When I was in second grade, we had a disaster in our school. It was an international school, situated in the hills of South India, in a place completely surrounded by forests (and monkeys of course). A boarding school with discipline engraved on its students’ foreheads. But, some new students had joined and through them, new vocabulary words had slowly seeped into the whole school (“like tea from a teabag”). The headmistress had a heart attack everytime someone opened his mouth, teachers screamed much more often and wooden rulers took on their second and more violent nature! What were those very offensive words? Brace yourself- ‘yea’ and ‘like.’ In a world where answers required ‘yes, madam’, these words had quite the need to be censored. And so they were.

Needless to say, the f-word, d-word, s-word and the other list of alphabetical curses were completely absent from my childhood vocabulary. I first realized this lack in fifth grade, my first full year in the United States. My teacher had made me a “Safety” and it was my duty to walk through the lines of kids waiting for the late bus and make sure everyone was good and disciplined (cough, disciple in the RedWhiteandBlue Empire was a joke). I was doing this one day when a small boy, perhaps in 2nd or 3rd grade, ran up to me and cried, “he called me gay!” And I was confused. Even by then, I had loved language and literature. My vocabulary was pretty strong, enough to use ‘florid’ correctly in a normal sentence. But gay? Gay was an adjective meaning happy. He called you happy? And you’re complaining? Obviously, I didn’t get the point. I had a friend there, whom I’d ask all these random questions to. She’s the one I fought with claiming that there is a ‘u’ in ‘color’. She’s the one who explained the f-word to me, who took my hand and made a dot on it to signify our teacher beginning the lecture about periods to girls, whom I nodded to though I had no idea what she was talking about. She told me that gay was a bad word. ‘It’s definition?’ I had asked but she only shook her head. It was too ‘bad’ of a word. She shook her head. The word and its usage haven’t changed. But I- I am no longer a fifth-grader.

Today, I attended a play called The Laramie Project at a local high school. It was based on a true story of a student named Matthew Shepard at the University of Wyoming. Matthew was gay. He was “bad”. And for this “badness” of sorts, he was beaten, tortured and tied to a fence in a remote area, left to die alone for eighteen hours. He was taken to the hospital but died without regaining consciousness. All this because he was who he was. Because he was gay. Because he was “bad”. It was the wooden ruler in a new and improved form- satisfaction guaranteed.

This happened 11 years ago. So you might argue that times have changed. That people are now much more accepting and they have truly redefined ‘good’ and ‘bad’. And I believed that too for a while, being the eternal optimist that I am. But today, as I walked out of that auditorium feeling proud to have seen such a piece from a high school performance, sad that something like this had happened in my lifetime and inspired to do something about it, I understood the definition of the real bad. I was telling an old friend about all this. About the play and how it made me feel and how I felt like each one of us could help, and immediately, he stopped the conversation. “I didn’t think you were that type of girl,” he began. What type? “You’re a girl who supports all this shit?” Well, if you want to call it that, yes I am. “Then I am out of the discussion because I hate gays and lesbians. Bastards should commit suicide.” Excuse me? You might want to start watching your language. An individual is an individual no matter what. Whether they’re black, brown, white, yellow, gay, trans, bi.. it doesn’t make anyone any more inferior than anyone else, I began my lecture series. Wouldn’t you protest if someone says that all Indians are good-for-nothing, curry-smelling “bastards” who need to die? Then, why this? How can you condone one type of hatred and protest the other? It’s the same thing! “Politics,” he said and signed off. End of discussion. No one wants to talk.

But I do. Let’s play this game. Let’s start from the beginning. The first question of all-why? Why are people like this? And the first answer that comes to my mind is fear. People are afraid. Of themselves, first. Homophobia begins with a fear of oneself. And the seeds of hatred begin there too. People don’t think twice about saying that a test is ‘gay’ or those new boots are for ‘fags’ or only ‘dykes’ support that sports team. ‘That’s so gay’ when their cars don’t start. ‘Gay idiot’ to that boy who cut the lunch line. These words go on and on. People don’t think twice. How many of these people would call that test, ‘Black’? That car, ‘Muslim’? Those boots, ‘Christian’? Those fans, ‘Asians’? Some people might but the numbers are fewer. Because it doesn’t make any sense! Well, neither does this. Because racism is wrong. But what about this?

Yes, I am that “type of girl.” I am the type of girl that believes in one philosophy and one word above all-Life. No matter who you are, what you are, your past, present or future. The one thing you truly own is your life and you have the right to live the way you want without judgement. If I, as a South Asian, an Indian, a Malayalee and a Christian- If I do not want to be judged solely of the above characteristics. If the tone of my skin, the length of my hair and the size of breasts do not incriminate me and place me into that definition of ‘bad’. Then, why can sexual orientation be used? Does it make one less human? If my brown skin doesn’t make me a ’sinner’, why does his male partner make him one?

Matthew Shepard did not deserve to be robbed of his life. In 2007, there were 7,624 hate crimes in this nation and 1,265 dealt with sexual orientation. And this is just what goes in the book. The true numbers, who knows? No one deserves to deal with this hatred. No one deserves to be labeled with a word that is further defined in a black and white scale of good and bad. No one.

There’s a line in the play that raised hairs on every member of the audience, that filled every eye with tears. The boy who found the body yelled “there’s nothing I could do.” He lifted his hands and sobbed and repeated those words. Nothing. I. Can. Do. Perhaps not for him. But there is something we can do before it’s too late. Each one of us can do something. We must do something. Silence supports the side of the oppressor. I wish that my fifth grade teacher had taken those boys aside and told them what it means to be ‘gay’ and that there’s nothing wrong with that. That it’s  not an insult or a curse word. It’s not ‘bad.’ Let’s start there, from those roots in elementary school so that once they are in high school, they can borrow truly negative words from Merriam-Webster to describe tests, cars, fans and more. Let’s talk about this. Let’s debate. Let students talk. It’s not politics. It’s life. Politics, I agree, are adults playing a game, dress-up perhaps, on national television. This, though, is life. We isolate groups of people from society. One by one, we plant the seeds of hatred. As time goes on, the groups change and the hatred increases. More and more of humanity is segmented. Until the End. And at the last leg of the race, at the Final Precipice, we look around, only to realize that we’re alone. Who do we hate next except that figure in the mirror?

Congratulations to those high school performers! Your courage to do this though even 21st century eyes found fault with it. Your strength to say those incredibly touching lines as the character you played instead of bursting into tears. Your intellect in understanding the necessity of such a piece. Your hard work, dedication and most of all, the  spirit of hope (H-O-P-E). I am left speechless.

Yes, I am that type of girl. I am not gay. And neither is that piece of paper. Neither is this test. Neither is that car. But they are? That’s cool. I am brown. She’s kind of pink. Let’s be friends.

I have always believed in the power of words. Literature, words, fragments, sentences. No matter what language they’re in, they hold power. With the stroke of a pen,I had argued, the writer takes the reader from a mortal, simplistic world to an elaborate wonderland. Words-a magician’s wand, a king’s bright scepter.

Or, maybe I’d just say “fine” but with a sadder smile. And maybe he’d just understand. If only thoughts can magically transform into words, I could tell them exactly what I feel.. No language is enough for this.

But maybe this is it. Maybe other kinds of friends don’t exist. The “true” ones who stand by you thick and thin. No, they’re quite Utopian indeed. Everything’s an adjustment. Maybe this is all I need. Maybe it helps to smile and laugh and forget everything else, have fun with them and remember the weight of my heart just a bit later. Maybe it’s better that they know nothing of it. Maybe this is truth. Maybe those moments are blessings. Ignorance is bliss (or so they say).

I want Her courage. That girl my age. She was raped by her father for years. How can he sexually abuse his own Child? Beast. Years have passed but scars haven’t healed. She just survived Her third suicide attempt. And she told me all this, me-a newfound friend. Without tears, with strength.  She felt alone too but She holds the power of words still. Her confidence to rebuild her life- I can’t imagine that. Indira Gandhi can wait, She’s now my role model. I wish I could do something for Her but all I am is a listening ear. And sometimes, that’s all one can offer and perhaps all one needs. Maybe these half-fixes are all there is to need. Everything else is an adjustment. She’d know that more than me. No one is here.

But tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow, I’ll learn to talk. To scream. To live. Tomorrow, I’ll reply.

“Are you mad at her?”

I gave him a look, “yes, I am. How did you know?”
I hadn’t made it THAT explicit. I had dropped very few hints.

“We were talking about it yesterday. Why?” he asked again.
They’re surprised because I never get mad. I’m the always-smiling one. I don’t get angry.
Perhaps I’m not human either.

I shook my head, “They need to know that themselves. I want them to understand why. At least they got the hint now.”

“You’re… you’re a character.”

I laugh with grief.

They’re there, I wanted to say, they’re there to talk about Silly dramas. They’re there to talk about Homework and Dances. Boys and Girls. High school, College. Parents and Rules. Movies and Music. He Said That and She Said This. But not now. Not for This, the death of silliness.

Yes, I am mad. Because my mom thinks she’s dying. Because my dad is overstressed and overworked. Because my sister is burning inside. Because my family is now a play of sorts, that even Shakespeare would hate to pen. And because, because I feel alone, stranded in a place where future and present collide, slipping on either ends. And I am an actress too, molded into a character I do not want to be. All smiles and no play. Made-up, dolled and alone.

Friends, a figment of my imagination.
I’d have been there for you. Why aren’t you here for me? Why can’t I talk to you? Why can’t you listen? Is this what friendship means?

In that case, I abhor that too.

———————————————————————————————

“Perhaps this is just punishment for those who have been heartless, to understand only when nothing can be undone.”
— Khaled Hosseini (A Thousand Splendid Suns)

So recently, I participated in this Thing (that shall not be named as I do not want this to show up in search results). It was  a multicultural pageant with girls from lots of different nations. Obviously, I represented India and there were twenty-ish other girls. Oddly enough, I was crowned. (To be more detailed, my final question was about who my role model is- Indira Gandhi all the way!)

But that’s not the point.  So I have been showered (perhaps I should say stormed instead) with accolades and such, enough that I can’t complain for a lifetime (well, almost). I have also, not so happily, learned a lesson to NEVER “friend” your rivals on fb in a competition because sadly enough, they do have friends too. So I’ve had the wonderful pleasure of hearing so many things ranging from it being rigged (multiple times) to me looking bad (excuse me?)..

So to all those people I’m probably not going to talk to in real life..

1. GROW UP!!
2. It’s a competition. Winners and losers. It’s called SPORTSMANSHIP.
3. IT’S NOT A FRIGGIN BEAUTY PAGEANT.
4. But now that you mention it, I think I looked beautiful. Thank you very much!
5. Saying this in a mindless fashion doesn’t make your country look any better (so sorry you thought so).
6. India has won three years in a row? Well… East or West, India is the Best! Maybe everyone else should send better candidates?
7. Don’t get me wrong, the contestants were all so sweet and amazing in their own way.
8. But if you weren’t one of us, don’t be commenting.
9. Thank you. NOT nice meeting you.

I haven’t actually had a peace of mind for the past few weeks. Neither future, present nor past seem to be doing very well and I have had very few diversions. So obviously, I’m reacting quite badly to the loss of the few I have. Not to mention I did try to maintain my humor but I’m only human and limits do exist (sadly).

And brown guys never fail to make me feel androphobic. Just thought I’d put it out there.

Cheers to title holders; I’ll let you know when I’ve completely destroyed my crown and thrown it out the window (where it does truly belong).

Blue. Green. Tubes through flesh. Wires through floors. Rectangular worlds with curtained borders. My first look at the Intensive Care Unit. The nurse was excitedly trying to explain every detail of the ward to me, struggling to tie the few English words she knows with some sign language. She was laughing at her own mistakes and I couldn’t help but smile at her innocent disposition.

She took me near an old man, with a million deep lines in his skin and tons of clear tubes through his body. Patiently, she pointed out the functions of those tubes and vital signs monitors. Then, she led me to the cart filled with emergency care measures; if his BP is too high, if he starts to breathe heavily, if he starts to breathe slowly.. a million hypothetical situations. I nodded and took notes. And laughed as she made another joke about her language. “Interesting case”- I was studying the man. Very “interesting” indeed.

In the next curtained world, a small boy slept with a breathing, plastic snake in his nose. True ribs and floating ribs contoured through the bedsheet, almost as clearly visible as those in my dissected cat. His bony hand was held by an older woman. The nurse continued to show me the monitors and the tubes and the chemicals and the medicines. I nodded in amazement at the intricacy of the medical system. At how even the smallest discrepancies in his body could be seen almost immediately by the nurses sitting in the middle of the ICU, staring hard into black monitors with rainbow colored warrants. At how they were prepared for even the most obscure of emergencies. At how the nurse could convey her meaning to me using very few words. At how even with blue-green masks on, we could smile at each other with our eyes. As I stepped out of that world, I turned back once to write a final observation in my book of notes and observations, guides to experiences. The woman was in tears; for a fraction of a second, her eyes met mine. I looked away. My smile had faded.

I  came back to the office that day and wrote a journal of all the cases I had seen, including those at the ICU. They had taught me a lot about the field I want to be part of one day. Not to mention, this whole month of shadowing was a resume builder. Of course, I wanted to see and learn all these for myself but I wanted my prospective colleges to know that too. And so, I filled pages of a lined notepad, engraving fates in ink. Nameless. Colorless. Ageless. Familyless. Medical cases with case reports.

But today, my mother is that old man, that little boy. She is in a rectangular world of her own with tubes through her flesh. Blue. Green. Everywhere. The plastic snakes accompany her in sleep and  masked nurses with smiling eyes watch black screens with her numbers. But she is not a case. She is my mother. When I see her through the webcam, with my sister next to her, I can’t help but think of that bony hand in the hands of a mother. Not a case. But my mother. She is the one lying there. The roles have changed and the play goes on. Just in the last scene, I was able to walk through that same hall with smiling eyes, laughing about an impertinent language of faraway lands. While daughters worried about mothers. And mothers about only sons. I walked through that path, glancing into those worlds without seeing. I learned without understanding.

But now, I see.

And it’s the worst feeling of all.

Fear, masked in green.

I put a link to my last post on my facebook (aka under my real name!). It’s a pretty scary thought.. well, not really. I was just trying to make it dramatic. I did delete a few old posts and change up a few others too though. Just in case, you know. With anonymity comes freedom; now, I actually have to think about what I write and how it’ll affect others. Or I could just say ‘who cares?’ and continue in my meaningless muses… but that wouldn’t be me.  I always have to over think everything. It’s what I do best!

(I am sick now. So maybe this is the result of me being a bit delirious. Maybe.)

So just to reiterate, for the millionth time, the name that I used until today wasn’t my name. It’s actually my friend’s name. I borrowed the first half of it. It was OUR identity. And it no longer exists. Now this is mine. No names mentioned. =)

Woah! Since when do we get laptops for labs? I stared in awe, and perhaps even drooled a bit, as our physics teacher began to pass out brand new and of course, the fully PERFECT Macbooks to everyone. Sanitize your hands, she was saying, you don’t want to get oil stains on these things. They’re worth a thousand dollars each… The instructions went on but by this point, everyone had already tuned out. After all, the point is- we get a new toy.. Twenty thousand dollars worth of equipments for each department? No wonder school taxes keep going up. And that too, just to save ourselves the two-second walk to the computer lab. Brilliant. Now we can do the calculations for the lab right here in the classroom (and then spend another few thousands on exercise machines.. right in the classroom). Superfluous, much? Of course, of course I’d love to peacefully protest and boycott this infringement of basic financial practicality. But.. seeing that everyone else was already playing around with the webcam and photobooth, just one question- should I make myself fisheyed, pop-arted or bulged? I love you, Steve Jobs (almost as much as Larry Page and Sergey Brin..almost)!

Lab 5 data. AP Biology made me a pro in Excel, I was telling my lab partner, I can do this in my sleep. My first day in Sixth-Day*. Sixth-Day* Adventist School in Kerala. I stared in awe then too. But the other kind of awe. Oh God, how could I have thought that way? So shallow. So… so everything I claim to hate now. Forgive me, God, I was a shallow ignorant 8-year old (or was I nine? how old are fourth-graders anyway? God knows). I scold them now. Those “American” kids, for the ‘disgust’ they feel when they go back. But, isn’t that what I felt too? As much as I hate that word, it was in everything- in those thin wooden planks arranged in diamonds in place of real walls, to let lots of “fresh air” in (almost like sitting outdoors), the smell of the air itself (the bathroom was the nearest to my classroom), the bare concrete floors (dark gray, nothing else), the wooden benches with a billion cracks (and the random gifts presented by crows and doves) and the English teacher whose thick accent forever ruined my once-favorite poems (yemily dikkison, yenyone?). Disgust, yet I was no foreigner.

“Wow! You’re a first-rank holder from Ooty?” the girls crowded around me at lunch time. How different were the priorities of fourth-graders, no fourth-standard, students there! Not high scores on the latest video game (Halo, is it?) or autographed momentos of the latest pre-teen sensation (Hannah Montana? Jonas brothers?). But ranks. My lab partner turned to me as I smiled out loud. What’s so funny? She wanted to know. I shook my head. You wouldn’t understand.

The girl next to me smelled like sambhar. I like sambhar, especially when Ammachi makes it but… I don’t like sitting next to someone who smells like it. Disgust, again. The girl had short, straight black hair that hid her ears and encircled her neck. A funny hairstyle, if you ask me. Amni* and Puja* would have laughed too. It was not fashionable at all, at least not by Ooty standards. This girl was the first rank holder, I had heard. From here. I wasn’t actually afraid of THIS competition. But I should have been. The first progress report marked me as being second rank. Guess who was first. Shouldn’t underestimate people. Especially when they smell like sambhar.

In Ooty, we went to the mess hall in straight lines, with our hands tied behind our backs. Little soldiers (with education as our wars). I walked up and down as dormitory prefect, ensuring that even the tiniest junior’s hands were firmly knotted behind her back. In Sixth-Day*, the whole class immediately jumped as the bell struck at lunch time. Lunch boxes were brought out. Different foods mixed with the already fowl smells in the air. I wanted to barf. Where had I ended up? I hated how our room was at the end, nearest to the sports grounds (forever filled with senior boys who howled and screamed their way to goals), to the tap on the ground (to which everyone ran to at lunch to wash up) and to the bathrooms (I already mentioned the smell). Disgust, once again. Everyone washed their lunch boxes at that tap. Shiny steel tiffins. They reflect sunlight quite well. Especially when you’re eight-years old. That was their toy.

“Check you sig figs on the height column,” the physics teacher pointed to my screen as she was making rounds. It wasn’t mine. That wasn’t my world.  Yet, neither is this.

“Okay, Miss… es Bekend*,” I replied. Now what was her name? That Miss. The one with that deep orange sari with the white lines. You know, the maths teacher. Maths. That feels so weird. It’s been so long since I thought of it that way. That one ’s’ – it makes all the difference. What was her name? She was my favorite. I had tried to find her on my last day there. I said goodbye to everyone but her. What was her name? I can see her face. Oh God, why did I forget?

My last day there.. I remember that. It wasn’t the last day of school. But I had to leave. That’s how our tickets were planned. Chechi and me-no, I had already forgotten my English- Chechi and I were leaving to the USofA. It was the end of that one year I spent there and by then, I had made friends. Even the sambhar girl. They were telling me things, to stop me from going. As though anyone had a choice. As though anything would have changed. Why are you smiling? My lab partner turned to me again and looked at my computer screen, either Excel is telling you jokes or you’re doing something else. I laughed. I was just thinking, I replied, do you think it’s weird that we’ve a city called Buffalo? No, she gave me a queer look, of course not. Well… I do.  She had told me that. Sambhar girl had a sister in the USofA. “Do you know, they named a city Buffalo?” The girls laughed, everyone but me. “Onnu po!” Go away! I replied, a bit annoyed, with the only comeback I knew then (and know now). “They do! Want to bet?” she laughed in my face. Oh, that laugh of hers. “500 rupees. They don’t. They don’t. They don’t!” Stubbornness ran in my blood. I owe her that 500, if I ever see her again. What was her name? I can’t remember. Wicked smart, probably in this year’s list of IIT applicants or civil service prospectives- how fast time went. 4th to 12th. Just like that. We had competed for that rank each time, first hers, then mine, then tied. I never saw the last progress card. I wonder, if I had stayed, which list would I have been on now?

Our school is too cold in the winter and too hot in the spring. Everyone complains. Everyone. But that day, in Sixth-Day*, it got so hot. The Maths teacher (the name, dammit!) was torturing us with algebraic weapons and  under my dark blue uniform socks, my eczema was starting a torture of its own. The sun was literally in my face (I did already mention the lack of real walls, right? In preference to ‘fresh’ bathroom-flavoUred air). Everyone was ready to leave by lunch time. The tap water on my face. The best feeling in the world. That day. Nothing comes close. Not even that one day last year when it got so hot in our high school that the heat sensors went off and the fire department came. At least, there was a heat sensor. “Missey, enikku choodedukkunnu,” some brave soul had screamed. “Choodinodu edukkandannu para.” In the heat, there was laughter. Loud, bright laughter.

Then there were those competitions. What was it called? Talent Day? Cultural Fest? Shoot, I can’t think of that either. It has been eight-ish years but come on, I have only had 17 (and a half) years of life. Can’t my mind hold a few more memories? Oh God! What was it called? Oh… I  recited a Malayalam kavitha. Sarga Sangeetham. Rachana, Vayalar Ramavarma. I hadn’t understood it then. I don’t understand it now, even with the help of the Malayalam-English dictionary that I had told my grandparents to buy for me. But I had won second. English recitation gave me first prize- Leisure by William Henry Davies. I can still say it by-heart; ‘What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare..’ Then there was Malayalam light music; my music sir had taught me that. I was a little scared of him. When I was littler, even before my Sixth-Day* times, I would do all kinds of tricks to escape his lessons. My eczema that remained passive till then would start its games at the sight of him. I can’t remember why I was so antagonized by him. But, he remained patient with me. I can’t remember it now but the song’s still there, written in his neat, typographic handwriting on the last page of my Karnatic music book (which is almost falling apart now; I should fix it when I get home today). And last, but definitely not least, fancy dress. Ammachi had dressed me up in a chatta and mundu, two plastic bangles covered in gold foil for earrings and a long rosary. ‘Edi, aa pashuvinte paal karakkanam, aa kozhikku theetta kodukkanam. Njannonnu palliyil poyittu varaam,’ I would command to a nonexistent daugher, with my lips completely enveloping my teeth, shaking my hands and stressing each syllable accordingly. Then, I’d slowly circle around the stage, with my hunched back and shaky feet. And a haste small prayer once I got near the mike again. The senior boys who sat in the back yelled ‘amen’ as I finished. That’s how I knew I won.

Excel. I hate the 2007 version. I barely know how to use it. Now, where is the formula bar? Standard deviations are such a waste of time. My lab partner nodded. Woah! You’re that ahead? I just finished the first section and you’re on the fourth? I laugh. You’ll catch up. Aapa pithave dheivame… why is that song stuck in my head now? Oh, that girl taught me that song. She sat on the other side of me (sambhar girl was on my right). She knew a lot of songs, especially church songs. This one was her favorite. Israyelin Naadhanaayi… Very popular song but I heard it first from her (and after that, just about every competition in Philadelphia). She was the one who filled me with the wisdom that, you know, in the USofA, they use the tissue things in the toilet. Tissues in the toilet? No, THEY DON’T! Nope, I didn’t bet any money this time. But I still owe her an apology. Not that I remember her name either. What’s with me and my inability to remember names?

In Ooty, we sometimes got to see Hindi movies. Sometimes sweet, sometimes sour- that is a translation of one of the movies’ names. I can’t remember the original title. I should google it when I get home. I wonder if we’re allowed to go on the internet now. Oh God, Chechi would laugh if she heard that, me and my obsession with what’s allowed and not allowed. That’s a side-effect of Ooty too. We saw Niram before Papa and Mummy left for America. There is some story about us being late for it but I forget now. At Sixth-Day*, we decided to dance to a song from that movie. Minnithennum nakshathrangal minni thennunnu… With matching black baseball caps. My first dance without a formal choreographer. In Ooty, Revathi* Miss taught me everything. To be a meenkari whose husband was out sailing during a storm (kaaveri puzhayil..), to be an umma whose daughter was getting married (‘nte rabbe! Onningu ethaaraayi!), to repeat each adavu over and over until the whole room even breathed together and sit in aramandi until standing straight seemed to be the unnatural thing to do. Revathi* Miss. I remember her name. And Rekha* Miss, the English teacher who made me fall in love with the Chicken Soup books. And Ramya* Miss, the curly-haired Malayalam teacher who taught me anything and everything I know about my mother tongue. And Sumana* Miss. And Daisy* Miss. I remember all of them, Ooty teachers and friends (Amni*, Puja*, Nathan*, Reshmi, Shankar*, Malik*, Mayuri, Vishnu*, Priya*, Ivan*..) and even the VP, the turbaned Sikh who knew Malayalam. What happened to Sixth-Day*? A hole in my memories. That one year. No, not a full hole. Just memories with lowered opacity, to speak of it in photoshop terms. If only they could be despeckled, warped, saturated and filtered too. Perfection created. Too bad it doesn’t work that way.

“You’re done? Good! You can play around with the laptop for the next ten minutes,” my physics teacher patted me on the back, on her second set of rounds. Not to be arrogant, Ms. Beckand*, but I feel overly confident in these classes. When people keep talking about how fast I work. They don’t understand that it’s not because I’m amazing in any way but because I had a non-silver-spoon-fed foundation (no, I’m not talking about Revlon or L’Oreal here).  I didn’t have sparknotes to copy and paste the night before the essay was due. I didn’t have teachers telling me that my best is good enough when my best was an 90. No, it isn’t. Victory or failure but not my best. I didn’t have the peer pressure around to act as though I didn’t care. I had the pressure to care. To beat Sambhar girl (by the way, we were good friends, not enemies; just to reiterate). Test scores didn’t come back with smiley faces and smelly stickers. Actually, the Maths teacher didn’t even smile at me if I didn’t get a 100. I loved her nevertheless. The English teacher read every word of my cursive essays and circled every misspelled word in thick red (and then commented on the inequalities between the sizes of my ‘a’s and ‘e’s). It’s not just the idea that counts but the mechanics too. I agree. No, my foundation wasn’t fed to me with a silver spoon. And I am glad it wasn’t. Too bad the rest of it was. Yet, somehow somewhere lines begin to cross. Every foundation can smudge, both in terms of this and Revlon. Sometimes, there are boundaries and sometimes, there aren’t.  (Am I going crazy? Physics, you make me mad… with love, of course!)

“Out, damned spot! out, I say!… Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?”

Shakespeare’s words. In Macbeth, around the time Lady Macbeth becomes a complete lunatic (no, I’m not at that stage yet). I know this book completely, from cover to cover. The printed words on my hardcover book, my English teacher’s million ways of analyzing every word, my classmate’s funny sound effects through the narrations, the dozens of practice SAT essays I used it on… I know this book.

And somewhere else, half way across the world, Shankar*, my friend from Ooty, has it as his Facebook status (with un-Shakespearean comments to enhance it, of course). He knows it too, cover to cover. Macbeth and his tragic flaw. Lady Macbeth and her guilt. He knows it too.

And again, somewhere else, perhaps still in Sixth-Day* and perhaps not, sambhar girl is probably pondering those same words. Out, out I say.

The Earth is still spinning.

Hello, where are you? My lab partner waves her hand in front of my face. The bell rang. We can’t be late to Math again. Maths. I like Maths. Orange and white lines. In a zig-zag pattern. Oh God, what was her name?

.

*Names changed for obvious reasons. =)

]]> http://ariyathe.wordpress.com/2009/09/21/as-i-sit-in-physics/feed/ 5 Ariyathe http://ariyathe.wordpress.com/2009/09/20/who-i-am/ http://ariyathe.wordpress.com/2009/09/20/who-i-am/#comments Mon, 21 Sep 2009 03:55:04 +0000 ariyathe http://ariyathe.wordpress.com/2009/09/23/who-i-am/ ]]>

“Failure is not in my dictionary,” I began in a defiant tone, “because I am a  flyer of kites. In my hands, I hold the strings to hundreds, thousands, maybe even millions of kites. In all different colors. They dance around in the sky, soaring higher and higher without limits.

Sometimes though, the wind blows too hard, the kite goes the wrong way or perhaps someone cuts the string. That’s what you call ‘failure’. And this kite falls down, slowly. Slowly, ever so slowly, it falls from the sky and comes to rest on a lone tree. More of these ‘failures’ follow. More kites. Blue. Yellow. Orange. Purple. Shiny. Plain. Glittery. Bright. Pale. They completely envelop the tree’s branches. It shines in the morning light, eagerly boasting of its new guests. There’s beauty in this ‘failure.’ And there’s always victory in beauty.”

“Kites, eh?,” he began, ready to argue with me, “Kites are vulnerable, weak and without power. I’d rather be the tree with strong roots and ever-expanding branches.”

“Kites are not weak. They are free. They can go anywhere and see everything. I am the one that remains here, as the  foundation, holding the strings but without motion. I  stand as people say, hold my head as they wish, part my hair and paint my nails as THEY wish; I stand motionless but my kites are free. They soar to heights and show me the world. Bright worlds in bright colors. And they have the string, to come back to me, to their roots, to pull me along when I get behind.

Yes, I am a flyer of kites.

And my kites will fly to end of the world.”

Silence ensued. He had nothing more to say. Neither did I.

Movie: Vilapangalkkappuram (2009)
Director: T V Chandran
Lyrics: Girish Puthencherry
Music: M. Jayachandran
Singer: Manjari
Alt. Spellings: Vilaapangalkku apuram, vilaapangalkapuram, vilapangalkappuram, mulullamurikkinmel, mulullamurikinmel… (and a million and a half others!)

Mullulla murikkinmel, moovanthi padarthiya,

Muthupole thuduthoru panineer..

Panineer..

kaattonu annangiyaal, karalnonthu pidayunnna,

Kannadikavilathu kannuneer..

kannuneer..

(Mullulla..)

Maada praavinte manassulla ninte maaril,

Mailanchi chora kondu varanjathaaru? (Maadathe..)

Moncherum chirakkinte thooval nulli eduthittu,

Panchara vishari veeshi thanuthathaaru?

(Mullulla..)

Nenjilu thillakkana sankada kadulumaayi,

Enthinennariyathe vidhumbum penne.. (Nenjilu..)

Maimaayum mizhithumbil nee kolluthum villakkalle,

Nallathe iruttathe vellicham kanne..

(Mullulla..)