A few of my favourite things

For much of my time I am a career cynic. I scoff at most people and things. Some are too stupid, others too snobbish. Things are either entirely pointless or just too frivolous. But even within this rigid framework, I do make a few exceptions. One is for bookmarks. I LOVE these. I can ruin perfect holidays in search for one. Sometimes I think the only reason I want to go on a holiday is to find more bookmarks to add to my collection.

The other is slightly more predictable. Stationery. In a stationery store, I transform into a spectacular bumbling idiot. I just stand there and ogle, like a teenager drooling over some namby-pamby boy band; the rows of pens, pencils and books looking at me, making puppy eyes at me, begging me to take them home. And if I am left unguarded, I can do much damage on the bill.

I never have to buy any of the things I buy. I just have to have them, that’s all. As of now, my table holds a regular post-it pad, an xxs post-it pad, a speech bubble shaped post-it pad and an apple shaped one – not because I need to post reminders to myself, for that I have a really cool post-it software installed on my laptop, but because I saw them, and they looked really nice. Really. I have a pen stand spilling over, sagging under the weight it holds. I bought the same stack of pens twice, because I loved them so much. And of course in case I run out of ink or something in the next two years. I have a pack of crayons and a box of pencil colours, coloured paper-clips, paper holder, a little pink stapler, a bookmark, erasers, sharpeners, paper pins, etc, etc, all tastefully tossed into an open green basket, sitting on my shiny brown desk. I usually can’t take my eyes off it, which probably explains so much about my writing.

Habits like these don’t develop over night. They start young. They have to be mastered and turned into an art form over the years. And almost always, as it is with taking to habits, a parent is responsible. In my case it was both. I learnt early. And I learnt quickly. I remember how much I used to love the days leading to the start of a new year at school. In Zambia the new term begins in January, post the crazy New Year parties. By default the first day of the year was spent in recovery and lethargy. The 2^nd and 3^rd day of January were spent sprawled on the carpet, ripping out the twelve months of the last year and dressing my new notebooks in them. We didn’t have uniform brown paper, and the freedom to choose covering paper usually put a creative, almost competitive spin on the process. Since the first day at school was invariably spent in critiquing other students, their bags, new hairstyles and books, the end of every year was spent in choosing the most interesting calendars available. The theory being today’s spectacular calendars make next years fabulous book covers. Mine were generally covered with exotic landscapes, castles and other such natural wonders. Not only did ruined castles and romantic waterways attach themselves brilliantly on to my books, they also helped me slip into a day dream with much ease, during class hours.

One concept I really struggled with in school was the ‘rough book.’ I couldn’t digest the idea of having a book to scribble in, to desecrate, to soil with equations and reminder notes. It made me incredibly uncomfortable to see people around me vomiting their untidiness on these precious notebooks. My rough book was probably the neatest one around; with neat equations, essay and story themes all in bullet points – a), b), c) - even my doodles were neat and pretty.

My pencil box was my most treasured school possession. It used to be filled to the brim with smart yellow, well sharpened pencils, all sitting in a row, awaiting further orders. Once a pencil got too short, I quietly discarded it, and replaced it with a smart new one. When we moved on to pens, life got more interesting. Ink pen, pilot pen or ball point pen? Blue pen or black pen? Since it was compulsory to use blue ink in school, by default I preferred the black one. How many pencils with how many pens? The permutations and combinations that my pen case could hold was a process involving much deliberation, self doubt, agonising and sacrifice.

The introduction of the mechanical pencil, or the pen-pencil, as we knew it, ushered in a whole new era. I started out with the cheap plasticy models and gradually worked my way to the sleeker and definitely sexier Faber Castle. Since I was so obviously in love with my stationery, lending it out always led to a nervous break down of sorts. I can’t stand stingy characters, so I always lent out the extra one. But I never forgot. The lent pen hovered around in my brain like a bee, drowning out all of what was going on around me. And when people absconded, it led to mood swings, incessant mutterings and deep sorrow. I could have just asked for it, but I was always worried about being petty. So after a few tragic episodes, I began carrying a pair of unglamorous-lending pens. A little petty, I know – but it saved me so much heartbreak and lending almost became fun.

Stationery was the only reason I passed math. I lived for math-loathing. I didn’t understand it. I couldn’t solve it. It was only created to torment me. But then I met geometry, more importantly I met the geometry set. I passed my tenth boards solely because of this set. It seemed like a fair trade off – I pay attention in geometry class and be allowed to use all the toys in the box.

As I moved on to college, files and paper joined my collection. Though my allowance never supported it, I collected snazzy files and beautiful crisp white sheets of paper – not that whole sale, by the kilo, yellowish paper for me. I was invariably left with no money at the end of it all, but I was happy. I still am.

Sigh!

I have a sneaky suspicion that the layer of fat that I think I am losing* from my waist is actually making its way up to my brain :(

* very very very very slowly

Out on my terrace the world seems just fine

I sit at the little table on my terrace and write. When it rains, I sit inside, with the doors open. It’s just as nice. All I need is one look around and everything solves itself. The exact right words come to mind and pretty phrases draw themselves up. And for a bit, I truly feel like I was born to write.

I haven’t made up my mind about working from home. I like the relaxed pace of life. I like doing things on my time. And, I manage to do everything, and on good days even more. Maybe it’s not the home bit that’s got me all confused, it’s the work I’m getting. Uninspiring. Insipid. Pointless. Boring. I feel less of a writer with every deadline I meet. But then I go back to my terrace, and figure, it'll be fine.

There’s something about this place, this view that really works for me. The thick green hills with pretty lego homes encrusted in between. I see little green, orange and maroon slanting rooftops, some shooting out wisps of smoke, some blushing into a rose shrub. I listen to the birds sing all day. Up till six, even seven and eight. It’s so soothing. It’s enough to make me reach for my pen.

There’s a twisty little road that runs past, and into the bend. Occasionally it throws up a car or swallows one rolling down. I know what I’ m looking for is just around the corner, around the bend. It will find its way to me. Someday.

The air is crispy, almost sharp. I can taste its sweetness. The sun is shinning through, throwing up different colours of green. A cup of coffee sits simmering by my side, the pages get filled.

I've always wanted to write. Even before I knew how. I was in the eighth grade and we had an English assignment. I penned a story; it was the only time I didn't mind doing the homework. By the time our grades were out, I knew this was what I wanted to do.

There's a new house being built, near by. I can hear the workmen all day. It's a funny house; the balcony looks the wrong way. I wonder what kind of a view they'll have. If it's even half as good as mine, they'll be fine.

SOS

I’ve been wondering and doodling and screaming out in frustration, over the last few weeks. I need to do something with my writing. I need to start somewhere. And I need to start soon, if I mean to accumulate a sizeable fortune before I hit 80. I was wondering if a creative writing course is a good place to start. So, if anyone has taken one, or heard of one, or anything else, please please please do drop me a line. Pearls of wisdom are always welcome.

Pearl Jam – Live in Concert

26th June 2007, Copenhagen

The selfish, they’re all standing in line
Faithing and hoping to buy themselves time
Me, I figure as each breath goes by
I only own my mind

Tuesday morning started with a desperate wait for Tuesday evening, and for a change time flew just as fast as we wanted it to; maybe time is a Pearl Jam fan too.

They said the gates open at 6, and the show starts at 8; so of course the crowds began to gather the night before. The stadium was packed. Danes, Swedes, Brits, a few Indians, and some other accent owners that I couldn't place, all crowded around waiting, watching...

The waiting drove me mad...
You're finally here and I'm a mess.
I take your entrance back -
Can't let you roam inside my head.

And then it happened, just like that, he walked on to the stage, with his guitar and sang. Eddie Vedder was singing on stage. Some people froze in awe (me included), others stomped to his tunes, and others wore looney grins. It was finally Tuesday!

No starry airs, no rock star antics, just a song -Throw Your Arms Around Me, a big hello and an introduction to the opening act - some big noisy mistake from the UK called Future Head. For the next one hour this poor band made their noises under the pressure of opening for Pearl Jam, while the crowd caught up with friends, hoarded up on the beer and queued up to the loo.

And then they were back. Pearl Jam. With a mind blowing set - Long Road, Corduroy, Why Go, Do the Evolution, In Hiding, Love Boat Captain, Love Reign O'er Me (performed live for the first time ever!), Severed Hand, Light Years, Marker in the Sand, Given to Fly, Breath, I Am Mine, Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town, Hard to Imagine, Life Wasted and Porch.

Throats were burning, legs were cramping and hands were sore, but the music kept flowing. The first encore began with a much expected anti-war message -No more (a solo, brilliant of course) followed up by World Wide Suicide, Down, Once, Black and Alive.

After this any hope for the throats was lost, it just got crazier and crazier. No matter how tired you are of Alive, you just couldn't help jumping up and down and screaming out the song. Stomp, stomp, clap, clap, scream, scream.

Turns out Pearl Jam played on the same day, 15 years ago for the first time in Copenhagen. The second encore began with a thank-you from the band to the crowd, and a few words in memory of the accident that killed nine people during a Pearl Jam performance in 2000. Eddie Vedder was as brilliant with the little speech as he was with the music. More screaming, more clapping, more stomping.

Betterman, Yellow Ledbetter and then the lights came on, for the last song of the night – Rockin’ in the Free World. I am not sure how to describe it, I could say it was sensational, but that would be insulting to the band, I could say it was orgasmic, but it won't cover the emotion, I guess you just had to be there.

Any regrets? Sure! No last kiss, that would have been sweeet! And yeah I’d have liked to switch places with the Swedish girl (in my head - COW) who got to jump on stage and exchange kisses with Eddie, loads of little Swede girl voodoo dolls doing the round in Copenhagen, I hope.

I will come to you in the daytime
I will raise you from your sleep
I will kiss you in four places
As I go runnin' down your street ...

six whole months

Six months ago today, I got married, which makes this my half-year anniversary. I am not being mushy or anything, but you have to understand how dangerous the situation could have been, and how sane I have actually turned out to be. In the last six months I could have accidentally burnt down the house, drowned in the dishwasher, slipped in the bathroom, gassed or electrocuted myself, food-poisoned the Husband, or worse scared him away, starved, walked into a tram, frozen to death, suffered severe pani puri withdrawal, choked on bland firang food, acquired a new accent, punched someone in the face (knee more likely) for asking a stupid India question, collapsed under the pressure of being surrounded by skinny Eastern Europeans, collapsed under the pressure of Husband being surrounded by skinny Eastern Europeans. Instead I have survived it ALL, which can mean only one thing: I am really good at this marriage thing :D

I spy with my little brown eye ...

This is what my terrace opens out to :)

It looks even better if you've got some hot coffee and a good book by your side.

Me

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Bits and pieces

I switch on the TV and I see bits of Africa being torn to shreds. I go to the movies and I watch Africa bleeding a brutal death. I open the papers and read obituaries of a place I treasure. And it breaks my heart.

I grew up in Africa. In a small country called Zambia. And in the ten years that I spent there, I learnt almost everything that makes me who I am today. I discovered books there, I poured through libraries full of them, in a childhood not hounded by homework but in the shadows of leafy green trees, behind paperbacks and watching Hindi movies. It is where I first began to write, which in the coming years, I realised, was the only thing I was any good at. It’s where I fell in love with football: the Africa Cup, then the World Cup and then the European Leagues. Tennis followed football and paved a future for cricket.

I spent my holidays in the most amazing places – in safari parks where giraffes reached somewhere above the jungles, chewing leaves off the top of trees and elephants tapped at our windows in the middle of the night. I remember the guides telling us of man-eating lions on the prowl and pointing to a leopard in the tree overhead. I remember having breakfast watching crocs and hippos sunbathe. I remember being completely over awed at the Victoria Falls, not realising that not every kid gets to see what I was growing up with. And I remember almost falling into a river infested with crocs. Happy, happy memories.

Of course, something dark was always looming around. Crime was common and we constantly heard of coups and civil war around the neighbourhood. Rwanda happened when I was 13. And it happened next door. Uganda, Angola, South Africa and Zaire were always near by. And AIDS had just kicked-off. But it still didn’t seem so morbid. It always seemed like things would eventually get better. They never did of course. They just got so much more worse. War. Refugees. Genocide. Landmines. Maimed Limbs. Failed economies. Civil war after civil war. Poverty. Hunger. Disease. Pain. AIDS. Death. Africa.

When I left Zambia, it wasn’t just Zambia, but Africa I rooted for - African teams, African athletes - because they took me back to a time I so loved, bringing back memories of a happy place, full of people with the warmest smiles.

One day, they will get their smiles back.
I hope.

...

I need to write, need to write, need to write, but ...

The view from my window

Six O’clock Surprise

Warm sleep is nudged awake by the singing church bells. It is early. It’s still dark outside. And I can already tell winter is being mean today. I pull my blanket up to my chin and glare at my window.

I Glare. I frown. I squint. I squeal.

Floating past my window pane are soft delicious flakes of snow.
My first snow.

*crazy extremely embarrassing, girly excitement follows*

I forgive the biting cold and the icy floor. I pull on a sweater and pull open the door. Brrrrrrr. The morning air tears into my skin, its sweet scent lost in the view that has been conjured up during the night. Snow-coated roofs and white park benches. Trees all dressed in white trimmings. Tiny flakes precariously perched on twigs and branches. A little black dog surrounded by white. Pink boots and scarves wound up tight.

*dumbstruck awe. or maybe just frozen stiff*

Click.
Click.
Click.
Something to remember it by. And then I shiver, I cling to the warmth hidden in my sweater sleeves and run back to my warm bed.

*yaaaaaaaaaayyy my first snow!!*
*crazy extremely embarrassing, girly excitement follows*

Signing out

It has finally happened. After a year of plotting and planning, the day has come to hang up my oshos and do things other then advertising. It’s been a half decent run, I think. Some memorably forgettable work and some that never saw the light of day (thankfully?). But all is good when the people you work with get rid of you with a warm smile and actually reply to your ok bye email. Of course it was a little weird to see the new boy sitting on ‘my’ comp. I wanted to tell him that he’d inherited a lousy machine, one that’s slower then Inzy and that it will almost always let him down. But then I thought, let him find out the hard way. A couple of weeks here and he’ll figure out it gets much worse :) Also my boss asked me to stay on in the sweetest way ever, it’s a memory that’ll always stay with me. So at the end of it all, am I happy? Hell yes, I realised somewhere between a barf worthy ad I was writing and a stab me now brochure that even though this was (at least occasionally) fun, I didn’t want to spend my life writing fun as a ringworm leaflets and yawn yawn when will this end AVs. So I've decided to move on and find me something new to do. What exactly I know not, but it will most definitely involve lots of travel and loads of writing. And hopefully, I’ll end up exactly where I should be. So till then adios advertising, and adios;

Think some more (but …but, I can’t)
But where is the idea? (THAT IS THE IDEA)
It’s been done (not by me, it hasn’t!)
I want an option (fuck off)
Your book is not crazy enough (*quiet simmering rage*)
But where are visual ideas? (I am a writer, asshole)
The brief has changed (what? what?)
It’s nice, but … (BUT?)

Sweet sweet relief!

:)

Black!

I am back after four days in Goa with sea shells and a chocolate brown tan. The shells are really pretty but the tan didn’t find too many fans. Some sample reactions;

Mortified aunt: Oh my god, have you become dark?

Mortified aunt 2: Why are you looking so dark today?

Mortified aunt 3: Tan! Why did you even go to Goa?!

Mortified aunt 2 again: You will become normal again, na?

Mum: Haven’t you ... washed your face today? (Hmmm)

Mortified aunt 3 again: You shouldn’t have gone only.

Am expecting some fair and lovely advice to follow soon, will keep you all posted. Sigh.

Interrupted

It’s a glorious Saturday morning.

The sun is hiding behind fat white tufts of cloud. Last night’s rain has been soaked in by the cobbled pathways around. The trees are dancing in bright green outfits, with little clusters of colourful flowers as trimmings. The air is crispy and crunchy as it hits my face. Work is adjusted to interfere only on Monday morning. It’s the perfect day to grab a book and make place on the window sill. I take one last look at the world walking by before the words take me away. Aunties in bright pink saris make their way from the local grocer. There’s breakfast to be made and eager stomachs to be pleased. Old uncles walk by in white, smiling as they remember carefree stories from yesterday. A chirpy teenager chatters away excitedly into her phone, it’s just the kind of day when you want to fall in love. School is out and a bunch of kids are planning their next game. Who will bat, who will bowl, wait let me fix the stump. They scream and they fight. Holler at each other. Who will be in my team? I don’t want the fat boy, he can’t run. It’s my bat, I’ll start. Throw the ball, throw it here you fool! Little grudges accumulating for a final showdown.

My glorious Saturday morning is turning into a little riot.

If only I could slap the little hooligans, I’d be able to save the day and savour the words.

Stopped in my tracks … almost

I can’t access blogspot. And it’s killing me.

No, let me rephrase, I couldn’t access blogspot. And it was killing me. But as always there is more then one way to get the job done.

Which brings me to the people blocking my morning read. Here's the statement from some government representative on the blocking of blogspot and 11 other sites in the country, it’s priceless, take a read:

"We would like those people to come forward who access these (the 12) radical websites and please explain to us what are they missing from their lives in the absence of these sites."

This got me thinking. See, I’ve always harboured a secret ambition of being an adventurous outlaw. The kind who lives in a dense jungle, defying the authorities and fighting guerrilla wars. I’ve never been able to meet this dream, of course, for a number of reasons. The most obvious being, I’m chicken. Being very scared of scary things like violence, arrest, blood, cut-open bodies, Indian lawyers, (shudder shudder!) torture (ugh!) made this a highly improbable career choice. But suddenly everything has changed. And today, I stand among illustrious fellow outlaws; Robin Hood with his bow and arrow, Che* with his philosophy and an ever-growing line of tee shirts and Me with my blog.

On with the revolution, I say!

* comparison to Che made only for spectacular effect and not in a state of sensless self-illusion.

Oh! In news just in, the block is off! Bye Bye Robin. Later Che ...

Wanted

We’re back on track. And we’re much wiser.

This morning I hopped off the train and walked right into two neatly dressed cops. Standing outside the first-class compartment in their crisp khaki saris and tidy plaits they scanned me for any potential terrorist threat. One of them obviously found a glimmer of terror in me and promptly got to work. From lazy strolling cop she suddenly became all business, barking her order in perfect textbook cop style ...madam bag check please.

Nothing wrong in that, I thought, she’s just doing her job. And the obedient citizen I am, in a show of faith, I flashed her a bright happy smile. Shit! Wrong move. You never smile at cops. You scowl or you cower but you never smile. She almost cart wheeled in delight as she gave her colleague a triumphant ‘I told you so!’ look. My flashing smile had openly betrayed my criminal intent, more reason then to probe the contents of my bag. After all bags can carry some pretty scary things. Other then your everyday bombs and hand grenades you could be carrying scary bubblegum strips, cruncy red apples, broken pencils, rubberbands, sharp nibbed pens, dirty handkerchiefs. The list is terrifying and endless.

I opened my bag and tried to guide them through the hundred different things in it, but once again, I was curtly stopped. Again, I gave her the benefit of doubt. She had a point; I could be up to some mean mischief, I could detonate unknown devices using a remote control hidden in my bag. I could be carrying a touch-and-boom-we-all-explode contraption. I could have nerve gas and trigger off even more trouble. My hand in my bag could be the end of our world, making this a very dangerous situation. And so my hand stayed exactly where it was, hanging aimless from my shoulder while her hand gingerly shuffled through my stuff. Pens, paper, book, tissue, more scraps of paper, empty chips packet, blah, blah, blah… damn where were the usual suspects?

The bag gave me a clean chit but not the cops. They had another brainwave, hoping to catch me on the wrong foot. What’s your name they asked me, where are you coming from. Brilliant! If I were a part of the movement for mass destruction, I would definitely tell them my name and where I come from. It is but natural. For that matter I would also alight from a crowded train during rush hour, just after a major mishap in the city carrying a nasty device in my bag. Obviously.

Then again, they were just doing their overworked underpaid job. So what if it was a lousy attempt. Finding nothing in me to suit the profile of a closet terrorist, they reluctantly thanked me and let me go. And focussed their energies on some other equally terrifying person hopping off the next train.

A Birthday. A Book

I have a young cousin, an offline version of Wikipedia. The more I meet him, the more certain I am of having accidentally missed a few crucial years of basic education. This super smart kid turned a year older recently. And the onus of buying him a present to match fell on my muddled shoulders.

Now here's a kid who lives for science and logic. For strange mechanical things he calls toys. For gadgets and computer games. None of these are words from my world. What do they mean? Where are they found?

I was stumped. Stumped till a timely bout of panicked inspiration hit me. And in his world, full of 101 questions, Pokemon and Midtown madness, I planted a magical tree.

If you've read the Far Away Tree Stories, you know just what I mean. I read this book as a kid and I still remember every twig in the story. I remember walking around trees, wondering which one was the magical one. Peering up in search of magical lands floating by. And waiting for strange creatures to show up and take me on a tour of their homes, hidden on the branches of the tree outside my room.

That's the beauty of a book. It's so much more then just a book. It's a whole lot of brilliance bound between the covers. It's a window that opens up to the past. To what life was before the arrow keys and the space bar. I suddenly had the urge to prise the old window open. And let the fresh breeze flow in. To let it drag me out of these four-cornered rooms of logic we are caged in. And to jump out and explore again. Those strange strange worlds of childhood. Did we live in those worlds or did those worlds live with us?

Let’s go back to the old times. A world of magic and wonder. Let's dump logic in the background of reality and get carried away in a swirl of make-real.

Instead of furiously clicking at an immobile mouse, your finger chases a crawling string of words that push each other endlessly across yellow doggy-eared pages. And your mind stretches and unwinds as little by the little the story unfolds.

A Matter of Taste

I was happy. I was unaware. I was moving along in life just fine, when a chance encounter with illness violently spun me off the track. And within a span of 48 seemingly simple hours, my whole life changed.

It all began in that vile hospital room. I was helplessly minding my own business like any other patient, when they suddenly unleashed the Nutritionist on me. No permission, no knocking, she just came stomping into my room and spat the fun out of my life.

As she stared at me, I could almost see the words swirling around her big cruel head, “Oooh this one looks too happy to deserve to be happy. Me wants to unhinge that little untroubled smile! Me wants to throw a spanner in that plate full of joy. Double double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble!”

And just like that gone were the blissful days of gorging on the unhealthy. Junk forcefully made way for nutrition. And after 24 years of persistently scorning the salad, I suddenly had to face it in my plate. The sheer trauma of the situation earned me two long weeks of bed rest.

I still haven’t recovered. In fact, things have gotten worse. These days a pocketful of pills and an evil diet plan constantly trail me from the shadows. And I am forever plagued with meal time nightmares. Each unnerving episode has the same story to tell. I am sitting for my meal when my peaceful plate is ruthlessly taken over by a huge, leafy green monster. And as I desparetly try to scamper away from it, the monster swells, comes even closer and mercilessly gobbles me up.

Burp.

Miracle drug

Is there any cure for parents?