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 Yemmay Yepisode

The Beeyay trilogy was all about getting back at people who assumed I must've done a BA because:

a) Beeyay I - I failed miserably in my bored exams, which would, in essence, mean I failed miserably in Life.

b) Beeyay II - I am a girl. It doesn't matter what I do anyway.

c) Beeyay III- I want to become famous, so I can go around giving interviews about having risen above the sheep and chosen 'the road not taken'. (Okay, so *maybe* I can hope for this one to actually come true.)

Anyway, I spent three years of my life running away from any social situation that reeked of subliminal career inquisitions. And then I cleared the Yemmay program. To a mere ignorant, a Yemmay is just another degree. But to me, it is a key to gain entry into a socially approved educational level. Simply put, a Yemmay comes somewhat *close* to that much revered BeeYee or YemBeeBeeYess. Because a Beeyay was, of course, just something we all did to pass time. This is the *real* degree.

A Yemmay makes me all sound post-graduate-y and the gives me the infinite license to unleash my psychoanalytical powers on the poor unsuspecting relative-aunties who had made the mistake of asking me if I could "Read Minds". (Actually, it's a trick I've followed for quite a while now. I give them this intense intellectual look and they actually do get flustered thinking I'm overanalyzing them...when in fact, I'm wondering what's for dinner. At their place.)

A Yemmay qualifies me to talk about issues of Child and Adolescent Mental Health, and not be considered as part of that age-bracket. Gone are the days of 'What would you know? You are just a child'.

A Yemmay is a Yemmay. Just that. A Master. And not just of Disaster (as I like to call myself. I mean, on one single day, I managed to collide into three wheelchairs and startle the living daylights of the people in them, just because I was concentrating on the cobble-stoned paths of Germany.) Being called a Master of something is one hell of an ego-massage. (And I don't mean pets.)

To me, the Yemmay opened a whole new world (and I say this with the *exact* sentiment Alladin used while cavorting on a magic carpet with Jasmine.) I re-discovered the city I considered myself an eternal part of, when I was seven. I made a group of friends who are as inseparable as the fingers of a Glove. I interned in the country's best hospital and met some of the most interesting people ever. I learnt to live independently and work towards something I actually believed in, and not something I had to do because others *approved*.

So Yemmay I am. In Clinical Psychology, no less. And when I started writing this post, it started off as an 'Open Letter to all aunties and uncles who think a Beeyay is worthless and a Yemmay is worthless-and-a-half' (Because Open letters are, apparently, the key to getting a lot of hits on your blog.) But halfway through, I ended up realizing how much the Yemmay means to me, and I don't want to deride it by defending it so vehemently anymore.

My Yemmay has effectively placed the proverbial speed breaker* on all comments and retorts about my choice of education now.

Although, I kind of wish it could make me look a little older and wiser. While attending an interview at this huge hospital recently, the lady managing the appointments looked at me (and I was carrying my marks cards and sporting a rather unnecessarily wide smile. Which was obviously odd, given that I was in a psychiatric ward.) and called the psychiatrist to tell her, 'Doctor. Patient for the 3.30 appointment has arrived.'

And I had gone to a Child Psychiatrist. Sigh.

* For all the non-kannada-non-tamil speaking people: A Yemmay not just an accented MA. It is actually, a buffalo. Hence the proverbial speed-breaker. If you want an actual demonstration of the fact, I suggest you drive down any residential road in Bangalore. They'll be there to greet you.

Una Fetta di Fantasia

A Slice of Fantasy. *That's* how my trip to Italy was. Covering 4 cities and 1 country (The Vatican) in 5 days, and having a blast every minute of those days, is nothing short of a fantasy. Of course, given my manic obsessive self, I'm surprised how it even got covered so well so fast. Therefore, I begin this post with a huge hug to the four girls I shared this fantasy with. Had I traveled alone, I may have still landed up stranded at midnight in Florence, lived in a campsite in Venice, overdosed on Sangria in Milan and navigated through the streets of Rome.....but it wouldn't have been half as fun as it was doing ALL of this with you guys. :) So I-M, Potate and Fiery-Nair (yes, that's your new blog-name. I got tired of calling you Ash like a wannabe Aishwarya Rai groupie), I hope reading this post brings back lots of great memories.

We packed off, switched three trains and traveled through Switzerland to reach our first destination - Milano. Other than the fact that I absolutely *loved* the facade of Milano Centrale, the main station (It has nothing to do with the fact that they have a huge poster of half-naked Nadal advertising Armani jeans -nosirree.), the station represented the city itself - Glamorous and Gigantic. Whether it was exploring the city by tram or walking through the famous Galleria Vittorio (which houses all the famous Italian fashion brands), Milan took the prize for being a perfect blend of Modernity and History. It was like flipping a page of Roman Civilization and landing at FTV. But the food -ah! From Pizzas that could give tablecloths an inferiority complex (for the sheer size....not the texture or any other bizarre reason you may have thought of as you read the line), to fruity Granitas and Sangria. The eye-candy (Ahem, henceforth referred to as Pakodas) were aplenty. And the lilt in the accent of every Milanese (is that a dog-breed or am I allowed to use it for people of Milan?) was so endearing, we ended up speaking to each other like wannabe Italian Mafia with huge mustaches and cigars. (Read: Tom Hanks' dialogue in You've Got Mail, where he goes 'Monday-Tuesday-Thursday-Wednesday')

From Milan, we went to Venice. Expecting singing Gondola-men and beautiful little rivulets which can lead you to undisclosed pieces of heaven, I went to Venice with an overload of Romantic movies in my mind. I discovered soon enough that The Gondola-men don't sing. Not even if you glare down at them from a bridge(The honeymooning couple sitting in that Gondola did glare back, though.) We found ourselves a little place in the tourist hustle and bustle, and threw our feet in the Adriatic Sea with a view of the Venetian Skyline (or a bit of it, at least). Watching the many many channels of water meandering through a city that practically floats, I was lost to its charms. So I didn't find Venice as romantic as my Mills-and-Boon infested imagination had expected it to be. But it wasn't disillusioning either. It's one city I'd love to go back, just to explore all those little canals, leading to what they would call their home, but I'd call a floating fantasy.

Venice led us on further to Florence. The city I will most probably end up when I'm old and need to write those books I keep talking about. I *loved* Florence from the very beginning. The yellowed buildings (which would have reminded a less romantic me of Jaundice) made me think of sunshine and old pages from a history book. Watching the silvery Arno river wind its path through the heart of the city, I decided that I'd go back and find myself a house and live happily ever after here.

From Florence, we went to Rome. Now the only plan I had in Rome was to steal coins from the Fontana dell'Amore (because, of course, *that's* how one finds true love. If you're cynical about it, go watch When in Rome.). Instead of finding the fountain (which turned out to be fictitious, by the way. Sigh.), I found a city that is so quaint, it's like going into a parallel time-frame. The cobblestone streets, the marble beauty of Pantheon, La Piazza Espagna and Fontana di Trevi and little cafes that dot the entire city made me wonder how people can even live normal lives in this city. If it were me, I'd be constantly wandering around town, discovering a new marvel each day. (Yes, because having lived in one of the most historically beautiful capitals in the world, New Delhi, I haven't had the time to even go to Lodhi Gardens, and here I hatch plans to Wander in Rome.)

Rome prodded us towards the Vatican, which, true to the cinematography of Angels and Demons (which I saw *after* my trip to Italy), is magnificent. Of course, winking at the Swiss Guard was not exactly the kind of behaviour the papal decree would expect.....but ah, that *was* fun!

This brought us back to Milan, which led us homeward through Switzerland again. The journey held with it, a potluck of memories from every city that's unforgettable. Sitting for hours in a fountain outside a castle (Castello) in Milan and watching life whoosh by. Searching an entire city for Hot Chocolate, but finding it in a campsite outside Venice and relishing every sip. Missing the last bus in Florence and walking along the empty, sleeping streets. Holding maps and trying to find the shortest path to any destination in Rome, but getting lost and discovering better places instead. Meeting strangers in trains, weaving stories of strangers not met in trains. Watching the beautiful lakes of Switzerland melting perfectly into the Alps. This trip truly was - Una Fetta di Fantasia.

The Phabulous Phoren

So I'm now Phoren-Returned. After having spent a refreshingly long summer 'abroad', I feel the need to proclaim to the world that I too, have a slightly blurry, but very dark stamp on my passport from the Immigrations office at IGI airport, New Delhi. Of course, my first Phoren experience was when I went to Singapore at the age of fourteen, but that didn't quite count because:

a) We flew Air India (which had more Indians in it than I would find in Sarojini Nagar).

b) We stayed in Little India (which, again, reminded me of Gandhi bazaar in Bangalore for some bizarre reason).

and c) We ate primarily in Indian restaurants. (It was at least better than going to McDonald's and asking them to give us burgers without the meat patties....which we did a fair number of times before resorting to Indian food.)

So yes, Singapore? Fun Phoren destination, but never made me feel Phoren-returned.

Let's get back on the widely oscillating trajectory of the post, then, shall we? Today, I truly feel Phoren-returned. For a wide range of unfathomable reasons that I've tried really hard to convince my parents with...but hasn't entirely worked.

I am jet-lagged. Have been for the past week or so. And I suddenly feel the urge of using words from a phoren language when I'm particularly exasperated or excited. I also feel like I should turn up my nose at the pizzas in India because I've sampled the tastes from their ancestors and I have friends on my facebook profile who do not share my ethnicity, nationality or colour.

See what two years in Delhi has done to me? Freshly Post-Graduated and I'm already acting like a typical Delhite who won't think twice before proclaiming to the world about being phoren-returned and having made contacts-shontacts. But it's fun to live this vibrant life, given that my past few months are going to be the fodder for many daydreams in the coming months, until I find myself a path...which we shall delve into later.

Details? Well, I went to Germany for a three month summer program working with people having Autism Spectrum Disorders. Social Inclusion was our primary motive and in the process, I got the opportunity to observe a vast range of therapeutic techniques that is being used for people with various types of mental disabilities. Before this begins to resemble a Statement of Purpose, I'll drive home the point that it was a mind blowing experience for me. Not only did it strengthen my career ambitions to work in this field, but gave me direction and perspective that should hopefully, tide me through the next couple of months ridden with utter joblessness.

That being said, I spent a huge amount of time this summer travelling. Finally, the word 'travelling' in the 'Interests' section can hold some solid ground. The one question that most people bombarded me with on my return was (Hang on...I like how that sentence sounds! Almost as if paparazzi was waiting outside IGI airport with mikes and cameras, eagerly asking me...haha. Right. Moving on.) 'Did I like Phoren more than India?'

Honestly? I definitely liked the Phoren. Sure, the population density is far less claustrophobic, the public transport is cleaner, if not more punctual. The scenery is more post-cardish. The nights are eerily quieter. In fact, the nights are much shorter, given that the sun would only reluctantly retire at 10.30 and promptly wake up at 4.30. There was some sense of safety as well, I suppose, given that we were stranded in Florence at 1 in the morning and I didn't really feel the urge of running to the nearest Police station. And of course, there was the definite aura of being in a 'developed' country, as a lay and under-read follower of economics would put it.

But being in Phoren-land didn't deter me from playing the National Anthem on a piano in the city center. It didn't stop me from talking to complete strangers in a Cathedral in Milan, and later in a campsite in Venice just because they were Kannadigas and I felt like I should socialize. (See how I keep dropping hints about where all I went so innocuously? The posts that will follow will reek of narcissism, my friend. This is but a gentle reminder of the fact.) It didn't stop my friends and me from loudly conversing in Hindi wherever we went, knowing very well that heads would turn and ears would prick up. (Incidentally, I discovered that Indians are everywhere. In fact, we climbed over 580 steps to touch the peak of cathedral at Cologne, just to see someone having scribbled something in Tamil on the walls there. And don't get me started on the graffiti in Hindi I found on the Berlin wall.) It didn't stop me from flicking the cheese and crackers from my airline meals, because I didn't feel like eating them at that moment. It certainly didn't deter me from singing songs out loud in the rain, because it would be something I would do in India, and Phoren was no different.

When the stewardess brought my fantastic phoren journey to a halt by announcing 'We welcome you to New Delhi's Indira Gandhi International Airport..the outside temperature is 36 degrees', I couldn't wait to be enveloped by the stifling humid air and the claustrophobic dense population and the cacophony and chaos of the city.....I came home.

Apparently, you can inject any amount of Phoren-ness into my passport, but you can never take out the Indian from me. Before I start sounding like an over-patriotic 'phoren-returned' phool and start singing Vande Mataram, I will conclude this post. This is just a teaser, an introduction to a summer that is going to be chronicled on this blog for the lack of better things to do. Also, because I like to show off a little bit.

P.S. Speaking of Vande Mataram, have you seen the 'Jaya Hey' video released by The Times group? It contains all the verses to our national anthem composed by Tagore. It's been sung by people all over the country and is total goosebumps-throat-drying-I-crying worthy. And promise, not because I have a sudden surge of patriotism in me or anything.

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.

The Blue Moon's Gone

It feels so gratifying to sign into this thing and click on 'New Post'. Do I have something to talk about? I don't know, really. But to be able to let the fingers flow freely on the laptop is a freedom I've finally found after a long long time. (F'alliteration galore!)

So what kept me busy? Lots of things. Dissertation, Birthday, Farewell, GloveDay..impromptu sleepovers, crazy cricket matches and the eggjams that are peeking at me from around the corner, seeping guilt into my heart as I type this.

So. The big D. For all the people who don't know me but randomly stumbled across this blog because you pressed the 'next' tab on the top right corner of this page, I did a thesis on Play Therapy with Street Children. Extremely gratifying, I must tell you. Not only did it improve my Hindi by leaps and bounds, but it gave me the much needed element of childhood in a life where everyone expects me to grow older. Hmpf. Thankyouverymuch, but I prefer being a kid, still.

Speaking of older, the birthday finally arrived! Began with I-M (I promise I'll come up with a better name soon!!) and Cake-Stealer bringing me cake early in the morning! Ironic, isn't it? Cake stealer bringing me cake? But 'twas fun. And the rest of the day went off pretty fantastically too. Thank you Glove for making the Twenty Three seem Old enough (ahem, my birthday gift) and Young enough (The Balloon that you all willingly let me spank your heads with.)

Speaking of Glove, we also had the Glove Day!! Imagine every conceivable girly thing you would've seen in a cotton-candy world Pajama Party. Now throw that out of the window. We had a celebration that was out of this world. From random badminton competitions to pretending to spit paan on newly painted Connaught Place pillars on a deserted Sunday, we managed to take an ordinary day and turn it into an extraordinary memory! A speshal mention to Al's super-cool parents who let us party like there was no tomorrow in her house!! And Muttley for giving us the much needed exercise. First running towards him to play with him, and then running away when he got over-excited and tried to nip your ankles.

And then came the Farewell (I don't think I'm going in any particular order, but whatever) Naaaaice it was :) 'Nuf said.

So Master's is officially over. I should really get cracking on the 'Oh, so you're a Yemmay now' post. Well, it's not officially over since I have the eggjams to devour. So yes, abrupt ending to this post that was threatening to enter a nostalgic blackhole.

Good night, Good luck, and the Moon is waning the Blue-ness! (Uh. I think that means I'm going to be more regular in posting things on this super-colourful page.)