I'm 25

I feel blue.....don't you hate birthdays?

Good Blog! Whither Goes Ze Time?

It's been so long since I've posted here that I couldn't remember my password! I still don't remember my password but by some Blogmas (all will be explained in the course of the next three paras) miracle or some such it all worked out and I'm here...and posting...sigh..just like the good ol' days. When I used to have a job that involved minimal effort and interaction with a few cute li'l yeasties. And folks, I turned this job in to become a grad student...and (wait for it, it gets worse) sustained traumatic interaction with mice!! I will spare you stories of my trials with the mice. It'll only serve to keep you up nights and I will not have that on my conscience, sirs (and/or madams, noone shall call me a sexist). Anyway. Long story short, I've gots me a case of the Busy-ies. But, some of you with keener insight might note, I haven't gotten rid of this blog o'mine yet. Why, you might ask. The answer, madams (an/or sirs, of course), is *not* sheer laziness. Nuh uh. It is rather, that I have a primal instinct to blog.

I've spent some time wondering why it is I feel this need. And (me being I), I have asked a lot of fellow bloggers this question. Varied responses I received. The most popular ones being you're a loser or you (meaning not me in particular but Those who Blog in general - or so I've convinced myself) don't have a social life. But this isn't true..can't be true. The blogger community stands second to none in having its fair share of losers and geeks and nerds and other people of that ilk that has no social life. But it also abounds with people who *do*, in fact, have a social life. Some of *these* people, it is true, blog because they like a fondly imagined captive audience for their rants and ravings (and no! that is *not* why I blog, thankyouverymuch). But I would like to believe that a lot of us blog because we like to write. More, we need to write.

This blog, after all, is my Great Unfinished Novel. The one I've always known I will write. So, if you think about it, this blog 1) saves many trees a senseless and untimely death 2) saves many people senseless and untimely expenditure on the thoughts and ramblings of a soontobe25year old (yes, I've said it, I'm getting old) graduate student 3)saves me the needless hassle of marshaling my thoughts into any kind of order or rationality.

The Blog, in fact, ladies and gents, is the Savior of the World (hence the Blogmas crack, remember? two paras up?). Sent down by a wise and generous God to protect us in our Hour of Need. In short, people, it is a Godsend.
-Also, stepping off that soapbox for a brief instant: we all know it's uncool in the Other World to talk about Profound Stuff and have Thoughts on Deep and Stirring Subjects like "Why are we here?", "What is the purpose of all of this?" and "Why, oh why, did we stop believing in God, the only reasonably happy answer to any of these questions that human beings have ever been able to come up with?". But down here, it's acceptable. Not just acceptable but almost de rigueur (plus I can use words whose meanings I don't understand. Win-win.)! And some people might say the main reason we blog is because The Blog lets us be who we are in our heads rather than who we are in everyone else's heads. Poppycock, *I* think. And pshaw! Alrighty, back on the soapbox.-
Hail, bloggers, to the one god, The Blog. (His only demand is that we are good and honest and kind and generous and that we give him offerings of gold and kaju katlis every second hour of the day. Very reasonable, considering the precedents.)

In conclusion, I would like to introduce a new worshiper at the altar of The Blog: My sister, the archeologist, at here. Tada!!! (You'll remember I was mentioning getting her to write stuff up, 'Fessor? Well, she did it all by her lonesome cuz I kept forgetting to get her to write stuff up :D). Enjoi!

When I Grow Up

My sister and I, we made a promise to each other when we were both teenagers (yeah, blood mingling ceremony, promises of death and everlasting perdition, the works). We'd never become our mum, we said. Solemn oath, pinky promise.

We're all grown up now (sorta anyway) but every now and then one of us will still tell the other, "Dude, you sound exactly like her" and that has become the ultimate warning between us. The youarereallybehavingverybadlyfleshofmyflesh cautionary statement. I think we're very good about it, the two of us together. We probably save ourselves from ourselves. And maybe, just maybe, neither of us will turn into the mater.I don't know.

I have recently changed. Not by huge degrees, I don't think. But a little. It's not like I woke up one morning and became an insanely introverted, Ionlywearfullsleevedturtlenecksthatcovermychinandamfilledwithhopelessnessattheplightofmankind sorta girl. Far from (I don't know if I'm emotionally capable of being that girl. If I went two hours without talking to anyone, I'd probably go buy a coffee just so I could smile at and discuss the weather with the Hispanic coffee-lady (who is really sweet and gives me free chocolate muffins when I forget to bring cash, godblesshersoul)). But I've channeled a lot of my extroversion, toned it down in some ways ( or at least so it appears to most of my friends and hangout buddies). I'm not always up for anything anymore cos I have other plans most nights. I don't go around herding the Happy Hour group together for two dollar beers every week. I can't be bothered.

I've not yet reached the stage where I don't have any friends left. People still call me, stop by to chat. But the invitations to go out and drink the night away at the newest club downtown are trickling down to a drizzle. Disappearing slowly. True, they've been supplanted by other invitations from other people (superbowl parties, athome drinkathons, dinners, movie night). But. The point is (and yes, there is a point, thankyouverymuch) it's shockingly easy to drift from one phase of your life to another and with that from being one person to being a different one. Unless someone's looking out for you. And making sure you don't.

Maybe, on second thought, the bigger point is that change is inevitable. And the sooner you make your peace with it, the happier you will be. I don't know.

Maybe there's change and there's change and you just have to know the difference.

I don't have the answers. But I think I have the question. The question, I think, is how do you know if the change is good or bad, considering that the person you're going to change into is not the same person you are. Isn't there some sort of conflict of interest lurking here somewhere?

Which brings me to my second question, who the hell figured I was competent enough to make my own decisions and gave me a whole life to myself?

Hawtdggitydamn! Stap me if The Power that Is isn't clearly a Jackass.

Also, among the things I don't know is whether this counts as a theory post or no. I'm gonna go ahead and say it does. It's been too long without one on this here blog.

When You're Back, You're Back

There are times when you hit peculiar patches. Lots of things seem to happen in a rush and then all of a sudden, nothing. Standstill. Halt. And just as you get used to the peace and the quiet, it starts up again. Like a runaway horse down a mountain slope, eyes rolling, tail flying, frothing at the mouth. In a single day, there's good news, there's bad news, there's good news that seemed like bad news but later resolved itself into good news, there's news you just don't know what to do with. The works. You tend to work around it, though. These peculiar patches. Learn to stand still at a point and refuse to move until things sort themselves out because otherwise you're just going to go stark raving mad. This is good, right? Everyone needs those standpoints. I think.

Some of us find other ways around it. A routine, a habit, a schedule, anything that gives structure to the chaos. Some time during the day when you can just stop thinking, shut it all off. Not 'me time' because that would involve thinking about you. But just 'not-thinking time'. We are the lucky ones, no? The ones who can do this? The ones who've found the yellow, brick road.

The thing about yellow, brick roads though, is that there is a certain problem. They invariably lead you to a place that never was. And then what do you do? You think you have it figured out, everything under control, a place for every thing and every thing in its place. The question though, I think is, is there really a place for everything? Does it help in any way that you can disappear into your own world and come back out of it feeling better about everything without actually having done anything about anything? Isn't that a negative, rather than a smug advantage? Do we really want to travel to a place ruled over by a little, old man with green glasses? Especially if we don't even get to have the red shoes?

Metaphorically Speaking

Warning: Slightly monstrous post as per recent standards. If you have time to kill and at least 7 minutes to listen to the music, read on.

I'm not the most Carnatic person. Even less of a Hindustani one. But some Raags are universal. Some Raags are undemanding of technical knowledge. And some Raags transcend the Carnatic-Hindustani divide. The Hamsadhwani is my favourite (I love the Chaurasia version but can't find it on Youtube, so I'm putting in the next best rendition I could find). The first time I heard it, it was because a friend said "This is the Raag I love. Listen to it." And I did. More for him than for the Raag and people, it is true. This Raag deserves love. Adulation even. (I'd say worship but I don't want to be called a drama queen.) The thing about Hamsadhwani is that she reminds me of feminism. (Yes, really). Wait, not feminism necessarily as it is, but feminism like I've always pictured it as, known it should be. The ideal that we all strive for (by we all I mean feminists, not persons of other persuasions) and which is so hard to reach. I was blog-lifting for ideas the other day (I've been feeling particularly uninspired) and from the fessor's place, I went to this one. And from there to this article. Keeping that in mind, we shall move on (it all comes together in the end, promise).

To today. I've been sick (yes, I've noticed the lack of awwws in the commentspace. I seem to have cornered the hard-hearted bit of the blog-reading-public) and so I've been staying home. But this evening, bravely (and from a desire to feel like I'm awake as opposed to an indivisible part of my bed), I decided to go for a run. It's been a while (I've been slack) and every runner knows the (for want of a better word) bliss of returning to the road. Of finding your rhythm. I always imagine that's how bikers must feel when they get back on their bikes after a hiatus (can't bike to save my life, so I haven't personally experienced it, but I'm pretty sure this is how it feels). I saw the most beautiful sunset, did my little work out routine. Got all flushed and happy. And because it felt like I couldn't stay away from the outside, I came back home and sat on my balcony, reading Roth until there was so little light that I couldn't differentiate the letters from the page. My iPod was still with me, so I hooked it up to the speakers and voila Hariprasad Chaurasia playing the Hamsadhwani (see how it all came together?). I've been on indie rock overload for the past couple of months and to suddenly hear a Raag, and the Hamsadhwani at that. I decided it was fate. And (true story) while I was deciding this, a yellow leaf on the tree right next to my balcony dropped off its branch and drifted down to the ground. If that isn't significant I honestly don't know what is (Right? I'm not being dramatic, am I? A single yellow leaf. And the stars in the sky. And the flute in the background. It was outta a movie!).



So, I'm looking at that leaf falling and listening to the music and it hits me. The Hamsadhwani is a piece of music that captures the spirit of feminism like nothing else I've heard before. It should be the anthem or something. It's not just the way it starts off, tentatively inquisitive, reaching out a singly sensual finger of interrogation. Or the way it maintains throughout this firmness of tone. Like an insistent knowledge of its rightness, its right to be heard, to be admired, to be listened to even if not agreed with. Not even the unexpected lilting curlicues that leap out at you in the most charming manner, reaching so confidently for all that is fancifully idealistic in the world. Admittedly the finish is perfect, ending on a note of not assertion or arrogance but a quiet confidence (though not in this version, try to get your hands on the Chaurasia). But none of this embodies the feminism in my mind as much as the tabla in the background. The warmly human sound of fingers on skin, not the metallic thumping rhythm of stick on metal (the ghatam in the version on this post is a little overdone, in my opinion, but that's just my opinion). The empathetic, grounding baseline throughout the melody. The little innovations serving to attract attention but in such an understated way. Not because it needs attention but because it is so happy, so confident in just being there. It doesn't need justification or validation. And isn't that what we all want, more than anything to feel? As feminists? As women? As girls?

Being that calm, that powerful and that happy inside out. I wonder how it feels. I think I've found my calling. If I'm actually born again I want to be born as the Hamsadhwani.

Why I've Been Rolling My Eyes Constantly since I started Grad School

Or Why Are All Grad Students Such Social Retards

Or Is It Just Me or Does Noone Understand Verbal Communication Anymore

Elevator-talk. At its best.

He: Been losing weight? You look kinda scrawny.
(He calls a girl scrawny! Scrawny!Has he ever spoken to a girl? Like ever?)

She (blushing and giggling a little): Yeah, I've lost weight recently.

He: Why's that? You in love? Or something?
(One finally decided he was being funny and one empathized muchly with his family)

She: With you?
(Honestly, I think she was being serious. She sounded serious. And looked a little confused.)

He (baffled pause later): No, no. Umm. Just generally. Like with someone. Else.

She: Umm no.

He (after 10 heartbeats. I counted): Yeah. I was just kidding. Kinda.

Me: You've *gotta* be kidding me! (in my head only. Though maybe I should have said something. Tips on How To Talk to People)

Earring Woes

Black and sparkly. I adore black and sparkly. So course I wanted them. I lusted after them. I yearned for them. You get the picture. And just as I'm about to pay for them (in this country, apparently, shop attendants *don't* give away merchandise as gifts simply because you have a charming smile (though it's true that I was once allowed to ride the bus in exchange for my charming smile, but the driver there was male. an undeniably important consideration in such transactions), you have to pay for 'em and all. hmmph), god decides that it's time to Have his Little Joke. What sort of person thinks up these evil tricks to play on unsuspecting *and* righteous citizens? I know there's established precedents (what with Noah and Job - such a sap- and the Virgin Mary (poor thing) and just like a million others) but I always figured I wasn't Virtuous enough to be picked on by the All-Seeing One. And just cos I might have said *once* (or maybe a couple of times) to *one* person (or maybe on my blog) that god does not exist, does *not* mean he should get all vindictive and persecutionary, no? Where's the Justice in that? Where's the whole Meek Inheriting the Earth philosophy (I know I wasn't Meek, but shouldn't he have been? How else will he Inherit the Earth finally (after global warming and nuclear warfare and deforestation and species-extinction, when everyone else is done with it?)?

Anyway, long story short (such a waste of a long story, but I know you guys are all busy and stuff and I'm already in my second para) he refused to let me buy them. Hid my cards childishly, made me hunt frantically all through my car (not a mean task), finally give up and return home, only to find (voila!) my cards right where I left them in the glove compartment under a pile of old bills and chocolate wrappers. *Obviously* the work of a sadistic master-mind. We're not talking at the moment, he and I. He's in his room having some Quiet Time, thinking about what he's done. We will have a Conversation presently. Yes, we will *looks up meaningfully in his general direction with pursed lips and sternly drawn brow*.

When is a premonition not a premonition?

She ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time and then the last three with a jump. As she rounded the turn and continued down the next flight, she had a sudden premonition. She saw herself tripping on a stair, falling, lying sprawled at the foot of the staircase, right next to the door. Like a scene illuminated by the flash of an old-fashioned camera in one of those old black and white murder mysteries. She slowed down without realizing it, taking the steps one at a time decorously. There had been something unsettling in that flashing scene. She reached the bottom of the stairs safely and walked out of the building into the sunshine. Sunlight fires neurons: known scientific fact. Oh fuck! Why had she stopped hurtling down the stairs? Now she'd never be able to decide if it had been a premonition or not.



Is it still a premonition if you see it happening and then take steps to prevent it from happening? Which would stop it from happening. Which would make the premonition false. Since it didn't happen. Right?