One for the Road

In less than a week, I'd have bid India adieu.
("Adieu, adieu to you and you and you! *trill*) 5 points for getting the Sound of Music reference.

I'm trying so hard to be serious and responsible, but I feel frivolous, flippant and a little crazy.

There are so many things I'm going to leave behind: My parents, a small pet sister, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, my baby bird and the best 5 years at IIT that anyone could ever ask for.

It seems funny that in spite of knowing all this, I don't feel sad or worried or scared, just excited! Those 5 years were precious because of the people they were composed of. Now that all those people have started on with the next phase of their lives, all I feel is an intense desire to get my show on the road!

I can't seem to view this 2 month holiday as 'Life' but as a temporary lull, a sort of tea break before work starts again. (Is work becoming life?!) Or am I so excited about going to study at Oxford, that I've viewed these 2 months simply as preparation for Oxford and not as a break in themselves?

This is not to say, that I haven't slept, eaten and enjoyed myself in this holiday! No siree! It's just that, these 2 months have not seemed real to me.

Well, dear kind readers! My next post shall be from Oxford. Are you as excited as I am? (Don't answer that. I know you're not. I just had to ask)

Driving

One of my worst fears is that I'll never be a good driver.

I'm uncoordinated, careless, a day dreamer and mild. None of which are exactly the hall marks of a great driver; Especially if you're going to be driving in Mumbai. I watch my mother expertly navigating her way around rickshaws, trucks, BEST buses and secretly wonder if I could ever do all that AND yell at a daughter sitting in the next seat.

But to Roll Over and Die is not the deSouza's motto. I don't really know what our motto is, but it is definitely not that! No, we deSouza's face our Fears. Or in my case, we bypass them entirely.

The way I do this, is to pretend the opposite! I sat up at nights and thought fiercely, until I allowed my imagination to convince my brain, that I was actually not afraid. I goaded myself into believing that I was not only good at driving, but I was the best! The only reason my burgeoning skill had not been revealed to the world was because I hadn't had the opportunity!- The cons of being burdened by highly skeptical parents who are fiercely protective of their cars.

What could I do then?

The next best option seemed to be: go-karting!

After months of raving about the social, economic and environmental advantages of a go karting spin, I managed to convince my wing mates that the old Hiranindani arena was the place to be! We crowded around the ticketing counter one evening. "8 laps or 12?" asked the lackadaisical voice from behind the window. "12", I said firmly. "Are you crazy, Priyanka?! We've never done this before. None of us know how to drive and you want 12 laps," came the furious chorus. "12," I replied inexorably. If I was going to showcase my skill to the world, I was going to do nothing by halves!

We put on our helmets in grim silence. And all of a sudden we were off!

Dear Reader, I never felt such a thrill before in my life! For three seconds down that smooth, straight track, I had the wind in my hair, and stars in my eyes. I WAS a great driver. How could I have ever doubted that? And then came nemesis in the form of- A Turn.

Three seconds later, I had crashed into a cascade of tires.

While waiting to be extricated, I watched my other wingmates despondently, as they skimmed around the arena with skilfull ease. By the time a grinning agent had got me and the car back on track most of them had finished their 12 laps and were talking about it gleefully. They waited and watched in awe as I, determined to get my money's worth, painstakingly completed each lap at an average speed of 10 kmph. 20 kmph on the straight parts and ~0 near corners.

At long last I drew the car to a halt and got out. Maybe, I was a really good driver, I guess I just wasn't good at go-karting.

Poems about my favorite people

KP

Some people collect shells; Others pottery,
Assembling weirdos, is Bala's hobby!

And who appears on top of the list
Why KP ofcourse! 'Spretty obvious

This young lady is a crazy explorer
And is most at home among flora and fauna

Heres a secret that I know is true
KP isn't just KP, She's superman too!

The photonucleic effect is how superman recharges
While KP revitalizes in dark green forests!

So every time you're back is turned
Know that KP is somewhere, saving the world!

She's the protector of all, from barbets to kites
Saplings and bees and dear old lakeside

And not just to Nature does KP lend her energy
But to humans too! Albeit grudgingly! :P

She's patience itself to tales of woe
And helps you laugh when you're feeling low

She claims to be clumsy and butterfingery
But just check out her paper quilling to know quite differently!

She doesn't care what she looks like
She doesn't care what you think
She essays sarcastic comebacks before you can blink

And thats just part of the reason why we love you KP
You're so much fun. We love you infi!


Tangy

Tangy is a penguin
And there my poem's endin'

For it is a well known fact
That penguins simply love their math

Not as much as Spanish omelettes
Or late night work at the Credit Suisse Office

But enough to leave their home in India
To go abroad to study at Columbia

Penguins also have a wealth of anecdotes
(They have a funny diet comprising mainly of artichokes!)

Like the time they tried to dispose their shoes, missed the train
Walked miles and miles back, over unfamiliar terrain

Or the day we saw the 'President is Coming' at Prithvi
And didn't recognize their school after talking about it blythely

But the best part about penguins, is they make amazing friends
Tangy, I'll miss you! To the very, very end!


Bala
When it comes to birds and bees//
Funny fruits and milipedes//
Pluck your sample, write a description//
Send them to bala for identification


Now, Bala in the city is a scary proposition//
For she randomly stops at busy intersections//
Oblivious of traffic, people and of being knocked down dead//
She'll reach up to pluck the flower above her head

And if it's too high up for her to reach
She'll call upon you to step into the breach!

But she'll come to your room when you're feeling down
And talk to you endlessly to get you back up
She'll sit through all your talks and presentations
Fix your laptop and works better than meditation

So all in all to cut a tale short
I'll miss you Bala
SO VERY MUCH

Mankar
One happy night, on our way from Parel
In a half empty train dabba, we found a friend

It all started with her DSLR camera
Coupled with dimples and Marathi drama!

It escalated quickly during fun SAC sessions
All the nautankiness was so so entertainin'!

She showed her support for KP by coming for Nature Club events
But dirt and earthworms conquered enthusiasm in the end! :D

While Untidy rooms and shoes unarranged
Were calculated to drive her deranged

But the pleasant chatter, the dinners and treats
Cemented a friendship that was ours 'for keeps'

In particular birthday confidences, the coming out session
Of a closet poetess was a lovely connection

Adding on to this she's a very hard worker
Inspirational and ambitious, she's a top class researcher

So keep shining Shruti
We're all there for you
This friendship is forever and I miss you!


Panja
Would you think of staying in touch
With a friend who forgot your birthday?
Not much!

But what if you were the nicest person on the planet?
Inspite of being on a carbs free diet?

Well you'd still write emails and not be bitchy
And be there for your friend, who you dubbed -pitchy!

Which would be a good thing because pitchy loves you madly
The Westin hotel days and the drunken karaoke

The times we hung out, you, me and Scrooge
The ribald jokes that were oh so rude!

The long discussions on gender and sexuality
The breaking of barriers and the acceptance of disparity

Here's to the last year and to rindiness in general
Heres to friendship. May it be perennial

Deduction

"Hallo there Shraxy! Check out this lot of freshmen that I'm towing along. Real babies, aren't they? I've got to drop them off at 'Linear Algebra Day Care'. See you for lunch? Right-o. On my way!"

"Alright Pat! Don't you 'Sherlock Holmes' your group and scare them off, before Prof R has a shot at them!"

It was the first day of college. We, first years, had just been administered with: One, half-hour Buck-U-Uppo speech by the Director, a folder containing our timetables and Pat. Pat was supposed to "nanny us a bit and make sure we were fed to Professor R of Linear Algebra in time", as she put it. She was a senior, majoring in Chemistry.

"What did she mean when she said "Don't Sherlock Holmes" us?" asked a tall, gangly boy whose name I later learned to be Mike.

Pat looked at him and laughed. "It means nothing, freshie! Except, I can see that you have an older brother who is punctilious in dressing. You on the other hand are not. You play the guitar and if I am to hazard a guess, the Music Society here will be pleased to have you, as you play well. You stayed with relatives last night and came here this morning by train. Your parents have not accompanied you here. You've stayed in Mumbai before for a reasonable amount of time. Am I right?"

"Yes! But- but how?!"

We gazed in mute astonishment at our guide.
"You must know him!-She must!" several of my classmates cried out.

"I don't! Now listen here my pets. Seeing is different from observing, just as Sherlock Holmes said. You've come to this University to become engineers. Observation is a key skill in Science. It will help you extract the vital from the extraneous. Once you do that, every problem can be broken down to its essence. Do you understand?"

We had arrived at the classroom by now and already we could hear the Professor inside instructing everyone to take their seats. Pat ushered us. I hung back.

"How did you do that?" I asked.

Pat tried gently pushing me inside the classroom. She realized very soon that the only way she could get rid of me was by answering my question.

"Very Simple. His shirt did not fit him properly about the shoulders. Clearly it was a hand me down. Who was the hander- An elder brother? Several buttons have been sown on again (You could tell by the slightly different colored thread used). Therefore his brother was punctilious about dressing. The way our friend scuffed his sleeves up clearly shows he, on the other hand is not! Next; In my experience, when freshmen first come to University, they are brushed, soaped and starched to within an inch of their lives. In addition, their nails are ALWAYS cut short. The nail of his right index finger was long. (He is obviously right handed from the way he slung his bag around his right shoulder). Why does a teenage boy have long nails? To play the guitar without a pick, my dear . However, the nails on his left hand were also long. Therefore he uses his left hand to more than strum. Clearly, he plays Flamenco style guitar. Only someone who is very good can do that. Next, (I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed when you hear this) I saw a local Mumbai ticket sticking out of his pocket which meant he had traveled by train. Parents not accompany him? Well if his parents had, ten to one, his mother or father would have bought the tickets and held on to them. He would not have his own ticket with him. Which Indian parent is comfortable with letting their child do battle with the Mumbai local train for the first time alone, on such an important occasion as joining college? He has clearly lived here before and traveled by train in the past. Does that satisfy you now?

What is that? Stay at a hotel? My dear, please! Everyone has some relation or the other in Mumbai! I mean it's Mumbai! He definitely stayed with relatives."


In a daze, I mumbled an affirmative and allowed Pat to firmly push me inside the classroom. I don't remember much of that first lecture anymore, but I sure remembered Pat!



(To be continued)

Short Story

She felt the bitterness of death as she sat there under the star light. He talked on. All she was thinking of was how small and insignificant a life was. What mattered it, if the whole world was swallowed by a black hole, leaving behind the universe in all it's cold perfection? He kept on talking.

He was talking about a party that he had attended with a friend. She looked at him, as if for the first time. What was she doing with him? Here he was, talking about a party; when the twinkly lights of the city below, the cloud of aromatic smells from the cigarettes around them and the velvety sky above whispered of magic and romance and death and eternity and life and heroes and ...monsters.

She felt a sudden distaste for him and everything about him sear through her like a white hot flame.

It was midnight now. The darkness gave birth to the ghostly figures of waiters as they started closing shop. He made a move to go and she gladly assented. She kicked off her ridiculous high heeled shoes and walked bare foot with him out on to the street. The touch of the cool pavement helped her calm down. She ought to have felt that rush of happiness she always experienced as the folds of her lovely dress swished ever so slightly in the breeze, or that feeling of satisfaction of knowing she was looking her best: desirable and lovely. But she felt only a cold emptiness.

He tried to take her hand and tell her he had a good time as they reached her apartment, but she brushed him away with a quick smile and ran quickly to her flat. She smiled gaily at the neighbour she met in the lobby, calmly and collectedly opened the door to her home. It was then and only then that she allowed herself to break down. She threw herself on to the bed and sobbed violently.

What did she care about the stars or magic or dreams or anything for that matter? All she wanted was to be loved! Oh! She felt so unloved! There she had been, dressed up just for him; And all he talked about were parties and other girls and everything else but her! She felt a deep depression as understanding of her unhappiness crystallized and dawned on her. She turned, and lay face up on her bed and looked at the ceiling with tragic eyes.

Books that changed my life (will keep updating)

1) To Kill a Mocking Bird
2) Anne of Green Gables, Anne of Avonlea, Anne of the Island, Anne of Windy Willows, Anne's House of Dreams, Rilla of Ingleside, Blue Castle, The Emily Series, The Road to Yesterday, The Patricia Series, EVERYTHING
3)Tess of the D'Urbervilles, The Mayor of Casterbridge, Jude the Obscure, Far from the Madding Crowd
4)Little Women, Good Wives, Little Men, Jo's Boys
5)Brave New World
6) The Saint in Europe (especially: The Rhine Maiden, The Golden Journey, The Spanish Cow)
7)Vanity Fair
8)The Brothers Karamazov
9)Rebecca, My Cousin Rachel, The King's General, Frenchman's Creek
10)David Copperfield, Oliver Twist, Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations, Little Dorrit
11)Catcher in the Rye
12) Love Story I and II
13) Jonathan Livingston Seagull
14)The Great Gatsby
15) The Razor's Edge, The Mood and Six Pence, Of Human Bondage, Mrs. Craddock, Eastern Tales, More Far Easter Tales ALL THE SHORT STORIES
16)Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Agnes Gray
17) The Keys of the Kingdom, Shannon's Way
18) P/G Wodehouse (EVERYTHING)... the old school boy stories are top hole
19) Agatha Christie (EVERYTHING)
20) Erle Stanley Gardener (EVERYTHING)
21) The Color Purple
22) Midnight's Children
23)The French Lieutenant's Woman
24)The Story of Philosophy
25)Dubliners
26)Labyrinths
27)Pale Fire
28)The Stranger
29) Lord of the Rings
30)E Philips Oppenheim (EVERYTHING)
31)Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn
32) Tom Brown's School Days
33) The Valley of the Dolls
34)Saturday
35)Narnia, Out of a Silent Planet
36)Harry Potter
37) Rebecca of Sunny Brook Farm, Pollyanna (similar veined books)
38) Microbe Hunters
39) Count of Monte Cristo, Prisoner of Zenda I and II, Scarlet Pimpernel (similar veined books)
40) Alice in Wonderland, Through the Looking Glass
41) Emma, Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, Persuasion, Mansfield Park
42) Animal Farm
43) Secret Garden, Little Lord Fauntleroy, Railway Children, all the Francis Burnett stories (favorite childhood books)
44) A Town Like Alice
45) Mistress of Mellyn
46) Father Brown
47) The Agony and the Ecstasy
48) Richmal Crompton (ALL)
49) Cheaper by the Dozen
50) Hiawatha
51) Horatius
52) Rudyard Kipling's Poems
53)A G Gardiner's Essays
54) Run Baby Run
55) Madame Curie (biography)
56) Clockwork Orange
57) The Castle
58) A Streetcar Named Desire
59) Magnificent Obsession

Vanity versus Love (Obviously a Somerset Maugham quote)

All sensible people know that vanity is the most devastating, the most universal, and the most ineradicable of the passions that afflict the soul of man; And it is only vanity that makes one deny it's power. It is more consuming than love. With advancing years, mercifully, you can snap your fingers at the terror and servitude of love, but age cannot free you from the thralldom of vanity.

Time can assuage the pangs of love, but only death can still the anguish of wounded vanity.Love is simple and seeks no subterfuge, but vanity cozens you with a hundred disguises. "It is part and parcel of every virtue, it is the mainspring of courage and the strength of ambition".
You cannot escape it You are defenseless from its onslaught....

An Old Note Again

Jay and I were great friends in college. We were both so similar. Both of us loved math, hated chem. Loved reading and roller coasters, lived for junk road and proclaimed that the sugarcane juice sold down the road from Ruparel was the best in the world!!

After a year of constant phone calls we finally met up again and had one of the bestest evenings in the world together. After meeting each other on the train, the first topic as always was books. Jay is an atheist and has always been pissed off that I, an apparently sane person who liked physics to about the same extent that she did could have such "extraordinairy" beliefs about god. She couldn't believe her ears when I told her that I was reading things like "the god delusion".

She told me some interesting things about how the concept of "god" has developed with the development of science. I told her about the book "God is NOT dead" which provides an interesting insight into the downward causation theory which predicts God. We were so engrossed in our jabbering that we had failed to realise that the train had stopped at churchgate and had already started chugging in the reverse direction. We jumped off and were soon installed in another train back to churchgate.

When we finally got there we went straight to the Jehangir Art Gallery. We went to many galleries but neither of us could appreciate the art works displayed. For the simple reason that we had no idea what the pictures meant.

We both decided to read some kind of books on art appreciation and music appreciation (any suggestions?). Because we both felt that we were missing out on some of the best things in life. After strolling around, we went to Cafe Samovar for a drink. After talking books, art and music for some time...we realised that though both of us read so many articles and books, sometimes, what we gained from an article could be summed up in a few lines or a few paras. Becuase when one reads in an article, one reads to see how its content affects us and how it may affect us. I thought that was an interesting thought. We also had a big debate about whether bosses valued efficiency over loyalty. All this happened over coffee and prawn pakoras ;)

After that we went to the Max mueller Bhavan to check out some short German films running there. Weloved them. They were animated and one of them was so funny, we made perfect asses of ourselves by laughing so hard. Still laughing, we went across the road to check out "Rhythm House"

With earphones in our ears and the Jonas Brother's latest tracks blaring out, we talked on. She was telling me about hindustani classical music. i was talking about western. As we could not hear each other...the "conversation" went smoothly on with far less disagreements than usual. Infact she somehow even persuaded me to buy a CD of this guy who had combined the guitar and the sitar to get a zitar. I have no idea how that happened but suddenly our purses were much lighter!

After Rhythm house we went to the Oxford Book Shop. Before this, we had both vehemently agreed that we had past the stage where we read books only for the story but now read as a sort of upgrading process. However, 2 minutes after we got into the book store we were sitting and chuckling over Calvin and Hobbes together. We later guiltily put the book back and left the store pretending that that had never happened.

After an awesome dinner at Bade Mias we finally caught the last train home. I have never had such a perfect evening ever!! :):)

Reading the World (An old Note from 2nd year)

Every single piece of writing, ever painting, every photograph or even every building has a story behind it.

The artist tries to project an idea through a particular medium. This idea is either a crystallization of thought or more often than not it is something that must be presented to people because they expect it of him. Why is the latter true? This is because an idea is a a shadowy reflection of the artist. He has latched a little bit of his soul to his work and people will judge the real being through this creation. It is for this precise reason that whenever we read a book we like, or we listen to some good music..we want to know who WAS the artist. What was he like?..is he anything like the image we have created in our minds or was he different?

This can be a good thing and a bad thing. It's a good thing because by knowing more about the history of the piece, we can extract the meaning attached to the text by the author her/himself and we will then understand what she/he was trying to tell us.

It is a bad thing because sometimes a piece can have no more importance than what we understand from it by reading it without any thought of the creator. Time can lend more shades of meaning to something that was not intended in the first place. The subsequent events that followed Salman Rushdie's book, "Midnight's Children" made the book much more important and valuable.

Not only that the text may have an entirely different meaning for me altogether because of various factors like my cultural upbringing, my opinions, ideas etc.etc.

The above is basically something we've learned in our literature course this semester. And I've found it extraordinarily interesting. But basically, what is the "truth"...which story is "right"?
Is it the author's story? or should we completely cut the author from his text after publication?

I think that there is no "correct" view. Just like relativity..there is no frame of reference that is the true or the only frame. Both stories are important and both stories are enmeshed in history. Neither can be overlooked.

So why is this important for me? As an abstract speculation it is pleasing and sort of brings out this sort of similarity between science and arts.

i just feel that every day we confuse these two perspectives. We are always switching between what we want to do and what others expect of us. If we feel that a certain set of people will "read" something in a particular way we will do our best to "write" our story from their perspective.

Now it can still be debated as to whether we are not really still involving our true selves in this because by doing something "expected" by a certain set of people we are automatically setting this set of people apart. This classification can be unique.

Generally however, this forestalling of what others read is the reason we subscribe to the "herd mentality". If we don't follow the crowd and do something different and are then proved wrong then our estimation in the eyes of the people we like and respect automatically falls. We read this response in advance by placing ourselves in their shoes and hence decide not to risk our "value" to them and do the general thing whereas we might have done something different.

It is this also, which set Roark aside in "The Fountainhead". He is true to his perspective and is indifferent to other people "reading" his work.

This note is merely a crystallization of my own thought process.
i realize that everything I do has a meaning attached to it. Everyone else is perfectly right in judging my action based on their principles without trying to delve into mine.

Its an odd world....

Mom

My Mother loves being home. She still labors under the delusion that my sister, dad and I haven't cut our teeth yet, and require constant supervision. Every moment she spends at work is fraught with the horrifying possibilities of the three of us wrecking the house by getting stains on the white walls of the living room (which she has forbidden us to touch!)/ wrinkling the couches/ leaving the geyser on and a host of other unforgivable misdeeds. She hurries home preparing for the worst, and heaves a sigh of relief as she enters her own unharmed little kingdom. The next day, she goes back to work and experiences the same cyclic anxieties. Hence, it was with a great deal of effort that we persuaded her to accept an invitation to be keynote speaker at a prestigious 2 day medical conference in Goa.

We managed to get her fluttering and protesting feebly (who would get us our meals/do the laundry?) into the car to drop her to the airport. We deposited her safe and sound at the terminal and watched as she joined the line to get her boarding pass. My mother is very old school, and when she does anything, it is methodically, carefully and always correctly. We watched with amusement as she ignored the impatient tapping of the feet of people standing behind her and methodically, carefully, correctly and unnecessarily wrote her name and address on each one of her hand baggage tags. She gave us a little regretful, i-can't-believe-i'm-doing-this hand wave before heading off to her departure gate. We got back into the car.

We felt a trifle sad at first, but that was nothing comparable to the subdued feeling of joy that FINALLY for a weekend we were FREE! We could order pizza without being reminded (correctly) that there was home food in the fridge; we could text and call our friends while eating, without being reminded (again correctly damnit!) that meal time was family time. The possibilities were endless! Why we might even rumple up the couch a little and who knows; Maybe even TOUCH the walls of the living room? (oh no unthinkable! she would come back and KNOW!) Thus with the myriad possibilities left open to us by the empty front seat, we got back home.

Saturday morning. We woke up and wondered what was wrong. We listened in vain for the muted sounds of our well oiled domestic machinery. Where was the low hum of the washing machine? The sizzle of hot bacon? The gentle pop of the toaster, the little whop of the dusting cloth and the crackle of the morning news in the living room? My sister and I looked at each in consternation for a moment and then remembered; Mom had gone to Goa! We got out of bed. Sunshine poured in through the windows, leering in, in disgust at the mass of blankets and crumpled pillowcases. Automatically we started folding everything neatly before Mom could come in to yell.

"Priyanka", Tara whispered. "Lets not do it today! Lets - lets go crazy!"
"You mean we should just leave our beds like this?!" I asked
"YES! Think about it. We're going to go to sleep again tonight. No one comes into our room but us. Who cares? Making beds is a silly, waste of time!"
"But mom.."
"She's not here! Thats the best part! She's coming back tomorrow. We'll make our beds tomorrow! Lets take a real HOLIDAY and go nuts!"

We shook hands and bobbed joyfully into the living room. We couldn't be bothered to make toast or breakfast and had cereal in cold milk as we spread out the newspaper to read. We lazed around agreeing that this was Life! Dad had gone to the clinic early in the morning for his rounds and finally came back at noon. We clamoured for pizza as he vainly tried to tell us that mom had left some food in the fridge.

"Home food?!" we scoffed! "On a holiday?!" TREASON! Dad, proved unsuspectingly firm.
"No! I don't want you kids to eat all that junk food. Tell me what you want for lunch and I'll cook us something" he said with all the savoir faire of a professional French chef.

Now my dad is just great. He's a good doctor, he's great at telling stories and flying toy helicopters and he can make the world's best omelettes. But that was the problem. In all my 22 years of experience overlapping with my sister's 19, he'd never cooked anything other than omelettes. We hastened to point this fact out to him in no uncertain terms!

"Hey, you kids don't know anything!" he said warmly. "Why when I was studying in Minnesota, I was the best cook in town. You should have seen what I could come up with. In fact! Infact, if I hadn't become a doctor, I could have got a job as a chef anywhere" he said dreamily. Rosy visions of tossing up concoctions by the bucketful obscured his vision.

We said nothing after that. What was there to say? When dad made his mind up about something, it required only an earthquake or Mom to make him change it. We watched as he hunted vainly for an apron.

"Now you kids just wait here" he said. "And I'll make something so good that you'll never be able to eat anything else again!"

My sister and I cleared out of the kitchen and sat disconsolately by the piano. We waited as we heard the banging of utensils in the kitchen. We listened to dad muttering about, "nobody keeping anything in the proper place" as he searched in vain for the utensils he needed. Suddenly, we heard a large crash, bang and a sharp invective. We rushed to the kitchen, but dad slammed the door and told us everything was just fine and to keep away until he was ready. "Too many cooks" he said darkly and went back.

Finally after being in the kitchen for more than 2 hours, we smelt the appetizing odour of pav bhaji. Dad triumphantly brought a huge bowl of bhaji to the table and in a short time, it was over. Dad hardly ate anything but watched us empty our plates with a large benevolent smile on his face. My sister and I were very impressed! We promised dad we would never doubt him again. We went to the kitchen to clear our plates.

"Traitor" my sister hissed!
I looked in the direction of where she was pointing. There sticking out of the dustbin was part of a large box which said "Ready to eat Pav Bhaji. Add 2 cups of water, leave in the microwave for 10 minute..."

Needless to say we had pizza in the night.

Sunday passed uneventfully and quietly. Dad buried himself in his books to hide his embarrassment over the previous day. In the evening my sister and I made a half hearted attempt to get the house back in order before Mom came home in the night. By the time we had to go to the airport, we gave it up for a bad job. With trepidation we picked Mom up. No sooner had she got into the car than we were regaled with questions about if the house was still standing, did we do the laundry, did we wash the dishes..." "Yes, yes" my sister and I said to everything uneasily more out of habit than anything else. Dad remained silent. His ears were a bright red and we knew he was dreading us telling mom about the cooking fiasco.

Well, Mom entered the house. She said nothing. But in an hour the house was exactly as if she had never left it. We woke up Monday morning to go to college. The washing machine was running. We heard the pop of golden toast, the sizzle of bacon, the morning news. God was in His Heaven. All was right with the world.

Old Note: Swine Flu

I charged into the library, raced into the study room section, grabbed Nathanson and finally collapsed into a convenient chair.
It was around 9 in the night and despite my good resolutions, I was just starting to study for an environmental studies quiz scheduled for 830 am the following day.
I was wholly engrossed as I sat there devouring pages and pages clogged with information on sewage systems when suddenly a resounding "Hey" made me nearly fall off my chair.

I turned around and glared balefully. By disposition I am fierce, stern and formidable. Strong men quail before my glance and it is said that in school when I glared at my hindi teacher, he had to be rushed to the hospital with a nervous breakdown (people say that this could also have been attributed to the fact that he had just completed reading an essay of mine...but till date I refute this rumour vehemently!!)

Anyhow, to my complete amazement the guy at whom my glance was directed did not seem to be affected at all! Infact he did not even seem to realise that he had just transformed a mild and blameless female into a 'vessel of wrath'. He went on smiling and grinning like a cheshire cat.

"Yes", I said in my coldest and most distant voice. "Did you just say 'Hey'?"

The poor fellow now started hopping about and dancing like a kangaroo who had just been given a large dose of laughing gas.

"Ofcourse I said 'Hey'! Infact I have a great deal more to say than that. "Hey hey hey hey hey!!!" he answered.

"Hey hey hey hey to you too. Now I have a quiz tomorrow so please could you 'hey' someone else?" I pleaded.

"But thats the point! I remember seeing you in class and ...its all because of SWINE FLU" the poor chap had resumed his hopping and skipping.

I looked at him in consternation. SWINE FLU??

I continued gaping at him, my mouth opening and shutting like a fish. I had no idea whether to take offense or to take him to the hospital. I was getting more and more convinced that the poor chap was weak in his upper storey.

"What", I said clearly and distinctly, "What exactly do you mean to say?"

By now the poor chap had cottoned on the fact that I was still helplessly and hopelessly groping in the dark. "Classes for the next couple of days are canceled due to swine flu. So no quiz tomorrow!!" he chirruped blissfully and before I could say another word, he "flu" off to the next table to impart the glorious news.

After confirming the news, I got up and left. All along the path I met gangs of ecstatic girls chanting the words "Swine Flu". For the first time I saw everyone united under one banner..even if it was only dubbed 'swine flu'.

That night we had a riotous time. It was only in the cold grey light of dawn when i got back to my room that I really got time to analyse the situation.

The risk is minimal in a secured place like IIT. And I am not really afraid of dying. At least, I dont think I am. But still, when you think of the great Greek and Roman heroes burning in glorious pyres blazing to the sky after having fought for their honour and their country. When you think of great men dying a great and immortal death-that of being assassinated. You cannot but help turning up your nose at that ignominious of all deaths. That by swine flu.

Kathleen

Kathleen the Kite

Yesterday, I walked to the boat house as usual. I went a trifle early. One never really understands the color blue, until one looks up at a blue, blue summer sky. The memory of it sears into our brain and evaporates slowly, leaving only a brilliant impression and a void in its stead; a pang that needs to be assuaged by another summer sky; for no two skies are ever the same.

I would have lingered at the boat house for longer, if an amorous, giggling couple had not come by and disturbed the softly, dizzy waves of heat; breaking in rudely upon the clearing and into my thoughts. Philosophically, I got up to make way for glorious, all conquering love and tripped back onto the little winding path to the main road. And that's when I saw them: A pair of wild gold flecked, brown, proud, austere eyes looking at me. I was face to face with a 'common kite'. It lay huddled in the undergrowth that bordered the pathway. I stood looking down at it, at that wild beautiful thing. I could not get enough of it.

Man is but a chord in the symphony of Life. We are not the supreme, final outcome of a plan whose aim was to produce our species; but merely part of the flow of time, a natural outcome of a deep instinct that is embedded deep within Nature: the second law of thermodynamics. Let us not be so arrogant as to think that we can ever truly conquer Nature, that we can ever label everything with the words: good, bad, evil, or ugly. For everything is just as it has to be. We are part of a far grander cobweb and our intellect can only detect a few threads here and there, which lie within our span of perception. We yearn ,to see the entire pattern, for a glimpse of the whole picture. We vainly try and sew a vest onto a button; interpolate and conjecture what the whole should be from the tiny bit that we hold in our hands. Will we ever get to see what it all really means? Who knows?

But just then, I had Kathleen the Kite with me in my arms and I just wanted her to get better. It did not matter if her laws were different from mine; If Nature wanted her to die, because she was weak. I shook the cobweb of fancy away from me and carried her to my room.

Lakeside

I've got into this habit of haunting lakeside at all times of the day. Early in the morning, when the sky is a dreary watery blue; In the still, hot afternoon; at sunset where I delight in the violent coloring of the sky; and late in the night where the few stars that are left in Bombay burn softly above the lake. The lake is a protective barrier which keeps the real world away and serves as a cushion against the realities of Life.

One can still pretend and dream, away from the cars speeding away to homes or offices; Poles/Centers that form and disappear as the wrinkles in the fabric of our lives alter gravitational fields that tie us or break us, howsoever the force chooses. Do we have control over the creation of those wrinkles? Do we wake up one fine morning, examine our skin like a woman approaching forty and tremble in alarm at a new line? Lines carved by patience or sorrow or feelings that exist beyond our rational selves and that are beyond our control?

The waters ripple past; moon shine so much more elusive and beautiful than the arrogant dancing flecks of sunlit gold, and shrouds the future in a shadowy veil. As long as I'm on this side of the lake, I go on dreaming.

Patricia Brent, Spinster

Yesterday, I read 'Patricia Brent, Spinster' by Herbert Jenkins. The book is about a girl, stuck in life as a secretary, forced to live in a boarding house. She hears the old cats at the house pitying her for not having a man. On an impulse she announces that she will be meeting her fiance at a fancy hotel the next day. This thunderbolt sends all the pussies quivering with curiosity.

The next day she is forced to keep up the pretense and goes to the hotel. She thinks that she will have a quiet dinner alone. Lo and behold she finds the cats have come to spy on her. In a lightening flash, she goes up to a man and asks him to play up to her (The man obviously is a lord and the most eligible man in England) . They have such a good time together, that the inevitable happens, they fall in love. The man tries to better their acquaintance, but the girl gets offended when he pursues her, because her pride cannot take the way in which she forced herself on his acquaintance. Then the man's sister shows them both that they really love each other and it ends with a wedding.

A ridiculous story line and yet it was sweetly told. The girl had all the virtues under the sun from beauty, style to intelligence and is a very satisfying heroine; the man likewise. The most glaring issue in the story however, is 'propriety' and how different classes of society interpret it.

The lords and ladies are least concerned with it, while the less well born, like our heroine are obsessed with it. By contrast, we are introduced to the charming, simple Mr. Triggs who is a noveau riche. He too is unconcerned with class distinctions but tells his simple, sweet lovestory with wet eyes and is seen as a champion of true love.

Mr. Trigg's however is still a millionaire and can afford to be himself, but what about our heroine, Patricia? While reading the book, I felt irritated at how she would not grasp the happiness that was offered to her on the proverbial silver platter. This started me wondering. How important is propriety today, and what does it mean?

My answer is nothing! We have books like Patricia Brent, Spinster. If we went by the book, we would know life from the start. But if we factored in, our knowledge of what happens when one clings to the burdensome mantle of propriety as portrayed in the book; And include our cynical distrust in fairy tales, it all points to one thing: The Breaking Down of Convention. All possibilities has already been explored by the hundreds of writers of yore. Hence, the only thing left to do, is to recognize the story lines in our lives and add our own twists to them. A twist that we have not yet read about.