour Austen after Austen....I still love reading her books..and using the quaint English expressions in speech and befuddling people!! Of course, Shakespeare and a few other Classic Authors fell into this category by compulsion, as they were prescribed in curriculum - but they got me hooked to discovering more of the series as well.

'Comic' Phase - Tinkle was my favorite-st train comic!! I would always secretly dream about writing to Uncle Pai and praising him to no end about the stories! While I've read dozens of Archie Comics and Tin Tins (which were never really comics, but a frozen motion picture in boxes), Tinkle has, and will always remain THE comic forever. :)

'Indian Author' Phase - When I discovered R.K.Narayan and he transported me to a world I would give my left hand to be a part of. Of course, Rohinton Mistry, Ruskin Bond, Vikram Seth, Shashi Deshpande and Anita Desai have all been an integral part of the books I love to read, but R.K.Narayan's entire collection will always hold a permanent membership in my mind library!

'Chick-lit' Phase - From Opal Mehta to The Zoya Factor, I've read them all. And someday, when my life gets as exciting as theirs, I will write one. Till then, I'll continue drawing inspiration from feisty chicks all over the world and devour their adventures.

'Romance Phase' - Yes, I read Mills and Boon, ok? There you go, I've admitted it on the world wide web. They are the BEST cure for my aerophobia, ok? At least, if my plane were to go down, I can imagine being rescued by the handsome pilot or co-passenger and live a happily ever after life, no?

'I should read this book because everyone else has read it Phase' - Uhh...Kite Runner, God of Small Things, Shantaram, Midnight's Children and all of Jhumpa Lahiri's works fall in this category. I know, I should've probably discovered these books myself. Having others forcing me to read the above titles have had me both cringing (whoever you are, who lauded GOST and made me read it, I will find you, hunt you down, and make you read my Mental Chronometry book. And test you on it.) and reading up more (like The Joy Luck Club - Amy Tan, inspired me to read Lahiri)

and finally, the 'Oh no, I have nothing new to read now, so I will just pick up the first Nancy Drew/Harry Potter/Famous Five and get right to it' Phase - The one phase I love slipping into every once in a while. :)

I've been bitten by the book bug, and I have a bibiliophilia. The one disorder I'd never like to be cured of!

The First Step..

Picture this. A small, chubby eleven year old girl in a mismatched uniform in the office of a gigantic school. Children walk past her, chattering away happily, as she sits awkwardly on a chair, fiddling with her new school bag and feeling more lost than someone with Dissociative Amnesia. She waits for someone, anyone to tell her where she's supposed to belong in this sea of students in a completely unfamiliar city in the middle of a school term. A group of teachers walk past her, assuming her to be a wallflower. But one lady notices her. The girl feels a tap on her shoulder and turns around, the kind lady smiles at her. The lady asks the girl her name and age. She then asks the girl to follow her and enter 6-B, the class she teaches. She introduces the girl to the class, gives her a smile and begins work for the day. For the teacher, it is a small gesture of attention. For the girl, it is the first step.

Thank you, Revati ma'am. For giving me the confidence to enter my first step into a new city, a new life. I may not remember much about the continents of Africa and the Americas, but I will never forget my first day in Bangalore, and how easy you made it for me. (You'll probably not be reading this, but I had given myself 10 minutes more that day. If no one had realized that I was a new student and was waiting for any teacher to acknowledge me, I would have run away from school and somehow found a way to go back to Delhi and continue with my old life there.)

Teachers are the first handrail one grabs before climbing the stairs. They stay with you till the end of the stairs, and expect you to make the journey on the next floor by yourself. Until you reach the next flight of stairs. I have probably not considered all my teachers 'special', but the person I am is largely due to the teachers I had. So today, this is a humble thank you, to all the unspoken heroines (mostly) of my life.

Thank you, Mrs.Jain, Mrs. Bannerjee, Mrs. Roy and Mrs. Anand for making my first years in Delhi so special. And instilling the ability to lead (haha, I was the Head Girl of the junior school - a post I exploited quite well, thanks.), the ability to express myself and to question anything that doesn't feel right.

Thank you, all my teachers at Kumarans. If I were to start writing all your names here, I'd probably need the school magazine and a couple of spare hours! Thank you English teachers, for critiquing and moulding my writing, thank you Maths teachers (I love the subject, and I'm sure a large part of the credit goes to you guys), thank you Science teachers (for actually making sure I understood 'application based problems'....sigh) , thank you Social Studies teachers (I DID love the subject. Honest. But mostly after I had finished my 10th bored exams!) and a special thank you to Sanskrit Sir - your classes were the *best* (and I learnt a fair amount of Sanskrit in the process as well!)

As a child, I always secretly wanted to be a teacher. More precisely, a librarian. Not the mean sort, who give you pincer stares and grab the book you're holding, enter the code and shove it back into your hands....but more the sort who would read out stories, encourage children to pick interesting books and spend all her free time re-reading Blyton, Dahl and Montgomery books. (of course, this ambition of mine was always hidden beneath the cloak of 'I want to be a neurosurgeon-forensic psychologist-mystery writer-television journalist-radio jockey-hostess of a travel/cookery show'.

And if school planted the seed of wanting to teach, then college just nurtured it further. MCC exposed me to a spectrum of teachers who have the scary and forbearing task of shaping the future of girls. And some who played a special part in shaping my future need to be thanked. So thank you Mrs.V (you were Miss.V when you started teaching us!), Mrs. P and Mr.R - for being the coolest Journalism teachers and showing us the gloss and grime of media. A HUGE thank you to all the psychology teachers - simply because I'm pursuing the same subject, and I wouldn't have had the confidence to do so, had I not been taught well enough to pique my interest in it. Thanks, Mrs.Matthew, for incorporating Greek Mythology so flawlessly into otherwise mundane Literature classes.

Someday, I'll make my ambition of being a teacher come true. While there's a part of me that believes that almost everyone is a teacher in some way or the other, the aura that the lady with an attendance register, a couple of haphazard notes and a firm glare that can instantly melt into a smile exudes is a class apart (pun intended). The first step determines a new journey and unknown adventures. And what better profession than to be a mentor for taking that step?

Thank you. :-)

The Alphabet Avalanche

Have you read the story of the Alphabet Soup? It is about a little boy who loved food more than study (hm..I wonder why). So his mother cooked up (pun intended) this brilliant idea of serving him alphabet soup, that could help him learn while eating.

I want Alphabet Soup. Something that would help me learn while eating (since Eating is a rather over-regular habit of mine) But more than that, my brain currently feels like an Alphabet Soup - overloaded with letters, words, phrases, sentences, whole paragraphs and texts. I suppose it's what happens if you get branded as a geek (Hey, I'm happy to be one ok?) But it is finally turning against me.

Too many alphabets in the mind, and too little time to sort it all out. Each alphabet has become an abbreviation for a much larger topic and they're all swirling and tumbling out like an avalanche. The best way to get it all out is to write it somewhere. And since I have finally reached a stage where I type almost ten times faster than I write, I figured this place would be the best to let the dam burst and bring forth all the alphabets.

So, just for my own purely narcissistic incomprehensible catharsis, here goes:

JHEDKGHFJIRUTHYOPINLGKFHDJSNIWHGYTEIFHSLSKAHFEFNVMCNXZASKWOQPEORUFHGNDMSLAPWRIDN.

It isn't a code. It isn't cryptic in any way. It's just a way of getting my frustration out on my keyboard and onto the screen. Suddenly, my mind feels less jumbled, less complicated. Try it, it may not make your hair shinier or skin fairer, but it will definitely make you feel lighter.

The Thought Bubble

Exams get you thinking. More than just the ritual of learning *cough* mugging. For a change, this time, I actually managed to sit it out and read up the causal factors of all disorders. It made me think all the more (really, why don't I ever contemplate life on non-exam days, when I'm more jobless, I wonder.)

In School, I would always end up with a throat infection or an upset stomach every March and September. I still remember this one time when I had written an exam in school, and then had to sit mum throughout the entire bus journey (and our school was on the outskirts of Bangalore, so go figure!) , only to rush back home from the stop and throw up. I would never eat outside, never drink cold water/ice cream/just ice (yeah, it's a peculiar habit, I know) at least weeks before an exam. And despite that, I'd land up with a stomach/throat infection. Every March and September.

Today, it's manifested in a whole lot of different ways. I don't worry so much about the exams. Other things take up priorities. But the throat/stomach infections got me thinking about the stress that we all carry on our heads all the time.

Nearly all the causal factors of disorders that I've studied include stress. From Unipolar Depression to Schizophrenia, Eating Disorders, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Conversion Disorders..etc. They ALL have the common etiology of stress involved. In fact, stress has been credited with a whole set of disorders, called psychosomatic disorders, instead of just being causes of co-morbid conditions.

How many of us can stay cool in the face of exams? I know I can't. Sure, I walk into the room like an ice cube, but before entering, I'm a bundle of nerves. I wonder if it is worth the cost of my sanity?

We all live in this thought bubble that unless I have a schizophrenic relative, I'm not likely to get Schizophrenia. Oh well, I'd like to tell the rest of us, happy wishing. Stress is harmful, way more harmful than we can ever imagine, if we let it take over our lives so completely.

The prevalence of most disorders caused by stress is highest in the age range of 20-30. We're building futures, shaping careers, managing and sharing lives...basically constructing that dream house for when we retire. So I guess it's unfair to believe that we can all just take a break, relieve the stress and wait it out. We are probably going to have to deal with it instead.

So just take a minute off your work/study/life. Close your eyes. Replay the technicolour movie of the most important people and events in your life (happy ones only. I don't want to get into therapy for depressive disorders now!). Think of that flower you saw on the bush, but did not stop to admire it's hue and texture. Think of the time when you saw your first perfect A (sure, I'm a geek and that works for me!). Think of everything that can possibly bring a smile to your face.

And then open your eyes. You'll see the world differently. I know I did. It's worth spending a minute every now and then to appreciate what you have rather than worry about what you may/may not have in the future, right? In fact, if nothing else, it gives you the determination to pursue your goals with an increased fervor. A will to build more dreams, and convert them into reality.....who knows, maybe some day, you'll close your eyes for that one minute and think of the very dream you're trying to achieve today?

P.S. If I sound like an evangelist/fanatic/yoga teacher/value education teacher, kindly blame 'Abnormal Psychology and Modern Life'. A book that has inspired me to take a minute off, and think. Made me realize that my life is much more important than appearing as a statistic in their future editions.

CPR for comatose Blog.

If personalities were colours, then the trait of self-obsession would be the new 'pink'! I honestly need to get a grip and move on to other things in life...but till then, I might as well indulge in good ol 'pouring out my soul' rituals in these tag things!

4 places I've lived in :

Bangalore, Delhi, Chennai, Hyderabad.

4 TV shows that I like to watch :

Madhur Jafferey's Flavours of India, New Detectives on Discovery Channel (I dont think it is aired anymore though) , Small Wonder (in English, Hindi, Kannada, Tamil...bring it on in any language, it's always a delight!) and a certain anonymous Hindi serial that I am rather ashamed of admitting on the world wide web.

4 places that I've been to, on vacation :

Hm? My most memorable? Shimla-Nainital-Devprayag-Haridwar-Rishikesh '97 (One trip) , Durgapur (West Bengal) '96 , Goa '03 and Singapore '02.

4 Favourite food items :

• Rasam rice with Papad.
• Dessert Pizzas
• Cinnamon Toast
• Gulab Jamun with Ice Cream.

4 places I would rather be :

• Home (I'm not complaining though. I just wish it was closer)
• Burkina Faso (on Mondays mostly)
• Egypt
• Greece

4 websites that I visit everyday :

• Hotmail (Yeah, some of us still use the thing)
• Gmail
• Delhi University website (for a long long time)
• My Blog. (To re-read my stale posts.)

4 things that I hope to do before I die :

Bring a smile on a face everyday. (very Miss-India-ish no? But I did bring a smile on a little kid's face today, and well...it was a beautiful feeling.)

Go backpacking across Europe.

Make the perfect Chocolate cake. (and pancakes, while I'm at it)

Write a book.

4 novels I wish I was reading for the first time :

• Roald Dahl's Matilda
• R.K. Narayan's Malgudi Days
• Anuja Chauhan's The Zoya Factor
• The entire Enid Blyton series.

4 movies that I can watch over and over again... :

• You've Got Mail :-) Isnt it one of the most delightful movies ever?
• Andaz Apna Apna
• Mozhi
• Ganeshana Maduve (ever watched this Anant Nag flick? It beats the socks off all Kannada movies!)

Do I need to tag this to anyone? I dont think people have been reading this blog anymore anyway....the paltry few who did read it might have given it up for good thinking it is history....until I find some effective revival strategy for my comatose blog, I'll leave it open for anyone to tag and be tagged.