Inkworld

As a Fourth and a Fifth Grader, I was asked to write with an ink pen. And probably the ink had to be royal blue or something. School rules! Don't ask! They did say something about the handwriting becoming better because of it and I agree it was a bit like my pen doing a dainty little ballet recital on the icy white pages. I never broke a nib by the way. Ball pens totally screwed it up Sixth Grade onwards.

So the point is, the other day, I was chatting with a schoolfriend of mine about ink-pens and the kind of ink we used and all that. We remembered "Camlin" quite easily but "Chelpark" took a while. This post is a tribute to many a daub of ink-smear on pages, skin and school uniforms. Let's not wash this away! :)

P.S: I hope some day I'll remember the exact smell of the ink I had used to write my Fifth Grade History Mid-Term Examination. I remember I got 59 out of 60, losing a mark because in a moment of hurried excitement I mistook Robert Owen to be a factory "worker" instead of the owner of the factory in question. Ah well. One can't have everything! What hurts more is the sad loss of the pen that aided me through the test, shortly after the bell rang. There was something unusual about the smell, but I just can't seem to remember it. Seems like it was a pen on a mission. It came. It saw. It conquered. And then it left me for good. :(

"KYUN JAAOON MAIN GANNE KE KHET MEIN...kya hai ganne ke khet mein....???"

If you don't know what the title of this post means or refers to, this isn't for you.

For all those of us who treated Jab We Met as the farewell fiesta for Shahid and Kareena, how could you forget Anshuman, standing there like a half-naked, muscular, bamboozled pillar of purposeless strength?

But that's not the point. Tear your eyes away from that blurry blend of brains and brawns, if you please.

This is as much about the invasion of privacy and imposition of rules on a hapless individual as a humorous snippet from a cult classic, if not more.

And the reason why I relate to him right now is because my neighbourhood is suddenly festive, spic and span and playing the perfect host to a whole lot of other nations who have enjoyed being colonies of the Brits. Here's to celebrating slavery! Talk about "bonds" not breaking!

The maids are being asked to clear out their slums and leave for Bangladesh if possible (since most of them are from Bengal), the roads have shiny new markers, a huge yellow and black striped tiger named Shera (the Commonwealth Games Mascot) paid a visit to my school (and I missed it so that means I'm a "loser") and I am supposed to sit at home and "enjoy" a vacation as my school has closed for the Games and I can't venture out much because transport is few and far between and I can't get enrolled at a Sports Complex because they are all closed for the Games.

Why should I "Come Out and Play" yaar? What is there to "Come Out and Play" with?

Footloose and Fancy free

Really. Because Delhi can't promise that it won't rain again. And because those pretty translucent plastic shoes from Bata go only so far, umbrellas don't work and nor does sitting at home indefinitely.

This is the other side of the bohemian showers. I can't really go ga-ga about the rains and romanticise the weather without taking this into consideration. Especially when it has magical healing powers.

I'm a responsible citizen, just like SRK. For every Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge, there's got to be a Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi. Raj. Rahul. Rains. Reality. Ringworm?

You want Sports? I'll give you Sports, you *&$!%!

Her name is L something P something. I think. She's an Aussie. And I think she won the Women's 50m Breaststroke in Swimming here at the CWG 2010 in Delhi. I can't say I got used to the hurried rush of Indian notes wafting through the air inside the auditorium as one moochh waale bhaiya marched up to the Presentation podium, leading the ladies. She stood there, shivering, dazed and blonde. Well I couldn't help remarking on it. The losers were both brunettes. And both Goldie and one of the brunettes were Aussies. They hugged, of course, after the anthem was through.

But let's rewind to the anthem.

Now usually I'm a big fan of a good show. Growing up in Bollywoodland has its side-effects. I am all there for a spectacular Oscar moment or a formidable "A Beautiful Mind winning the Nobel prize" Russell Crowe speech (which was good enough to earn him an Oscar moment) so that I can tear up and keep my emotions loose and fresh and flowing in summery cotton garments with a mere flick of my remote control (read "magic wand"). Lazy. Brilliant, but lazy. (Borrowed from Spiderman 2).

So here I was, expecting patriotic quivers of the lip and quiver, she did. Except... hold on... she was singing the anthem. Now I know there's nothing strange about it but I just couldn't understand why I have never seen anyone do that before. Not a single athlete. Not a single championship. Male or female.

I liked it. She was proud. But she wasn't putting up a show. Maybe she thought it's expected of her to sing it, with the cameras hunting her greedily. Maybe she did it out of habit. But I'm glad she did it.

I'm also glad because I now know that Australia doesn't just love beer and go looking for the next Masterchef.

Closer home, Abhinav Bindra got a Gold for shooting. I got inspired and decided to enroll in Shooting Classes. Not inspired, actually. Just hoping for some discipline and blowing off steam.

STATUTORY WARNING: This kind of therapy is done by professionals and should not be tried at home.

What really inspires me is the release of endorphins. Too bad they only get released with brisk exercise. (I hope I am wrong!)

I went for a walk, drinking tea (and therefore gaining back all the calories I had lost in the process). I also decided to go for Kerala Ayurvedic Massage lessons. They don't have medals for these things because they don't time them. They do have awards, though. Didn't Phoebe Buffay from the sitcom "Friends" once win a Nobel for Massage? Well, even if she thought she did, clearly, massage works. :P

P.S: Hang on... I just realised where I've seen boys and girls ardently mouthing the anthem with a glazed look in their eyes.. at the morning assembly in my school!!! LP is a schoolgirl!!!! I know it doesn't create quite the same effect as Tom Hanks discovering Leo DiCaprio is a High School student in Catch Me If You Can, but worth a shot, right?

Lancelot

There are faces that say nothing and yet, say it all. It doesn't always have to be the Afghan Girl on the cover of the National Geographic. It doesn't have to be a victim of a certified epidemic. This face is not famous enough to make it to the newspapers. He isn't a lead actor; just a recent regular on the tele-series "Bones". John Francis Daley, playing Dr. Lance Sweets. Psychologist. A lopsided smile here and a tender nod and a hug there. This face has been haunting me ever since I saw him slightly tilt his head on one side with a frown in the opening credits of the show. He's sweet enough to carve out a niche for himself in the "basement" of my mind, going by the "Inception" theorists. Little wonder, then, that the track "Time" from the Inception soundtrack makes for the perfect wave that washes over me when I look at him. If this is the Universe's plea to me, asking me to remember the face that once broke through my defenses, I will oblige. This is the face that makes me feel like an instrument; I'm here to let words flow through me and gently perch on my fingertips. And I can't take my eyes away. This is the shade. This is the "kick". This is the Prince of my Neverland. And I'm 12. :)

Where's the Duster?

It bothers me. How little I read nowadays! I really thought the dry spell would end with Ruskin Bond's "A Handful of Nuts" and Anthony Horowitz's "Granny".

But it's back. With "Inkheart". I watched the movie instead of finishing the book. I shouldn't have.

But I guess I'm just scared.

Isn't it funny how we base our decisions on the slightest of suggestions sometimes? I liked the beginning of the book and so I went ahead and watched the movie. I might delve into the Chronicles of Narnia after all, since I saw parts of a trailer that I liked. I saw the trailer because I was waiting to watch "Despicable Me" which I watched because I heard Jason Segel talk about it. I like Jason Segel and listen to what he says because Facebook says I'm like him. I'm on Facebook because a friend of mine recommended it. I like that friend because she reminds me of someone.

And I was happy to see Cinnabon when I went to the mall today because Lily Aldrin wanted to share one with Robin Scherbatsky on HIMYM.

I really do need to unlearn!

Despicable Me

As a kid, when I was asked who I want to be, I am told that I replied, "Why can't I just be a girl?" You can't be a Capricorn and not be wise, can you?

Years later, as a Postgrad student of Psychology at the Delhi University, sitting at the women's hostel canteen and waiting for a cup of coffee, I had nodded in agreement to something similar. "Don't you think what we've studied so far is just helping us realise what we already knew? It doesn't seem like being bombarded with new information. Is that learning? Are we really wise souls?"

I don't know.

But I do believe that when I come across the roads in Delhi (or anywhere else) named after people who lived a long time and more often than not didn't affect my life, I don't feel awestruck. I don't believe I imbibed the qualities of Mahatma Gandhi because I walked down M.G. Road or that I would go back home and Google Rao Tularam or Benito Juarez or hell, even Aurangzeb. I don't believe I mourn when I chance upon "Tees January Marg" or that one is supposed to take that lane only on the 30th of January every year either! (Don't get me started on what a waste of money building that road would have been!)

It's not the road less travelled. It's not even the road not taken. Sorry, bestsellers.

I am in a zone where I have begun to believe that I am inside the story of Hansel and Gretel. I am in a crazy trip inside the jungle, leaving breadcrumbs behind to mark the trail. Sadly, when I look back, they are gone. And I can't go back.

There's always a way of believing that I don't need to go back. And most of the time, between teaching and reading and BRT and Chicken Masala and tea and coffee, I can bring myself to care about how Ted Mosby met his wife. But then when I leave my residence and look at the blue watering can on my neighbour's windowsill or spot the shadow of an eagle gliding across the tall, looming trees on the roadside, or when I remember the orange Lamborghini that used to speed past my erstwhile kingdom on Lodhi Road, I realise with a shock how time is passing me by.

Despicable me! Yes, I did go and watch the movie for the sheer delight of listening to Jason Segel lend his voice to Vector, the supervillain and yes, I cherished every moment in those luxurious seats as Mom and I sat back, the only audience at 10:25am on a Friday. And yes, it felt good when Cinnabon caught my eye.

But why is it that I feel depressed all over again? Why is it that even the thought of re-bonding my hair at last doesn't leave me with any fuzzy, pink warmth? Where's my fairy tale? And if this is it, why doesn't it feel like one? Was Prince Charming special only because he came from a kingdom far, far away? Like that Lamborghini or that watering can?

How far is far enough?

How far away do I need to go from Delhi and from my life here to call it a vacation? Am I sad because Delhi is gonna be crowded because of the Commonwealth Games?

Maybe I am. But wait. Don't call me "The Selfish Giant". I think I'm just sad because the universe has declared Delhi important for the next few days.

Do you see the flaw in the plan? "There's nowhere else to go."

This is me. For now. That's it. :(