There are exactly 30 days of school remaining and that is really, very, strange. To think that in just another month I'll go from being a schoolgirl to a preparing-for-boards-and-college girl.

I guess what's even stranger is how I won't miss school. Not sure how to feel about that. Do I cry or do I just be my usual awkward self? It's nothing I can control. Whatever will be will be. Que sera sera. I've changed school so many times I don't really feel particularly sad to be leaving school as opposed to not being able to go to any school any more. That's the sad part. Approaching adulthood.

And maybe I'm just overthinking it and scared out of my mind about inconsequential stuff, but essentially, what I'm griping about here is how time is just flowing past these days, like water. And I don't like how I can't tell that flow to please slow down. It won't listen to me anyway. A flow has a grander purpose than the groans of a 17 year old girl.

A 17 year old girl who will be 18 in a matter of three months, will be giving her boards in barely less than two. My own syllabus hasn't been covered yet. Good grief.

Ah well. Que sera sera.

A few pictures from my last children's day though.

Of Double Dates and Rainy Days (and smooching upstairs)

This was the double date. 

With our friends Arshia and Soham.

I can't even begin to express how lovely it was. This took place on the 29th of September, during our puja break. It was Nobomi, the 9th day of Durga Ma gracing our Earthen abode. Plans made a little impromptu, very new to me, we left. I informed mum properly this time and she gladly allowed. She was a little relieved, I believe. We were very excited because in spite of the fact no one was saying it blatantly- it was, a double date. 

We had planned everything on a whatsapp group we now call Amazing Grace, punning on Arshia Grace Manavalan's name. :3

So our plan was to meet at Soham's, and then set off for Salt Lake to see the pandals there. Arshia texted me beforehand saying, "Please come at 10. Not before that. I need to snog him. Don't tell Rounak." I didn't. Not then, anyway. I told him later and we giggled. We had already had our chance by then. 

Meeting Rounak's mum and Soham's mum, we set off. We went to see Nobodurga near Sitala Mandir, which was incredibly majestic. The lions were impressive. 

I'll type a full blown out post later. This has been on hold for a long while. I'll just upload it now. 

Lovely day, you shall be remembered. 

Terrified forevermore.

I'm terrified.
I'm terrified of the building collapsing on me as the Earth shakes from the tectonic plates clashing together, the brick and cement structure coming crashing down on my body, all of 70 kilograms, crushing every bone in my body and squeezing me like a sponge, except water does not come out.
I'm terrified of pain.
Of the many probable ways my death can take place and the umpteenth ways it can hurt. There's always capacity for more pain, just like there is more capacity for love and compassion.
I'm terrified of meaninglessness.
Often now and then, I slip into a place where everything is bereft of it's energy. Where I am nobody and nothing. Nothing matters any more.
I'm terrified of not being a somebody.
I'm terrified of the immensity of time, of it's almost-tyrranical tick. The sands of time slipping by, shifting restlessly.
I'm terrified of the memory where I believed I would forever be alone.
I would forever have to live by myself, and it wouldn't matter, because I wouldn't have any one. It certainly hurt less then than it does today.
I'm terrified of losing my love.
Of my love slipping away from me. Of his being so distant, and I don't just mean physically, but emotionally, that reclaiming his attention, his time, is a tedious task rather than a pleasurable pursuit. Of the desperation that entails. I am scared of the desperation I sometimes feel as dread fills my lungs and it hurts to breathe because your chest is so tight. So impossibly tight.
I'm forever terrified of a million things.
Of the uncountable probable ways I might die, of the memory of a time when I didn't know you guys, of pain, of losing him.
Yes, I'm always terrified.
Always, always. Of the iron-click of the manacle that hinders, of the chains of society that force you to slog relentlessly, without respite. Of the unfathomable ways in which a human life is rendered so fragile in the environment one lives with at large. Of the ephemeral flame of life. Of the scarring effect of pain. Of the moments of fleeting, wholesome happiness. Because they never return again. And so, like Norwegian Wood taught me, I seize them unflinching.
Always terrified.
Yet without something to lose, would I have met you my fiersome, wholesome, stupendously terrifying lifeline?
I am always terrified.
And perhaps that is why, I can't help but love you with all my might. Despite the despair of pain. Despite the many uncountable ways I might die.
My bittersweet, wholesome, terrifying love.

Stretching out my arms,
I let them comfort me..
Our bodies moving in the dark
It takes the pain from me.

And then I am in love,
With everyone I see,
I keep on moving
In the spaces where you used to be.

A few days ago when I returned home from tuition, here are a few things that I saw.

A murder of crows perched atop a laburnum.
Fluffy white clouds whisked into a white-turquoise expanse.
A Muslim mum cuddling her child.
Her child's head turned at a right angle with his mouth agape.

A few days ago when I returned home from tuition, here are a few things that I thought.
(Or rather questions).

Is he studying right now?
How must Ms Sharma feel teaching at Heritage?
Did she find another favorite student?
Am I a hypocrite to be missing her only now?
Do I really hate Pramanik?

A few more thoughts.

He'll definitely top.
It must be better than our school.
Probably, yes.
It wasn't possible to miss her all the time. It's not wrong to be missing her now. Point is, we're missing her. I am missing her. She was a great teacher. She gave me confidence in a time when I sorely needed it. When he wasn't here and sometimes I felt unbearably sad her classes were beautifully reassuring. Her words on literature being life deeply resounded, and will never leave me. Haven't yet left me. I deliberately avoid talking to her.
No; I don't hate her but I can't love her. But I admire her for her strength.

It's like when I was reading Breakfast at Tiffany's, I came across this absolutely great quote. Gorgeous.

"Doc really loves me, you know. And I love him. He may have looked old and tacky to you. But you don't know the sweetness if him, the confidence he can give to birds and brats and fragile things like that. Anyone who ever gave you confidence, you owe them a lot"

I wanted to cry thinking how much I owed her. There I was, in a new school yet again, this time of my own accord, finally of my own accord, and unsure of being there. All other times I was escaping from something. Escaping, hence sure of my being wherever I was. Escaping from the humiliation of being with girls in GDB to Jamshedpur. Escaping Kashfin's grasp on me and Jamshedpur's sleepy stance, back to Kolkata. This was the first time I was actually leaving some place. And it was so sad. And I was so unsure. And I missed everyone so damn much.
And there was ma'am all ready to assure me and Vedika and Sneha that we'd make it even if we failed in other subjects. Me and Sneha, that shifting from CBSE was really the right thing if we got to meet a person so great.
Me, that it was somewhat okay to be there, where he wasn't.

Fox gets annoyed and sardonic whenever I can't answer why I am at MHS. I thought the question was answered, but it's still not. And it won't be. And we'll forget about it later for it will be inconsequential then. But right now it matters. And I really don't know, because no one is here. And there is nothing. And yet there is something.

A few days ago when I returned home from tuition, I saw a bit and I thought quite a bit more. And I was happy. Not the euphoric kind, or the joyous kind. Not even the treacherous realm I described two years ago. No; I was happy. A peaceful kind of happy. Even as things crumbled, there was something to look forward to. Primrose promises and grey dreams. Gay happiness. The Supreme Court ruled in favor of fundamental privacy rights, Fox was planning to come over, I finally missed ma'am with all my might, but things were better. I would meet him now and in the pujas. I would pass my exams because I felt sure of myself. I would meet ma'am during the pujas. It was okay to be there where he wasn't, where all that I had loved with a fierce passion wasn't, because things were finally beginning to make a little sense. I identified with the daily news better, English classes made more sense, I took notes, Sociology made sense, I could connect with History better, I realised more things about myself. Growth is a good time; the only time.

Though I still can't answer why I am here where he isn't, even if it made so much sense to leave where I was at that time, it's better now. Somewhat. We meet and it feels impossibly lovely. We met today. There is sadness. Feelings of inadequacy. That's nothing new or great. Everyone has their personal confusions to be muddled and be riddled with. It's okay. We'll get there.

When I get like this, I feel nostalgic. I feel like re-reading Perks of Being a Wallflower. I end up missing everything I've ever done and everywhere I've ever been.

The other day Shubhangi said I was friendly and expressive. That's another thing, I've become expressive only recently. I'm still the same awkward person who can't chat about inane things with random people. But Puri said, "You're crazy in a relatable way" which made a lot of sense, and explains why people approach me.

This only happens in Kolkata. I swear, I owe this city so much. I love this city. I called it a trap-town and I maintain it is a trap town. You'd want to leave it when you grow up but you wouldn't be where you are without it. It's a great woman. A woman you'll truly love. For some the only woman they'll ever truly love. Dressed in desire, lazily sultry.

I've ranted on and on. Nothing's okay, but when I write it feels as if it is. I present it like it is. And maybe it really is. I don't know anything. I stay confused always. Writing gives me a sense of control and order, as if everything makes sense when it in reality does not. I have not been able to write anything, and yet I'm typing away. Maybe it's not beautiful and nothing amazing, but it's me. And incidentally I am writing about me. I feel so narcissistic, but can't help it because writing holds me together. It's like Watanabe writing letters to hold his life together.

I know I won't be a writer, I only ever write for myself and for those I love. That is why this blog is private. But it's also saddening to realize that I can't write, can't produce anything significant on paper, because all I ever did was write for myself. As I'm doing now. Essays hurt if they can't dwell on the personal. That is my fault I guess. Way too much subjectivity.

Ah, enough thinking. I'll stop.

But a final thought- if I grow up to find myself all alone, how shall I ever survive? 

I will myself to write from day to day, the struggle is so arduous and so meaningless. Nothing comes of it. Whatever I write seems trite and devoid of meaning and just irrevocably stupid. Almost as if I've used up my allocated supply of wit and humour and warmth and just am this boring and eggheaded of a person. Someone Scout would describe having a conversation with, as, slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean. But then again that has always been my impression of myself in social contexts. Any social context.
Sometimes the words come to me and a strand emerges, leading somewhere. The trouble then, becomes, not knowing where the strand leads. I could follow and find out, except that when I try to I impose my own meanings upon the strand and become conscious of imposing it. The thread is lost with consciousness. Rust Cohle called it the biggest tragedy of mankind, I do not concurr.
It's like this. Sometimes you know what you value. Sometimes the reasons for why you love what you love are just out there, spread on the table, like plates with your breakfast heaped on top. But you can't will yourself to eat. You can't partake of a single morsel. The French toast looks sumptuous, the coffee smells divine. The pancakes are swimming with honey and apples as fresh as the grapes accompanying are all there, laid out. But you just can't eat. To eat would be torture. It's almost as if you've forgotten how to eat, your stomach does not remember how to enjoy the food. Maybe you could forcefeed, because if you don't eat anything for a long time you'll die, of course. And this is the sixth month of you not being able to write already. The pancakes really do look inviting. The coffee is the right colour and just what you need early morning. Aromas coalesce and rouse your appetite the teeniest bit. You pop a grape between your lips.
And then, of course, it is hell. You wonder why you even began to eat. You just can't swallow this. Accepting this grape would be nothing short of subjecting yourself to Azkaban. Of course you don't want to go to Azkaban. You won't be allowed to use magic in any form, and you won't meet your loved ones as much as you'd like. You can't do this. You spit it out. You wait for another day.
Execept, of course, you can't. Not now. This is not the time. You're too scared of atrophy. Of becoming someone who can't employ the beautiful symbolism and imagery you once could. You wonder: could you do it then, too? Then you stop. Life is a cycle of endless doubting of the self. Can't take the stress. Can't handle it.
So you try roundabout ways of eating the grape. Of course you begin with the grape. First you simply lick it, trying to feel your way around it to be able to feel comfortable enough to swallow, if not chew. It doesn't work. The slow almost-sensual exploration of this tiny fruit just spurrs on your distaste. Then you close your eyes and try to blaze your way through, chewing it ferociously and swallowing with the utmost willpower. Then of course, you belch. Vomit. So much for forcing yourself.
Maybe you could try grape with custard. So you do. Your sister's custard is good enough, or at least as you remember it from a year ago. You dip the grape, pop it in and take a bite. Chew. It's still horrible but at least you can continue chewing. A few more chews have you spitting it out, but the point has been made. So now you keep trying to have the grape with custard. Endlessly. Every hour you try to have it with custard. Soon it makes you sick. But you will yourself to continue until you can swallow without feeling like Gollum.
And one day you do.
Your joy knows no bounds. Finally you can enjoy eating the food you love so much. You cut into hot and gooey pancakes, with chocolate syrup this time. Put a bite to your mouth. Hmm. It tastes good the first few seconds then it goes back to tasting slightly trite, then utterly plebian. At least it's not disgusting, but your ultimate aim, which was to experience the joys of eating a marvellous English breakfast as if for the first time every day, to capture that magic, has been rudely shattered. You realise that you can never, ever, experience that ethereal ephemeral insanity again. That moment of stupendous magic and inspiration, when laws ran amok and anything was possible. It's gone leaving nothing, zilch, nada. You plow your way through breakfast gloomily, all you want now is to sleep. Sleep sleep sleep. Eternal sleep.
Slowly, however, after plowing your way through a couple of breakfasts, you realize the plebian fare has grown on you. The chocolate tastes pleasant and the apples are fresh and not nauseating. The coffee does it's work and the French toast is filling. Sometimes you take it with chili sauce, it adds to the experience.
You realize that although you can never experience that gloriously realized moment of your first English breakfast again, you can have it for the rest of your life with considerable satiation and pleasantness. If you experiment a little, you can often discover favourable avenues and most often than not, you do. Once you even take the drastic step of cooking Italian for a change, and find the aberration utterly delicious and scandulously pleasing. Maybe you ought to do this more often. Mix and match.
The lost moment will never return, of course. Nor will the first taste of crunchy bacon. But you may discover many other new moments which will be memories and guidelines through the journey of your life. And the most moment will be converted into a star, to be looked at and sighed after. To be loved and left alone, like a simple reminder in the canvas of your life like the sky.
So, then, you too may attempt to pen your love again. And recall that great first breakfast. And of course you'll waste page after page trying to capture or emulate for the reader just how sumptuous it was. But perhaps you will never arrive even a mile close to the actuality of it. Perhaps, if you're blessed under your star, you will. Either way, you'll recall with faithful and ardent admiration and love, that moment. And to capture it will serve as your life's glory.
And so it is too with life devoid of meaning, to comit oneself to moments and not the morsels in themselves. The morsels remain for the enjoying, in the moment. 

Cassidy looked out at the Tree again.

Rowan watched her nearby, unsure of approaching.

It was one of those days when the Earthen scents lie heavy in the air, and the white sky flecked with variations of grey illuminates the whole of being with startling clarity. On days such as this the green of the lower branches stood out with more youthfulness than before, and chirping birds struck a gaiety to the general ambience of serenity.

The Tree had many secrets to share as it had idiosyncrasies to be lightly touched upon. Cassidy whistled through broken teeth as a light wind hurried past her face. She held three acorns in her hand. Maybe, she wondered, maybe later she could get some cloud with this. Gammee had promised her sweets anyhow. Gammee could be down in the fields right now, plucking vegetables as she hummed that old song of yore. "It's Presley, dear. P with a puff," she would insist. And with nimble fingers she would pluck cucumber after cucumber, humming, all the while chuckling occasionally at the Tree. The way Gammee chuckled at the Tree it almost seemed as if they were old pals. Perhaps they ever were, Cassidy mused. 'It's not unlikely for Gammee to know things most of us don't.'

Gammee was as shrouded in enigma as the Tree but at least she was reachable. Even now, as Cassidy looked out into the distance, the Tree in the unbridgeable distance looming large, she felt a keen nostalgia of the inexperienced. Wave after wave, this bittersweet feeling washed over her until heavy with heart, she was forced to think of other things. This was when she turned to notice Rowan. 

stupendous stumper

Some believe the Tree was responsible for the creation of all that exists. Others believe the Great Empress is simply a giant tree. The Great Empress was nevertheless an unreachable entity, so distant and so great, so utterly remote, yet sustaining its charming, peculiarly charged strange presence. Looming over all, ever watchful.
When Old Fenrir jocularly put down his third peg of mead, as the bartender at the Mead Meadows Inn watched on, smiling and nodding, while wiping his crystal, the drunk man let out a heavy sigh and half turned to the wide open window, pointing with his free hand towards the endless fields and the Great Empress in the distance. "That," he slurred, "is nothing but a great big blue tree! And I,"  he enunciated, "will be the first to scale the distance to the damned tree so help me Inukai!"
The bartender smiled warmly as his mind drifted, engulfed in memories which came upon him all of a sudden, vivid and powerful.

His Gammee had once told him the Story of the Tree.

In the days of yore, the Air and the Good Earth we walk upon were as yet unsuitable for us to exist in.
Interbeing was impossible; care was harmful; love was futile.

For Love is never futile, not when there are beings to feel it.

And then with the Birth of the Lords of the Sky, from the Seed which would eventually become their Father, The Tree which sets them all dreaming, suddenly all was possible.
Trickles appeared which would become the strong swift rivers now as we know them.
Seeds sprouted which would make the forests as we now know them.
The Earth shook and the Air whistled as creation took place, as the Lords shifted among Matter restlessly, creation took place.

And then briefer than a blink, softer than snow, mellower than a meadow, suddenly there was the world as it now we know.

The Good Earth we walk upon and the sweet Air as we breathe.

When Freyr finished his reminiscence, he found with a start his Inn silent as death. Fenrir's head was bent, filled with thoughts he felt too tired to speak out loud. Heavy thoughts. Strange, far off thoughts he hadn't had before, grazing at the seams of his consciousness. The Air thinned as it dawned upon him what he must do.

Emptying his sac full of acorns on the ebony table, he dashed out the bar, running wildly as a fit of euphoria overwhelmed him. The Air caught in his hair, the Earth soft for his feet and a dream drumming in his heart.

The world seemed to hold secrets in its midst, and the seeking would be his.
And so off he went to seek.

A sparrow in flight, searching the skies for dreams.

The Tree that Dreams.
The bird twittering on its lowest branch.
A being came out from the darkness, into the light.
Into the light he came, finding fierce agony and pain,
Deceptive feelings plunged into him, sent his heart coursing, soaring, and then at once plopped, rejected, trampled upon.
It was the sign of nature that he still stood, breathless.
Sign of nature that he experienced for the first time that he experienced for the first time what was human happiness and sorrow.
With one look cast at a fallen tree nearby he knew agonized The Tree so much, his heart was drumming fiercely against his chest, struggling within its confines.

He had to explore.

Off they went, heart and he, down the ochre-Earth-mud brown road, laid with perfectly ovular, white, pebbles.
Down the Earthen road, and he found a town-market off track, just beginning, the first signs appearing. Hurrying off the track to the market, he found a purple hood cast on the ground. Picking it up gingerly, clutching his symbol from this world with both hands tightly, he waltzed in. Nimble on his feet. Quick in his thinking. He soon realized the townsfolk viewed him as yet another boy, while he himself remained awestruck at the abundance of titillating visions here. Cart to cart, shackle to tent, house to brothel, he explored it all. Muttering, to himself, to his heart, he went on, thunderstruck and painfully so, love unknown, stabbing at his heart.

At the turn of the road he saw her, just as she was poised to take flight.
Riveting red amidst a sea of brunettes.
She was clumsy, her face was smudged with chocolate he mistook for mud and her knees wobbly.
But when she took flight, despite the sarcastic comment of a middling raven-haired beauty nearby, his Breath nearly left his Being.

In a matter of a singular leaf falling from the Tree- a matter of barely a wink, if you will- he found his head fuzzy. An ecstatic drunkenness overtook him. Years dissipated as they were all replaced with that singular moment. A singular moment of overwhelming, joyous, meaning.
His skin tingling and his heart soaring with her abundance of curls, he forced himself to turn towards the Tree.

What he dared not confess was that now this momentary apparition appeared more beautiful to him than the Tree in all it's perennial glory.

What he did not know was that the Tree rejoiced in his newfound joy, his newfound ecstasy.

Deliriously in astonishment with his new world, he picked up a solitary daisy, losing himself in its milky whiteness, already dreaming of the fair face behind the red curtain. 

The Great Lord.

If on walking back to your house, you look up and see the entire square-scaled back of the regal lord of the hither-skies, you won’t be able to recognize what it really is. All you will see will be oddly square-shaped dark blue clouds in the night sky. The night sky in the hither-skies is not jet-black. Sprinkled with hues, hues of dark shades of colours. Hues that look sandy and fluid at places. And in that miasma of expanse called sky, the lord resting on his back.

Usually he doesn’t do such a thing. He wouldn’t dare stop watching the scattered chaos down below. But upon this night he dare not watch. For ominous words have already been spoken and their utterance cannot be revoked. And to watch would be a sadness incomparable for him; he knows so for the yesterepoch had led to what they had now, and not the other way round, and now it was going to be the other way round.

And that meant the very worst for even the very best of children. If the lord had a single regret it would have been not preparing the wisps he had under his care. At least not in due time.

He could not be entirely blamed for what had transpired. His citizens had not kept faith while he had. They had foregone conclusions as to how strands would finally connect and how the story would play out. He, on the other hand, believed in the power of a wisp. How on taking flight and gathering momentum, the slightest of wisps came in as a storm and left in their wake people looking upon each other anew.

He had sheltered them, harboured the hope of preparing them, and had now given up. Let go of futile exercises for the hope of salvage. There would be no salvaging. There would be no refuge.

That great lord with his bronze back leaving lookers in awe of the sky, he drifted in the distance and let the trade winds scratch his great belly.

His worn grayish-ochre skin wrinkled a lot near his eyes. His turquoise eyes glimmered by the light of the moon, his heavy eyelids drooping because of their sheer weight, as well as how tired he was with it all.

Presently, his nose slits picked up on the sweet aroma of molted chocolate. He turned to his right side and through one great eye saw a fingerling pouring out hot cocoa into a cup for a wisp. The wisp had a smattering of red curls and she squealed with delight as the hot cocoa warmed her throat, and filled her head with white warmth. It soothed her, for she was a wisp in training. Gulping the rest of her cocoa down, in between sips and sighs of ‘Oohs’ and ‘Ahs’ she quickly returned her cup to the waiting fingerling, and took flight, soaring into the sky. The fingerling watched with a palm under a chin, smiling gently. The lord’s chest felt light and his belly tingled. He let out a great laugh and the wrinkles around his eyes appeared wet, and the leaves of the cypresses rustled, the trees themselves swaying as a sudden gale of wind came upon them. The fingerling shut her window. 

Cliches.

I have a huge issue over heroines. We watched Raees recently and the protagonist female artist was Mahira Khan acting as Raees’s beautiful wife Aasiya.

Did I say beautiful? Flawless white skin, doe-like soft brown eyes, long, long hair, a slightly long nose, well proportioned featuers, especially high cheekbones- do you get the picture? Basically, a cliché.

I don’t have problems with clichés as long as they are well executed. Clichés can be charming just as they can also be utterly disgusting. The many Mary Sues of our immense world just happen to be 1. Exceptional.
2. Beautiful.
3. Intelligent.
4. Witty.
5. Funny.
6. Every other feature that makes you prima donna for the lady-to-be to woo his body and soul.

Just wow.

When a friend at school whispers furiously into my ear as a visiting British college-counsellor illustrates the benefits of his college to us- me and another friend(who happens to exceedingly fair) – that he is being partial to us and only paying attention to us, unlike our Snow White friend I don’t chide her for being ‘silly’.

I nod and curse his white bear-like face with his overgrown black beard sharply contrasting his pale skin to go to hell and rot with black serpents and cows. And then I resume looking happy-go-lucky again.

The last time I saw a heroine who was put on a pedestal as a lovable being who was dark skinned or not at all conventionally pretty, I guess it was when I wasn’t even born.

Alright, abandoning hyperbole, we have Wake up Sid! Konkona Sen is perfect.

Prostitutes who can be loved are featured in Talaash (where again, she is Kareena Kapoor, of course since the very beginning you feel: Ah, a good prostitute. Do you feel the same way looking at a real prostitute? What is hell is good?) and in Pyaasa, all those movies of yore.

 The way love stories are played out. She has to fall in love with him in the end eventually.

I have to admit, the first time I read a story about two people in a relationship who did not remain together in the end, I felt unsatisfied. Both the people involved left the other to pursue their individual dreams. Of course, there were issues of failed communication as well (this ticks me off majorly) wherein the gal did not fall for him in the end eventually, but the basic underline was: together no more.

And I was surprised at myself over how deeply unsatisfied and sad I felt. This is modern living!- I tried to tell myself. I have to be open minded! I have to expand my thinking! My own parents do the same thing all the time. I know so many other people, my closest friend included, whose lives are the same way.

Well what do you know; I ended up reading that clichéd Love Story by Erich Segal to get over my heartache. What heartache? In Sociology we have this very important term called Socialization. Basic underline: You see your momma and daddy being cozy with each other and you think, “Hey, a normal relationship is one where a guy and a gal stay together forever!” A process where you learn how society works by observing what is around you and in your culture. Our culture has shaped us to believe that long lasting relationships are the norm and are perfect. Fidelity is valued to be the pinnacle of relationship perfection. Well, true, I have an old fashioned romantic heart; I love it when the guy in the book is a stable partner, loving his One True Woman forever. Insert hearts all around. Maybe I have been socialized too long, but oh well. If you keep observing what is right and what is wrong for too long, you fail out on meeting more people and encountering more stories.

 Love Story was nice. I hated that part though, “Love means never having to say sorry,” but maybe purists will argue that I did not get the meaning of that phrase. If my friend in Mumbai does not apologies to me for ignoring me for weeks at end, Erich Segal will receive a very angry letter from me.

As I type this, my sister is shrieking for our mama to change the channel. Apparently Happy New Year is being viewed. He wants to watch Golmaal 3. I can’t afford to be a snob all the time and tell them to not watch anything at all, I mean, they need their entertainment. But handling such movies for me is impossible- the immaculately dressed women, how united they are in disregarding their own personalities, or how utterly conventional their personalities are- it just gets to me.

Give me Chihiro’s ‘nagging’ (as some people call it) over Aasiya’s self-righteous pouts as Raees fails to be her In-Love Servant, any day. I scoff. Let me be a snob.

She’s won the shrieking match and they’re watching Happy New Year. A hulk just defeated six or seven guys because Shah Rukh Khan’s character told this hulk that these guys insulted his mother by calling her horny.

When I was returning home in November, a month after this movie had release a few years ago, I heard a little guy yell ‘Mata ji ko horny bola’ at our bus conductor, who in turn laughed and calmed the little guy down. The little guy deferred to be taught control, and kept shrieking this phrase again and again. I laughed and wanted to pinch this little kid. Turning to the kid beside me, another brat, who had been laughing hysterically at Mata ji’s sexual drive, I said: Papa ji ko horny bola!

’Twas confounding. The brat stared at me for a full minute, thoroughly nonplussed. I sensed having utterly smashed his jolly mood. He never sat with me in the bus again, but I was deeply satisfied at the terrified expression which would cross his face when he would spot me in the bus.

I can be an immature brat too. I just cannot see why only Mata ji should get all the fun.

My hair is longer now. It’s funny, I had this angst-y hatred of girls with long hair because they were so conventional. Now when I have long hair, I laugh when someone finds me weird to look at, because I remember 10 year old me hating seniors with long beautiful hair. Determined to have short hair forever. Forever is too long, and I’m getting my hair cut again after exams. Long hair was a good experience, but it’s just not me. But I don’t even know who I am, so an XD and lol pretty hard and am an immature brat again.

 Well I suppose it is better to have flawless skin and be healthy compared to being a cribbing, ruffled, passive aggressive, slightly obese, lover of the unconventional, geeky, pasty, pimply, teenager. But at least in my love stories and my school stories I have better dialogues than Aasiya. I count that as a point in my favor.