An ode to rain

As I sit here and contemplate, a cup of chai in hand,

My heart sings and appreciates the weather of this land.

Below eye level flooded but when you look up there's mist,

The breeze might make me leave my room - yes! This hardened librocubicularist!

The dust and sweat of that last week have all been washed away,

Rejoice! Enjoy this brief respite! Enjoy these clouds of grey!

Book Review: The Shiva Trilogy

Warning: If you are a rabid fan, stop reading this now. If you haven't read the books yet, Spoiler Alert!

I heard about The Immortals of Meluha (Part One of this trilogy) when I was in tenth. Later, I met some friends who were mad about the books and kept telling me to read them. However, my earlier skirmishes with ex-IIM authors *coughChetanBhagatcough* were rather unpleasant, so I went into reading this series with a good dollop of skepticism.

A quick overview:
These books tell the story of Shiva, the Hindu god, as though he was a human and not a divine being. Along the way you meet plenty of your favorite mythological characters from stories we've all heard as children from our grandparents.

The stuff I liked:
The concept blew me away. Amazing idea, and matching this story to the legends we've heard throughout our lives (like Ganesh being a Naga) is an adventure. I liked the feminist portrayal of women, especially Sati. Daksha's descent into madness was one of my favorite plotlines. The philosphical conversations between Shiva and the Vasudevs were what I looked forward to.

The stuff I didn't like:
The writing style was just too unrefined. Now, I know I'm going to get a lot of flak for this, with people saying "English isn't our first language! Simple writing encourages Indians to read English!" etc etc but would a little more description hurt anyone?! Some of the sentences were just downright childish, and I cringed at every fully capitalised dialogue. Writing "He shouted" is sufficient. In the Internet age, that is particularly disturbing. Also, the author's obsession with explaining every Sanskrit term is a little wearing. Either a glossary or footnotes would have worked much better than trying to fit the definition into the same sentence as the word.
This lack of elaboration meant that I didn't connect with any of the characters. By the end of it, I didn't identify with, idolise or even pity any of them.

I have more fundamental problems with the characters too, though. For all the hype about portraying Shiva as "human", I don't see him ever being in the wrong. Nothing he does, from changing the law to marry Sati,  to suddenly deciding the Somras is evil, to using the Pashupatiastra to destroy a city, nothing is questioned. He never makes a mistake in his judgement, never faces the consequences of his actions. He is apparently uncomfortable in his role as the Neelkanth, but abuses that power throughout.

Overall, The Shiva Trilogy gets away with having a great concept and plotline. However, the simplistic writing style ruins it. The story had immense potential. A little more time and effort would have made it better. It's a promising beginning to this new genre (I don't know what to call it! Mythological fiction?) and I'd like to see more authors trying it out.

2.5 stars out of 5.

What is Growing Up?

The process of growing up starts off small, with things like Barney. I was one of those kids who are old before their time, always worried about where Barney appeared from and anxious about the baby in the Teletubbies' sun (I always wondered how it wasn't burning, since it was laughing)

There comes a time when being grown up is sleeping in a separate room and being allowed to sleepovers. It's ordering your own food for the first time. It's when not wanting to sleep when you're supposed to morphs into wanting to sleep when you're not supposed to. For me, growing up was being pulled away from my favorite books to another set of books that were never as captivating but are apparently more necessary.

Growing up is going from giggling at sex scenes in books to reading Stieg Larsson without batting an eyelash, but never losing your belief in magic. It's understanding Harper Lee on a whole new level and discovering untold giants like Asimov and Zusak.

When you figure out you'll never look like her (at least on the outside) and give up, you think you've grown up. But really growing up is realising that it doesn't matter and trying to make your inside beautiful instead. I haven't grown up this way yet. I wonder if I ever will.

Growing up is when your parents finally listen to your opinion like it matters. But often it's about realising that your parents are flawed too. This sort of creeps up on you. I don't remember when it happened. But suddenly finding yourself on equal footing with them is scary and unsettling and thrilling all at the same time.

People think growing up is about becoming adequate. But in almost eighteen years I have never felt adequately grown up, and I don't think I ever will.
To me, growing up isn't about losing that feeling of inadequacy.
It's about realising that you never will.

Have I, then, grown up?
Maybe.

Today, I cried. I cried for that unidentified girl who was brutally gang raped in a bus in Delhi. I cried for all the 635 women raped over the past year, the ones courageous enough to report it and the ones who weren't. I cried in my anger at the men responsible, and then realised how misdirected those thoughts were. Because in between my sobs, the reality emerged: It is not them. As John Green put it, " There is no them. They are facets of us." We let them do this to us. We let our capital city become the rape capital because we do not fight effectively. In our blind anger, we stir up the media, organise protest marches and forget about them a month later. Instead of channeling our anger into change that lasts, we choose to let it fizzle out without an impact.

I called my friend Deepthi in tears.
"I'm losing my faith in humanity", I said.
"You can't. YOU are one of humanity", she replied.

They say tears are the refuge of the weak, but mine have made me stronger. There will be no more tears. From now on, every drop will be utilized for a change. To fight, to fight effectively, and make it last. I haven't figured out how to do this yet, but I will.

Dreams

I am young.
I have dreams.

Remember when I was five and I wanted to be an astronaut, inventor and author?
I'm sure you did too,
We all did as children.
Reaching out with my tiny arms to grasp my future with all the strength I could muster,
Just the way I wanted all the books or all the cookies.
My childish "All mine!" extending to my life, my career.
Wanting everything there is to offer in this world in one breath.

I never thought I'd feel the same way again.
But here I am, with my arms stretched out and grasping my future even tighter.
For now it's closer, dearer, more tangible.
The thought that I never imagined I'd have:
"There is so much to do, only one life to live.
So much to get, and so much to give."
Every feeling there is. Every taste, every touch,
I want it all before I die.

So in the end, I'm still here.
That five year old girl screaming "MINE!" with her death grip on her dreams.
Refusing to let go of any, with my constant refrain of
"I want everything there is to offer in this world".

But dreams are slippery things.

A book for free

As a child, when I was still young and naive,
I kept searching for someone,
Someone who'd give me a book for free.
Walked into a bookshop, knocked on his door to ask the manager if he could give one to me.
But he just shrugged and shook his head.
Sent me to the publishers instead.
"Go ask there, child, and maybe
They'll give you a book for free."
So I went to the publishers, asked them too
While they tutted like they had better things to do.
Shrugging, simultaneously pushing me out the door,
"The paper factory!", they said, "Paper's what we pay for."
Then I went to that factory, belching steam and smoke.
I swear I thought it was their idea of a joke
When the workers there laughed at my query and said
"Go ask the tree!
Maybe he'll get you a book for free."

I stumbled through the woods, tired and worn,
My unswerving confidence silently torn.
No one! That I could clearly see.
No one could give me a book for free.

With the spirit that our young know best,
With a calmness and poise that belied the rest,
I sat down to refresh myself, contemplate.
To examine my innocent and childish faith.

I was so sure, you see, that I'd find that person who'd give me that book.

It was then that I realised what I'd always known,
The truth.
Books aren't about the paper or ink.
Those are the preservatives for the actual thing.
Books are about the words.

So you don't really need to ask the tree
Because in our hearts we have thousands of books just waiting to burst forth.
And they're all for free :)

Note: Maaybe, inspired a little bit by Fahrenheit 451. And I don't understand some of what I write myself, so feel free to interpret it however you want. If I figure out what I meant exactly, I'll let you know :)


Let me know what you think, honestly. I need feedback if I want to improve!

Links

Note: Something different this time, basically teenage angst served up with a metaphor :D

Interpret the ending however you'd like to :)

In the beginning, She created both the same and decided they would be soulmates to each other. She named them "friends".

A bond was forged, a metal chain around their waists.

Each link of that chain was created with infinite effort, a marvel of engineering. But its building blocks were not mere rocks and sand. Each link was made of trust, and affection, and mutual understanding.

She tied the chain tight, cinched around them, and said:

"This chain will enable each to be present for the other; to provide help and support and to remain together for as long as they wish. However, this will not last forever. They must work at maintaining this chain, adding new links when needed and removing some when no longer required."

In was thus that She left them.

For a while, they were happy, scurrying around tirelessly in their attempts to keep the chain bright and new. They attended to it in their spare time, often devoting hours to forging new links for it.

Their friendship flourished, and She was relieved.

Until one day, the first changed.

The first no longer had time to maintain the chain and got caught up elsewhere, leaving the other to peg away at their bond. Alone.

What the first failed to realise was that the chain would not remain unless worked upon at BOTH ends.

And so the chain slowly dissolved, falling to the ground link by link while the other continued trying to salvage its remains.

She was horrified, but there was nothing She could do. As each link fell to the ground, it turned to corrosive ash that dug into the soil, until the same place where the chain once gleamed against the earth was a ravine with steep, impassable cliffs on either side and a deep river at the bottom.

At this point the second gave up, and laying down those worn-out tools thought, "If the first won't try, why should I?"

Both lost, yet too proud to cave in to their need. Sitting on either side of the ravine with backs to each other and noses in the air.

Meanwhile, ivy was creeping up the impassable cliffs.

My exam superstitions

So, since exams are around the corner (already started in my case), I thought I'd address my inner insecure idiot and list out all of the superstitions I have regarding exams :)

Now, I hope I'm not the only one out there who does these things, but I'm pretty sure everyone has their own variations of stuff like this:

1. I have a pair of lucky gold earrings my grandmom gave me when I was a baby, and I NEVER EVER go to write an exam without wearing them.

2. I have to have a family member feeding me a spoonful of dahi with sugar before I leave, and I cannot take it by myself, someone has to put it in my mouth.

3. I used to be obsessive-compulsive about writing only with an fountain pen, but the last exam I wrote with a ballpoint and I did better than usual, actually. So I'm having to revise my thoughts about that one :)

4. The morning of the exam, I have to go through my books one last time, no matter how "unhealthy" it is.

Yeah, that's pretty much it. I'd like it if you could let me know what your superstitions are, just so that I can feel a bit better about myself :D

Ghosts of a summer past

A cool breeze on my face as I stretch luxuriously after hours of studying.

Tendrils of hair tickling my nose and the scented night air.

The light of a bulb, bleaching any colors to yellow and gray.

The frantic scratch-scratch-scratch of a pencil, sharp shadows against a single-lined paper background.

Earphones, Lady Gaga and Zor Ka Jhatka.

Quadratic Equations and Mensuration.

Then sudden, glorious freedom!

Bright nailpolish, Dexter, swimming and mangoes

Ghosts of a summer past.

A year has come and gone.

A new season of Dexter will soon begin, mangoes will flood the markets and pools will throw off their plastic covers.

Already I leave my windows open, savoring the warm, sweet air flowing through my bedroom.

Nothing has changed.

The radio stations have the latest Bollywood hits to replay, until we become zombies, singing Chikni Chameli in our sleep.

Derivatives and Conic Sections replace those old topics I now view with scorn.

Yes, nothing has changed at all,

Nothing but me.

Because those ghosts of a summer past continue to haunt me.

Embrace The Sari

Today, I had gone to a handloom expo held in my city where textile traders from all over the country came together to exhibit their work. When we were leaving, I saw a fully grown woman with her son and husband, waving her hands and stomping her feet in frustration. Listening closely, I realised she was throwing a tantrum saying, "That chanderi sari we saw back there... I want THAT one." :)

I was immensely entertained, but that's not the point. The only things I can think of that could induce so much passion in a woman's heart are shoes, bags, and saris. We LUST after them. There's just something about seeing yards of beautifully floaty brocaded cloth draped along the walls of a stall, the feel of smooth silk between your fingers, the intricacy of embroidery around the edges and the deep, bright colors. Just fingering the material makes you want to buy it and wrap it around yourself and never let it go.

I know this sounds almost creepily intense, but I have never gone to a sari shop without coming home half in tears because my mother wouldn't let me buy one. And she does have a point. I would never dream of wearing a sari to design class or to a movie with friends. What bothers me is, why is wearing a sari such a big deal? Teenagers in so many other countries embrace their national dress (no matter how odd it is), but here in India we have such an elegant and beautiful way to dress ourselves and we pick jeans and skirts instead.

My great-grandmother (Mother’s grandmother) is the only person I know who can wear a 9-yard sari by herself. I find that number horrifying. The nau-var (nine-yard) is a traditional Maharastrian technique of draping a sari that goes around your legs like a pair of pants. Tell me, could there be anything more convenient for the modern woman? Draping 9-yards is a dying art, and I hope that I’ll be able to learn it in my lifetime to pass on to my daughters and keep the tradition alive.

No matter what people think, draping a sari doesn't take more than five minutes with practise. It's elegant, chic, sexy, empowering... Everything a woman aspires to be. Saris look beautiful on full, curvy Indian figures (I actually think that skinny people look rather stick-like in saris) and can be dressed up or down just as easily as the little black dress. They're perfect.

I do know that most girls end up wearing saris at school farewells or for family functions, but why can’t that be extended to regular use as well? Our grandmothers do it, even our moms do it sometimes, so why can’t we? Decide a day with your friends when you’ll just randomly show up at class wearing saris. Try to drape a sari yourself, at least once. Experiment with 9-yard and 5-yard saris, go to the movie theatre wearing saris… start the movement. The main thing to realize is that wearing a sari isn’t something monumental or exceptional. Make it a part of your life. Rub the cloth on your cheek, obsess over the zari and gota work with your friends, revel in the lushness of the pallu and swish the pleats at the bottom. Buy special shoes to match your saris and see what a backpack looks like as an accessory. Hug saris. Sleep in them. Embrace the sari as a piece of clothing, not as a rare treasure, and use it that way. That’s the only way saris are going to survive their seemingly inevitable fate of storage in boxes and the smell of mothballs.