The Feeling

The feeling. That describes indescribable. That gushes past you like an unsuspected whiff of breeze. Reading a sentence that makes you see magic in words. Of how weaving of phrases can make you feel special and give you a strange feeling of light-headedness. Of finding a comrade who gets the same feeling as you just by seeing those turns of phrases.  
Fleeting inspiration from black and white photographs. From geometry in paintings. From seeing the colours of a Kathakali dancer. Reading a poem about God’s own country. Seeing in your head the green fields and white clothes, reflection of sunsets on still waters. 
Standing by the waves lost in your thoughts. Feeling the icy cold curl around your toes and the softness of the foam tricking back onto the horizon. Finding peace amidst bustling noise by thinking of the horizon. An unexpected sunset streaking the sky orange and making you forget the humidity. Catching the moon in between the branches of a tree. 
Listening to a song that makes you close your eyes and float on the notes. Synchronising. Watching a simple movie that makes you believe in love. Getting that pleasant feeling of anticipation and absorbing the emotions of the characters.

Looking at books all around you and wishing you had nothing else to do but soak in the magic of the place called the library. 

Inspiration that you wish you can grab by the horns and never let go.

Mosaic Tiles and mismatched curtains : Part 2

Sitting around 350 kilometres from the house, it feels just around the corner: It has not yet quite sunk in that the house will never be the same again. I’ve read somewhere about how surprising it is that so much memory is built around things unnoticed at the time. This cannot be truer of No.20, Narayanappa Layout.

Some people need not do great things to be great, it is what they didn’t do that makes them so great. My grandmother belonged in this category. She would remain in the house making amazing vethai kozhambu and rasam, watch predictable TV serials with great enjoyment , pray at the little tulsi turning three circles with the unshaken faith , and go about daily business , thinking good of everything and praying for everyone.

Paati existed in a simpler world of her own, one where words like cynical and sarcastic had no place in her dictionary, one where a once in half-a-decade trip to a nearby temple town took care of the word ‘holiday’, one where relatives were not odd somebodys you saw at a wedding and discussed how many years it was since you last met, but one where relatives were living breathing creatures who were part of your daily life in a bigger way than the internet is for us today.

Which is really saying something, and which is why the scores of relatives who visited us shared with us genuine stories of Paati, about how she touched each of their lives in some small way. Her culinary skills were much talked about- even the third cousins sister-in-law’s neighbour seemed to have a good word for Paati’s beans kari and keerai – the magic she did to the spinach to make it so green and so light and yet so very flavoursome is something that has probably followed her and gone away.  Everybody was overcome with good words about the fragile person who went about her whole life putting others in front of her and somewhere along the way, forgot to  occasionally put herself first.

Paati too had a good word for everyone, she would pity and empathise with everyone from the helper’s errant son who would occasionally turn up drunk offering to mend pipes, to an insignificant TV actress who failed to catch a break, to a random kid troubled with homework. She never judged, and never gossiped, and never failed to praise even a visiting grand niece’s off-key singing, declaring it good enough for the radio, not because she believed in empty praises but because she very wholeheartedly believed everyone had something great in them and wanted everyone to come up in life. She wouldn’t have distinguished between an Olympic medal and an inter-school lemon-and-spoon race victory, and in her own sweetly naive way, this helped her keep her sanity in this world, one so unfit for someone so pure.

Paati may not have won great races or invented great things, but in a manner her achievement is incredibly rare : a person against whom not a single soul ever had a bad word in her whole life. Somebody who anyone she has never known will always, always look up to as one of the most selfless people they have ever known. Someone to keep in mind when the world seems to tell you the wrong path is the right path. Someone to remind you that having a good heart is still, still pretty worthwhile!

( In continuation to the previous post http://nobodysignificant.blogspot.in/2012/07/mosaic-tiles-and-mismatched-curtains_19.html incedentally written around the same time last year) 

Are we any different?

I just read the book ‘The Help’ by Kathryn Stockett .About Mississippi in 1962. ‘A vanished world, where black maids raise white children but aren’t trusted not to steal the silver’.

India in 2011, and we aren’t very different. We may not use the words ‘black’ and ‘white’, but the boundaries are clear as ever. The ‘them’ and the ‘us’.

The book revolves around the lives of three women, Skeeter, one of the three main protagonists, a young educated white woman , decides to venture on an untrodden path and write a book about coloured domestics in Mississipi, helped by Ailbileen and Minny, two maids working for their unreasonable and eccentric white employers. The book is very real, with the story being richly described by the three protagonists in turn, three points of view, and the reader being transported into each of their contrasting worlds with each narrative.

The incident that led to Skeeter and Aibileen take on this daring task is something that happens everywhere today- Aibileen’s employer decides to come up with an initiative where separate toilets are installed in garages of homes for the coloured folk, as they carry diseases that are fatal to white people if there was sharing of toilets. In how many of our homes today do maids get to use our bathrooms ?  We may not treat them as untouchable any more, but the lines are very much there.

Do our maids ever sit on our furniture? Eat at our tables? Use the same dishes and glasses we use? We may talk to them as almost equals, leave aside food for them, give them not-so-old clothes, pay their children’s’ school fees, but yet will they ever presume to helping themselves to a glass of water with the very cups that they wash ?

If a maid dresses well, she is considered conceited. If a maid tries to stand up for her rights by forming associations and demanding minimum wages, she is considered a trouble-maker. If she spends a little extra money in sending her children to an English-medium school, she is considered something of a squanderer.

They work seven days a week. They do not get sick leaves and pensions, almost like the house-elves in Harry Potter. They do not presume to ever look at an employer as an equal. 

Like the coloured domestics of 1962, they raise the children of working mothers. Who make sure their jewellery is safely locked up before leaving them with their toddlers . The children call the maid by their names. Why ? Would they ever call a mother’s friend by name ? But the rules of respect do not apply to fifty year old domestic helps.  

Yes, maybe some of them steal. Some of them may lie, some may be immoral. But as quoted by Atticus Finch in 'To Kill a Mockinbird', this is true of all human beings. Not to the labour class alone.

Decades have passed since civil wars and fight for human rights. But most maids in India have the same story to tell.

 Husbands who beat them up in an inebriated state. Small incomes that barely get them the necessities of life. Desperately putting children through school so that they don’t suffer like their mothers. Coming to work even when sick because otherwise the employer cuts their salary. Small makeshift houses that leak during the rain. No proper water supply and electricity. Living in squalor.

We may boast about women power, about having a woman president before the mighty USA.( A president whose voice we rarely hear, but that's a different matter.) That we have  famous women reporters and writers and entrepreneurs.  But has this in any way changed our attitude towards our maids ? When will we change ?

Life, surprises and positivity.

(The past few months of volunteering Saturdays at Samiksha Foundation- Caring for children with cancer)

You see a lot of pain, a lot of suffering. You often get jolted by how harsh life is, and realise how petty your complaints are when you put things in perspective. But you also see so much positivity brimming around you, so much strength and resolve in accepting the unfairness of their situation, you see people who have enough problems in life even without having a small child diagnosed with cancer, and yet, they deal with the situation and go about the new routine without forgetting how to laugh. You see each child, unique, demanding and fun, leaving an impact. You encounter many incidents that leave you saddened and touched at the same time.

A  bubbly 8 year old girl solemnly gives me advice in the middle of an English Lesson- you have dandruff in your hair, you should use Chic shampoo. It will vanish in one day. This coming from a girl who has lost her hair because of chemotherapy makes one feel oddly guilty for being so privileged. Her mother one day sat with us for a Fourth Standard lesson telling us she had to drop out of school in Fourth Standard and she might as well sit and learn what she can now. And she read the book with concentration, asking us why the K in knife isn't the same as the K in kite, leaving us answerless.  Another girl, who was bored and listless the first few times I saw her underwent a sudden transformation and started enthusiastically solving fractions, and was so confident with her answers that that she insisted that textbook was wrong when one of the answers didn't match, telling me that it happens often.

Little things make them happy and eager- on shifting the older kids to a different room downstairs in the ward, suddenly they began feeling privileged. The younger ones fought to come downstairs while the older ones refused to be downgraded to sitting upstairs with the babies doing alphabets while they had more important lessons to deal with. One day we got out a whiteboard and one of the girls got so motivated with this little change, she briskly set about making it as classroom-like as possible, writing the date, subject, heading and drawing little margins.

The kids have their own groups and even a union leader of sorts. The oldest boy among them drives them around like a responsible elder brother and yells at them if they are too unruly. All of them help in putting away things without being asked, in fact, they fight over who folds the carpets and who carries the books back. One hyperactive seven  year old takes charge of even the lock and key to the library, sternly instructing me to switch off all the lights before locking the door.

The acceptance these children show is often unbelievable- once I came across a chapter in which  there was a boy who had cancer. The two tenth standard boys listening nudge each other and laughingly tell me they are like the boy in the lesson.

The teachers, Mrs.Parvathi and Mrs,Vidhyawati are models in dedication and generosity themselves. They are both stern and loving with the children, keeping them occupied and happy. I hurriedly had packed a bun for my lunch one day since the food wasn't ready, and the two of them seeing this quietly put half of their lunches into my box for me to eat.

The birthday events of course are tremendous fun for the kids- all the pent up energy comes tearing out, they laugh with abandon at the magic show, and Suresh the magician is amazing with the kids, hitting on just the right things to cheer them up and make them laugh. One of the events included an impromptu fashion show by the little girls, who walked up and down the 'stage' content with their everyday clothes and accessorised with their mothers' handbags.

Despite the moments that make you question the unfairness of life, it is usually positivity that I take back with me each time I leave Kidwai. Life's surprises may not always be pleasant, but with a little hope and dedication, we can try and make a small difference. 

Samiksha Foundation is a non-profit organisation founded by Sandhya Sharad in 2009. The foundation aims at providing quality non-medical support for children suffering from cancer and their care-givers, by organising educational and creative recreational activities for the resident patients at Kidwai Memorial Institite of Oncology , Bangalore.

You can visit the website http://www.samikshafoundation.org/ for more details, and do contact us if you are interested in extending your support towards this programme. Together, we can make a difference. 

Inspired ?

It is everywhere. Though sometimes, you just get moved by little things, some significant and some not, without ever taking it further and doing something productive about it. (Unless you call scribbling like this productive) Things that make you ponder. And wonder. Some of the things in the recent past that moved me. Strictly not in order the so called inspiration.

-Listening to ‘Kaatyayani’ sung by Bombay Jayashri at the Coke Studio sessions on repeat for half a day, the amount of character the slightest pause adds and the magic of listening to someone become one with ‘shruti’.

-Shopping at Blossoms Book Store being transported into a world where reality becomes surreal. And where you sincerely pity people who don’t read and have no idea what they are missing out on.

-A first presentation at work and being able to be a part of discovery and design, and seeing spaces evolve, and seeing houses that aren’t just spaces to exist in but to live life.

-Watching a leaf idly flutter by and discussing how your perception of the leaf reflects you. Whether you see joy or sorrow, or just inertia. 

-Watching a couple of four year olds play running and catching around a car, and shrieking in genuine surprise and amusement each time the ‘runner’ encounters the ‘catcher’ within the small radius.

-Catching up with a friend by discussing probability theory and life an odd hour of the night, and trying to make sense of existence using the unlikeliest analogies.

-Teaching middle school mathematics to a girl fighting cancer and actually being able to watch her change from extreme reluctance to sit in the class to actually enjoying subtracting fractions.

-Watching a baby mark her first year in the world, content playing with a hairbrush oblivious to the surrounding chaos, while her parents celebrate the miracle of her birth.

-Finding those moments when you are alone with your thoughts when the Bangalore evening weather is at its pleasant best, that make you want to freeze time forever. Such as now.

All she did was everything

Short Story attempt : -1/11/'12. Inspired by our ever smiling helper, Lakshmi. 

I go down to play everyday at 6 PM. Before that, I usually watch cartoons or play games on my computer, until Kani is free to accompany me to the park. She cuts vegetables and gets things ready for dinner while I sit in the living room. Sometimes she gets phone calls from her mother, saying her daughter is asking for her and if she can come home early, but she always says she cannot, and leaves only by 8PM which is when Mummy comes back from work. I asked her once why she can’t go home and take care of her baby daughter instead of taking care of me because I was almost 8 and I can go play on my own. But she just laughed and said “I wish the world was as simple as that”.

Kani’s actual name was Kanakalakshmi. She came to my house when I was just three years old and didn’t even know to tell time. Kani kept the house running like clockwork, arriving at 7 AM and briskly getting to work. The days she went on leave to her village were a mess, with clothes piling next to the washing machine and vessels scattered all over the kitchen counter. My bread would not have the crusts cut and my Complan would have too much chocolate. I would glumly eat the bland rice from the school canteen at lunch, and walk back from the bus stop with Vanitha Aunty who lived on the seventh floor, I would have to sit in her house till Mummy returned. I did not like her house- the plastic runners on her sofa stuck to my legs, the tables were all covered with cloths in crowded floral patterns that distracted me when I tried writing or drawing sitting at the table, and there was always a lingering smell of room fresheners that she kept spraying all over the house instead of opening the windows. I was not allowed to go down to play unsupervised, so I would wait listlessly till Mummy rang the doorbell at 8 PM and repeatedly thank Vanitha Aunty for keeping an eye on me. Vanitha aunty would insist on packing dinner for us, which my mother would refuse but I knew she was relieved she need not cook after all the stress at work.

I always keep hearing this word ‘stress’ when people talk about their job. When I grow up I am going to become a veterinarian and run an animal shelter. I will take care of stray animals and give them for adoption to people who want them. I can play with the dogs all day and not have any ‘stress’. Even our school teachers keep telling us they get stressed because of us.  Rohit got punished for drawing cartoons all over Miss Kavitha’s brand new white handbag which the principal told us was worth Rs.6000 and which was completely ruined now. I asked Mummy why someone would buy a handbag for that much money and she said it was because it was branded and imported from Europe. If I had Rs.6000 I would buy lots of dog biscuits to feed all the strays I see on the way to school, and a model of a dinosaur skeleton for myself. Maybe I would buy some toys for Kani’s daughter- I feel sad that she always has to play with my discarded toys, cars that have wheels missing and action figures with broken arms, and girls don’t like cars and action figures, even the ones that had all the parts in place.

Afternoons with Kani were different- she would meet me at the bus stop with a little treat for me, sometimes two biscuit with a cheese slice in between, sometimes a couple of strawberries. We would walk back and I would try to make her memorise the seven times tables along with me. We would stop at the apartment park for a few quick dashes on the swing. Once I forced Kani to sit on the swing when nobody was there in the park- she sat after I begged and begged, and held her sari tightly as I pushed her. As she went higher she laughed and laughed, and we stopped just in time when the security uncle passed by, looking at our uncontrolled giggles in suspicion.

After going home, she gives me another small snack and then I take a short nap while she busies herself in the kitchen. Then I would chat with her as she folded clothes, I used to help her until one day when Nandini Aunty was visiting and remarked “Looks like our Rishi does half her work for her and she gets paid a hefty sum.” After this she never let me do the little odd jobs I used to do, like watering the plants which I used to enjoydoing.

When it was time to go down, she would make me freshen up and insist on covering my face with talcum powder.  I play with Nakul, Sahil and the other boys. Kani sits on the bench watching. She usually doesn’t talk much to other maids, who exclude her from many discussions because she is divorced unlike them.They act like they dislike her but I think they secretly admire her. I know this because once the maid with the curly hair who works in F block came home when I was lying down but not yet asleep. She was crying about her husband and how he beat her because she came home late after cleaning up from a birthday party, and how he refused to give her her own salary money, because of which she has been walking three kilometres to work the past week. I saw Kani lend her money, and I heard her telling Kani she wished she had the guts to do what Kani did. Kani said “It is all because of Shilpa Akka’s help, I was lucky I had her.” I later asked Kani how she managed to lend her money when she herself had not bought a new sari in years in order to save for her daughter. She said sometimes you had to think of other’s needs as well.

Kani seldom complained, and always discouraged complaints from me. When I complained about homework she would remind me of that if I wanted to become a veterinarian, I would have to deal with a lot worse than homework. I knew Kani had far worse problems than me though she never told me much. She used to come to work with bruises and cuts, and I would see her and Mummy talking in hushed tones and overhear phrases like ‘time you take the baby and leave him’ and ‘no use putting up with this torture’. I told Kani to listen to Mummy and that they can both come and live with us in the spare bedroom. Though I like being alone, it might be nice to have someone to share my toys with, and I don’t have to go to Vanitha aunty’s house ever. Then when her daughter Parvathi grows older, she can join my school and we can go together. I can tell her how to get into Miss Kavitha’s good books by using a ruler to draw neat lines after every answer in my notebook, and how to be careful to never sit with my head resting on my palm in Miss Roshni’s class.

I had it all planned out and I began to like this new picture of my life. Both Mummy and I could be more relaxed while getting ready in the morning and Mummy need not worry about getting home on time. And if Kani occupied the spare room, then maybe we wouldn’t get visitors like Kannan uncle who would stay almost a month and use my computer to play Freecell for hours, or Nandini Aunty complaining about Kani and watching back to back television serials with crying women bringing in coffee and revengeful mother-in-laws calling up gangsters.

I was excited about my idea and explained it in detail to Kani. She gave me a hug when I finished and started crying. I asked her if that meant she was coming but she said she can’t, and said she knew I would grow up to be a generous man. I tried asking Mummy to convince Kani but she just smiled sadly and said it was not practical because Kani had a child.

Kani did eventually leave her husband, but didn’t come to live with us. Mummy told me not to ask her about it but I used to overhear her talking about her new house-owner who objected to her separated status, and about her mother who has come to live with her. Things didn’t change much for me after Kani’s separation but it must have changed a lot for her. Though sometimes she would not pay attention to what I was saying or would cut vegetables staring at the blank wall, she laughed more, and relaxed more. She would sometimes tell me about how she dreamt of her daughter becoming a school headmistress and how she would move back to her village and build a small house of her own and not have to worry about the next month’s rent. I asked her who would cook and take care of me after she left, but she said I would be old enough to take care of myself by then.

But I am not. Kani is leaving us in two weeks and going to her village. Mummy told me it was because of her grandmother falling sick and her mother wanting to move back along with Kani and her daughter, as there was nothing left in the city for them anyway; Kani’s husband and in-laws didn’t want anything to do with her or her daughter.  She tearfully told my mother that she would have to find a house in the adjoining town to work in, and that she will never forget us and visit whenever she can, and made us promise we would attend her daughter’s marriage after she grows up. I wish we could go with them- I would like to live in a village with big green fields and no noisy vehicles. But I know Mummy has her job in the city which she cannot leave.

Mummy is trying to be strong about it but I know she is very worried. I met the new lady today who will be coming to work, when she came to speak to Mummy. She seemed alright but she didn’t smile much and had a harsh voice. And I don’t know whether she will cut the crusts from my bread and put the right amount of Complan in my milk. I gave Kani a picture I drew as a parting gift – it had a picture of Kani in a nice little house with a garden and a chimney, waving to her daughter with spectacles and a handbag going to the school to teach, and next to her house was me in my animal shelter playing with all the dogs. I hope all our dreams come true. 

Music cures

(Disclaimer: This is not a music review)

I’m listening to A R Rahman’s new song from Kadal- ‘Adiye’ as I write this, and wondering how he does it. What is it about music that makes such a personal bond between song and listener? We all make a hue and cry about travelling but sometimes with music you can travel the world sitting in a room. You can shut yourself from everything with that simple invention, headphones. Or an instrument, or if you happen to be lucky enough to have a decent voice, then you need nothing. Touching the right note can be enough.

The song has now changed to ‘Anbin Vaasale’. Which pierces its way into your mind and demands your attention. What is it about this album ? Each song seems to stand out as a product of genius. This is not an album that you can play in the background, you have to stop and listen. (I’m taking around five minutes between sentences here while writing, and I stopped listening to it at work because it made my hands stop typing at the keyboard. )

 Maybe its me, but I don’t remember being this affected by a music album in a long time. Listening to each song for the first time had the anticipation of unwrapping a long overdue gift. From the time ‘Nenjukulle’ aired on MTV unplugged, it was the first song that would grace my Windows Media Player every day , until ‘Elay Keechan’ pleasantly arrived to compete. Each time he sang the line at 4:39 I wanted to hear that bit again- surprising what the slightest, almost unnoticeable modulation can do.

Listening to the rest of the songs yesterday, I couldn't stop at a comment or a ‘like’, there was something about this album that was capable of changing your mood tangentially in a mere four or so minutes. (I’m not presuming to ‘review’ this music- one can’t review something that one cannot hope to achieve in a thousand years)  Moongil Thottam and Chitthirai Nila in their separate mellifluous ways prove that people can do magic with notes and voices.  

Maybe when Roja first released it felt something like this? I was unfortunately too young to witness the magic back then, but I think this album is always going to remain special in its own way.

Attempt eight .

This is the eight time I’ve sat down with the firm decision of writing a new post. My hope of ‘at least one post a month’ has proved to be over ambitious, in spite of numerous attempts of sitting with pen and paper only to discard whatever I write within half an hour.


First I tried writing about music. It was one of those phases when I’d discovered a new song that stuck me as absolutely brilliant and was mulling over how it would feel to be a person who could create scores -pun intended-of brilliant songs that reach out to thousands of people you will never ever know personally but who would live with close personal ties with your music. I suppose I kept wondering and listening to the song, and in the process quite forgot that I was to be writing about it.

Then I tried a short story. Going into long winded descriptions of the place and the gate and the door bell, it seemed to be more a reflection of me and my surroundings than a story, and after repeatedly trying to establish a ‘storyline’ and characters with impact, I failed to manufacture any semblance of interest, and abandoned the story.

Then I thought maybe I would be inspired if I write about a book, one to me that was no mere’ story’ but a marvel of how a book should be. I started off writing about Jem and Dill’s innocence, of Atticus’s defence, of falling in love with Scout’s narrative each time I read the book, of Miss Maudie and Mrs Dubose and Calpurnia and how each of these non principal characters still left their impact in their own way, and of course, of enigma called Boo Radley and the soap dolls he made, that touched you in a way that was quite inexplicable. And well, I started reading the book again, and there ended that attempt.

Then came a half hearted attempt at a travelogue- half hearted is quite an exaggeration, I actually didn’t even reach the stage of sitting with a pen and writing a word. Then an article on out of place signs and quotes, that came out of seeing a person in a Playboy t-shirt at Tiruvannamalai temple. Again, unfortunately, I could only think of enough material for a status update or a tweet, not quite an 'article'.

Yet another short story attempt followed- this lasted around four lines. Then I tried succumbing to technology, sitting on the computer, opening MS word and trying to ‘type away’, expecting the bursts of randmomness I used to be capable of, but got distraced by Notifications, GIFs and YouTube videos of the sing I initially started off writing about, and finally shut down without even getting to the point of doing a Ctrl + S .

So finally, I’ve succesfully( and conveniently) managed to ramble on for a page on my unsuccesful writing attempts- please wish me luck for my next post to be slightly less futile than this one !

Guess who changed her profile picture ?

Mom : I just spoke to Mrs.S . Her daughter R’s marriage has been fixed she tells me.

Me: Yes, I know. The boy is called A.

Mom: But how did you know that ?

Me: Facebook. He works at ABC. They all went for a trip last weekend to Mysore…

Welcome to the world of the non social-networker versus a regular. Of how my mother fails to understand how I possibly get to know things about people to whom I have barely spoken three words. She mentions a distant relative and I know which university his daughter recently graduated from. I often remind her about her friends’ birthdays after seeing a ‘Happy birthday mom’ status update from the offspring who is my ‘friend’. Sometimes she excitedly shows me pictures someone would have quaintly mailed her and she is incredulous hearing about how I saw them long back on Facebook. I wonder how she would react if she knows that sometimes I can even tell her who went for which movie in which theatre and with whom sitting in my room seeing their ‘check in’, or even what somebody cooked for last nights dinner, all thanks to Instagram that make all dishes seem mouth wateringly palatable. ( I have to admit, I have been at the ‘posting’ end of this one ! )

Sometimes, the flood of primarily useless information is unbelievable, and as luck would have it, its somehow far easier to remember and repeat utterly uninformative ‘information’ about who is on what terms with whom rather than which deal was signed by which Chief Minister. And one person’s updating of her status message on the extent of her boredom or her new haircut becomes much ‘liked’ and ‘commented’ , while another person’s update on a significantly more important than life event like winning a national level prize or a new job goes unnoticed.

And of course, there are categories of these people. The addicts who ‘check in’ even at the gym and broadcast minute by minute updates of their playlist and how much weight they are lifting, and have sleepless nights when they don’t get enough ‘likes’. The invisible-but-omnipresent who seldom comment or share but are perfectly aware of which shampoo who is using and who coloured his hair recently. Then there are the anti-socials who are forcibly part of these sites though they hate them, and occasionally sign in to get revolted by the amount others are sharing. Then of course, there are the middle-aged-and-young-at-heart who want to catch up with the times and actively post updates and upload baby pictures of their children now almost adults, much to the consternation of the latter. And there are the elderly who make sure it is their duty to know what the ‘youth’ are upto , and the kids who actually believe it is normal to have one thousand friends even before graduating high school.

And the rest of us normal people who occasionally put up arbitrary status updates and change profile pictures, some of us who do all of this and still mock the website.  

At least I’m glad I have a mom who is still shocked that I could know that a vague acquaintance had a baby in London three minutes after the birth rather than one who is the background browser and gets to know what unsuitable cuisine I had for yesterday’s lunch by seeing my check in. Phew. 

Mosaic Tiles and Mismatched curtains

It is one of those pleasant Bangalore evenings- cool with a hint of oncoming rain, and silence. I sit on the concrete ,once wooden bench in the compound of my grandfather’s house. The luxury of having a place to sit that is neither in, nor out. I am shaded by the roof above me but can also see the sky. Having the seclusion of a blank wall in front of me but also a view of the road to my left. The road, one of those idyllic cul-de-sacs, which used to have at least enough trees to give us food for countless tree-to-tree games. Now most of the trees are gone, but at least the coconut trees inside the compound of a few houses still stand. I remember collecting the tiny dried up ping-ping ball sized coconuts that fall down and playing with them.

In front of me is the tulsi plant with the miniature shrine. Painted a bright yellow by my grandfather a few years back, it is a reminder of how central it used to be in their lives of yesterday. A small one-and-a-half foot wide strip of ‘garden’ runs along the length of the compound, no fancy manicured lawns or exotic plants here. Just a homely mixed growth of green. In front of the spot where I am sitting used to be a banana tree – a bright vivid shade of green, exciting to a child’s eye .The hibiscus plant still stays, from which we used to try extracting and tasting the nectar.The old fashioned gate remains untouched as well, with its carved flowers and musical instruments, from where I have swung watching the going-ons of the road and the way the maid would wash the stone outside the gate with cowdung and draw a ‘kolam’ and make borders on the stone.

To my right is the garage. Having never owned a car but still owning a nice ten feet by twelve feet garage with a rolling shutter,  the garage doubles as a multipurpose store room for odds and ends, discarded furniture, a clothesline where the laundry was transferred when it rained, the odd scooter that a relative or a random uncle would leave temporarily. The garage had been a wonderful playroom for me, sitting on a chair that been converted into a swing, making tents out of bed sheets, spreading the same bed sheet on the floor for games of ludo, and getting fascinated by the operation of the rolling shutter and its heavy rattle. A tall wooden stool that also doubled as a ladder while taking things from the loft still stands there. It is now a pale yellow but it used to be painted a bright blue. Just like most of the other wooden things in this house- cane chairs, the window shutters, even the back door.

Each of the rooms used to be painted a different colour, and the colours used to also be changed each time the house was repainted, and the little peeled off bits of paint would reveal what the colour used to be, leaving you wondering how that room would have looked in the other colour. The ‘hall’ was a shade of blue somewhere between sky blue and cobalt blue. The main bedroom was green with cornice bands of lavender and pale yellow. I remember how this room permanently had a spare cot that was placed on its side at one end to save space. I would clamber on to the gap and pretend it was a witness stand and enact courthouse scenes.   The other room that had a view of the road , that was and is still called the ‘front room’ or ‘outside room’ when translated into English was painted a light purple , I fail to remember the colour of the dining room but I remember the foldable brown formica topped table with the oddly shaped chairs.  

The small kitchen with the cement counters, the bathroom, not to be confused with ‘toilet’ that was a separate entity, had a rough granite floor, ‘anti skid’ in today’s terms, and used to have a large ‘boiler’ that heated water.

The backyard , with the washing stone and built in grinding stone, and a small water tank that I have on occasion used as a swimming pool/bath tub, and the small outdoor ‘Indian toilet’ with once red-oxide flooring, the projected sil where I have sat many a time playing with the hooks that hold the wooden shutters in place and the rangoli powder that was always kept in this spot, the old quaint wooden sign bearing my grandfather’s name and the name of the bank where he worked, the uneven portions of the ground where water would collect during rains and where we would make paper boats, the common walls with the neighbouring houses which we would jump across while playing hide and seek...

The house may have had mismatched furniture haphazardly arranged leaving no space for movement and oddly coloured walls and doors and a cluttered showcase where objects went on display regardless of  aesthetic, but the memories overrule the absurdities -sometimes absurdities are what make  memories so much more vivid... 

On the boy who lived.

I started off to write about re-reading books and the joy of discovering a long-before read book, or simply an over-and-over-again read book that you happened to have not touched in around a year. There may be some books that have touched me, that always help in lifting a dull mood, many that may have been gripping enough to finish in one sitting, but the most re-read book is probably Harry Potter, the Boy who lived, the Chosen one.

Reading this book is like a chain reaction- I happen to open one of the seven when I have some time and no other new book around, and end up reading all of them in the next couple of weeks. There’s something about the way the characters get etched in your memory, the way you remember insignificant details about the book like the colour of Pansy Parkinson’s robes at the Yule Ball or the password to the gargoyle outside Dumbledore’s office. The way you can sometimes replay conversations and scenes in your head using almost the exact words, like Ron having the emotional range of a teaspoon or Hermionie ferociously dotting her ‘i’s and making holes in her parchment.

The amount of discussions the series sparked , whether at school, or years later with people who’s kids went to school, the intense debates, not on usual controversies or criticisms that books have but on ‘doubts’ in the plot, on how Malfoy got the Elder Wand and on how the time-turner worked and on why Dumbledore did what he did. The complexity of the plots, on how Scabbers looking thin was related to a prison breakout, on how Harry catching the Snitch in his mouth in his first match related to destroying a Horcrux, on how even seemingly insignificant chapters like the one on spring cleaning the Black house proved to hold important clues.

The competitions on who would read the book first as they released, and the sadistic thrill of telling someone who hasn’t yet finished it the ‘twist’ in the ending. (I had the misfortune of ‘being told’ rather than ‘telling’ all the major twists, that Sirius Black was not a killer, that Snape killed Dumbledore, and that Snape was innocent after all. Which didn’t actually make the books any less enjoyable!)

A book that actually contributed to a two-hour game of word building with ‘Harry Potter words’  during a long bus ride stuck in traffic , that also lead to a 500-odd comment game on Facebook , where we broke our heads getting stuck at Y after Yule Ball, Yew and Yaxley.

Growing up with Harry was quite memorable- reading about the twelve year old boy depressed on his birthday when we were twelve, seeing the first movie version of the book and endlessly complaining about the omissions and alterations, seeing whether the characters stood up to your imagined versions, waiting to see who the next Defence against the Dark Arts teachers were, watching Neville grow from awkwardly searching for his toad to being a true Gryffindor, cheering with the Weasley twins and crying as Dobby was buried, watching how every loose end tied up in the last book, and finally seeing the victory of good over evil.

The boy who lived indeed managed to live in many minds breaking barriers of age, genre and other ‘muggle’ classifications! 

The prevailing theme of the year- Nostalgia.

It seeps in through insignificant things. The smell of summer showers, passing though a mango cart, a certain song from ten years back, the sight of an Enid Blyton paperback. Maybe its because of all the ‘what’s next’ questions – What’s next was never a huge deal all these years. At least that’s how it feels now.

The ‘Next’ usually followed with minimum fuss- After 6^th standard came summer vacations and then 7^th standard. After school came play time and then homework time. After dinner came family television time.  After exams came excitement and water fights.

Whether we got bored of these patterns, I don’t really remember. But looking back, it seems an idyllic existence. Having actual hours in a school day allotted for games and music and reading, having annual school picnics and parties, having nothing too pressing to worry about except maybe the marks of the Hindi unit test or a minor squabble with one of the friends in the ‘group’. We may have not had the even more seemingly ‘idyllic’ childhood of a generation ahead with climbing mango trees and playing with tops and spending vacations at a ‘native place’ with a horde of cousins, but we had our own set of now outdated activities. Buying audiocassettes of new movies or albums, borrowing walkmans (walkmen?) for trips, reading horoscopes for the day at the back of the weight token at railway stations, playing brick games on a handheld ‘video game’ and sometimes being treated to the ones where you could shoot ducks on the TV from a ‘gun’. When we hadn’t a clue about pizzas and pastas and soufflés and the only main concession to our regular food was the occasional Maggi Noodles, and the only foreign cuisine we vaguely knew was Chinese . When we did have fancy board games and the occasional computer game but if just given a piece of chalk, could still pass a pleasant hour playing hopscotch. When we did watch a lot of cartoons but still ( at least most of us) loved Famous Fives and Secret Sevens and spent many a day exploring Cornish moors and secret underground passages with them. ( This of course, was before Harry Potter happened, which was soon to overtake most school conversations.)

I remember reading an Isaac Asimov short story about a time in the future when there is a man who ‘claims’ he can do things like multiplication without a calculator, and astonishes people by getting the right answer, and leading to the realisation that the brain can actually be a substitute to the computer.

In the hope that we don’t live to see that day, though nostalgic posts of twenty years hence might talk about the times we actually had to type on a keyboard, and how we used Facebook and Skype to communicate, and how we transferred data using things like memory cards and pen drives, the floppy disks of tomorrow, and how we played Angry Birds on touchphones, how we were fascinated by Siri, and how we still did quaint things like going to bookstores and buying printed books. 

A memory.

My earliest memories of my grandfather involve the large front verandah of our second floor house, the very first house I have lived in. I remember him sitting on the cane reclining chair we still have, while I rode around the verandah on a little red tricycle pretending it was an autorickshaw and asking him where he wanted to go. He would often take me for walks upto the railway track .We would sit on a bench watching the trains pass by, and I would jump about excitedly if anybody waved back from the train. Sometimes these walks would include a stop at a small departmental store where he would buy me ‘Gems’ chocolates. We called the shop ‘Kannaadi kade’, kannaadi meaning glass, as it was one of the rare shops that had huge tinted glass doors.

I would often play a form of ‘hide and seek’ with him, which involved him sitting on his mattress and me hiding in various parts of the small room and him finding me by pointing me out without moving. He taught me to play chess when I was merely five or six years old, I distinctly remember the chess board we used to have, a wooden box with light brown and ivory squares instead of the usual; black and white, and black and ivory magnetic coins. I remember sitting across him on the single bed by the window and trying to remember how the bishop moves and how the horse.

Once we shifted our house, his spot changed from the verandah to a small bench we had built at the front of the house. Dressed always in a spotless white dhoti and a neat shirt of light blue or grey, he would sit watching the activities of the road. He would still involve in games, with not just me but the other children of the road as well. I remember endless games of ‘King Queen Police Robber’ where we wrote on tiny chits and maintained strict score cards. We would also play board games- he would call out numbers when we played ‘Housie’, we played Scrabble and Uno and Snakes and Ladders.

Sometimes the whole family would play carrom- I remember his unique carrom strike, he would rest his hand on the board and flick the striker with his index finger, accurately pocketing the coins.

We would play brain games, twenty questions, quiz and memory games, he sometimes looked through my essays, spoke to me about the books he used to read when he was younger- Dickens, Wodehouse...

And then there was music. He was a self taught musician. Never had he attended classical music lessons, but he could identify a raga within ten seconds, and would constantly hum his own notes, quizzing me on identifying the raga as I grew older. I remember once during a power cut, he was in the house humming a tune and a neighbour came to enquire how our television was working despite the power cut, only to catch the live show.

Order and systems- even his retired life was governed by these. His time of waking up, duration of walking, reading the paper, his meals, his afternoon nap, everything he did was as though according to a never-wavering time table. Even in his later years, he would never fail to go to the bank on exactly the first of every month for his pension. And if ever he was going out of town, he would have his tiny suitcase packed and kept by the door at least a week in advance.

He was involved in my school life in ways I only appreciate now- he always undertook the responsibility of covering my new school books every year. It was an elaborate ritual, he would sit down with the brown paper, labels, scissors and tape and neatly wrap all the books and stick the label correctly aligned on the top right corner. He also undertook ironing of my school uniform, and having the white canvas shoes polished pure white ready on Mondays and Thursdays while the ‘black shoes’ shone with Kiwi Polish on the other days.

As I got more involved in school activities and studies and friends, the games and conversations reduced. But my grandfather managed to keep himself entertained in his own way- he would play Solitaire and Patience with a deck of playing cards sitting on his bed, he would sing as usual and often listen in when I practice correcting my pitching, he would religiously watch the same news on all the news channels, he would pass most days quite uneventfully but without complaint. He was not one for constantly visiting relatives or chatting with the neighbours. Of course, at home he would constantly bicker with my grandmother on trivial issues like writing the ration list, and when his daughters and grandchildren came to visit; he would get into a talkative mood, narrating nostalgic stories. But otherwise, he generally appeared as a silent and dignified person, earning the respect of all around.

And so he remains in our memories, a person respected by all. I continue to picture him sitting on the verandah peacefully everytime I hear one of his favourite songs-‘Endaro Mahanubavulu Andariki Vandanumulu’ , translating to ‘There are many great men, to all of them my salutations’. A fitting tribute

Waking up to peace.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FjMs_imWkFM&feature=related

Song- Vellai pookal

Composed and sung- A R Rahman

Lyrics - Vairamuthu

Translation - http://www.mail-archive.com/arrahmanfans@yahoogroups.com/msg39132.html

I don’t usually concentrate on the lyrics of songs. There seems to be a part of my brain that blocks out attempting to find out meaning in a song. But this is one song who’s lyrics hit me each time I listen to them.

It brings out the yearning those affected by war have for peace. Something that most of us absolutely take for granted. Being victimised for no justifiable reason. Whether it is our freedom fighters struggling against the British or the ‘blacks’ against the ‘whites’.

We may be waking up everyday, as the song describes, to the blooming of white flowers and the warmth of the yellow sunlight on the sand. Most of us are not directly affected by struggles such as war and genocide and denial of basic human rights. Our preoccupied minds may allow us to stop and feel a little sympathy for the victims who we read about in books and newspapers or see shedding tears to the reporter on a news channel or in a movie.

But rarely do we appreciate the very fact that we are able to live without fear. Not fear of being unsuccessful to impress a client or a boss at a meeting, or of failure to be at the top, or of losing an important upcoming match. But fear of having to fight to live as a normal human being with another human being. Being caught in the war somebody else is having with somebody else.

While we go about or daily work with all our frustrations and complaints, there are the vast number of people who live in this fear. The soldiers, their families, innocent people who just happen to live in a place witnessing weekly bomb blasts, children who still wake up to the sound of gunfire echoing in their heads even after the shooting is long gone.

We may not change after reading or writing such thoughts, we will still go about our lives laughing with the good times and complaining bitterly about the bad. We may not become great patriots or leaders. But one of those days when we begin to wallow in self pity and curse our lives, we could stop to appreciate the freedom we are blessed with, and value every minute that we are able to live without fear.

Keeping it alive.

Writing this post as I realised it'll soon be Feb 2011, and a year of keeping my blog inactive makes it worthy of being deleted...

Interesting(to me) point -Since the title of this blog is Nothing Significant, maybe the fact that I didn't write for a whole year contradictorily ( Wow, I tried that put for the first time and it didn't get a red squiggly line under it so I'm assuming its a word) means that there have been significant events transpiring, which is why nothing was worthy of coming under this blog, as what I'm currently writing is ? (Yes, that's a long sentence. )

Talking about writing- the physical act of writing is something I quite enjoy. I mean, the act of taking a pen and letting it flow on a blank paper, making long loopy 'y's and 'g's, making neat commas, making a cursive capital 'A' with a flourish. Putting a triumphant full stop after writing a sentence to satisfaction. ( Hitting the full stop key hard enough to break the keyboard doesn't amount to the same!) The only reason I sometimes write notes in class is for this, for seeing physical blank pages fill with physical writing, for having 'j's going below the line and 'h's above.

(Of course, I still prefer submitting assignments in print, but that's a different issue).

Talking about handwriting brings back memories of school, where it was a huge issue. We'd graduated from the four lined notebooks and practicing pages of Gg and Tt and progressed to writing ten line answers from English lessons, when we had a new teacher who insisted that our writing wasn't 'cursive' enough, and we were back to writing for handwriting's sake. And those were the days when we had prizes at the end of the year for things like handwriting. (And yes, i won it much to the surprise of my mother who always thought it was untidy. )

Talking about English lessons also reminds me of, well English lessons. I had one in Primary School about children in class who spilt somebody's lunch, and the questions would go- Q.Who spilt the water A.Tom spilt the water. Q. Who's water was it? A. It was Bess's water. And that was the reason my parents decided i should change schools.

Ironically, after a lot of good English lessons for the next few years, after Julius Caesar, after unforgettable poems like Strange Meeting and Ode on the Death of a Favourite cat, after analysis of short stories like The Postmaster and War, come IIPUC and we were back to 'What was the name of the cat in the poem I Forget the Name', and 'How many litres of milk did the cow give in a week.'. And if things could get worse, the year after that we had to make lists of homophones and homonyms after a wrong explanation of what both were.

Now, its come to even lesser than that, to random posts once a year, and letters to the principal for whoever requires them. Sigh.

What happens on boring Tuesdays morning.

A two hour lecture on that one... and what do you expect ?

Pages filled with 'sketches' ( doodles), election symbols for every individual in class, designing christmas stockings with special fireplaces, the less creative 'noughts and crosses' ( no offence meant), and sometimes, valuable poetry.

The Walnut and the Apricot

( In memory of The Walrus and the Carpenter. )

( ah.. those ICSE days. )

( Inspired by the two famous users of the walnut and apricot flavoured cosmetic item respectively)

( Warning, may not sound funny for those who don't know the context)

Again,

The Walnut and the Apricot.

Said the walnut to the apricot,

"Shall we go to the spa?"

Said the apricot to the walnut,

"Sure, as foot size no bar"

So off went the walnut and the apricot,

dressed in purple and pink.

Faces scrubbed and hair combed,

Teeth brushed to the brink.

For seven days and seven nights,

they marched forth courageously.

For they knew that at the end of the journey,

Beauty would smile upon them instantaneously.

On the journey, they encountered,

A maiden, Fair and Lovely. .

She blushed and batted eyelashes at them,

and told them she was lonely.

Asked the duo to the maiden,

"What is the secret to your beauty?

The glowing skin, the radiance..

Is it your facewash, gentle and fruity ?...

Your skin is as fair as fair can get,

Your locks as silken as silk.

Your feet as tiny as Apricot's can get,

Is it because of Strawberry milk ? "

Said the maiden to the duo,

" My beauty cannot match yours,

Your faces, aglow with pink.

I don't know if its the facewash'

But it sure does stink!

Time.
A masquerader.
Gushing by when begged to slow down,
And trickling when being wished to zoom past.
Deceptively pretending to be stationary.
Misleading pretending to be absent.

The universe on its fingertips...
Every living soul answering its call,
Master of every inanimate object.

Omnipresent, yet ever changing.
Elemental , all encompassing.

Treasured, wasted , Feared, disregarded.
Enjoyed, cursed , savoured , loathed.

Verbiogenesis

It all began one bright sunny summer day after the ordeal called 2nd PUC and CET...
Joblessness being a unique exprerience after a lot of (attempts at) studying, and recently inspired by Douglas Adams' hobby of inventing words for phrases and actions which dont have onw, we decided to too.
Sample this ( from The Deeper Meaning of Liff by Douglas Adams and John Lloyd)

Anderby Steeple (n.)
One who asks you a qucstion with the apparent motive of
wanting to haar your answer,but who cuts short your opcning sentence by leaning forward and stating ' I'll tell you why i ask' and then talking solidly for the next half hour.
Ampus (n.)
A lurid bruise you cant remember getting.
Beppu (n.)
The triumphant slamming shut of a book after reading the final page.

Enough to inspire us. We didnt read the rest of the book but started on our own...
(Alphabetical order was too much effort)
Eleemodementia- The often-occuring situation when you go up to someone with a purposeful air and forget what you wanted to say.Frequentlty occurs during phone conversations as well.
Zeolitrention- Negative optimism,when you want something to happen badly but try not to be optimistic and take a gloomy view of the matter in the hope that it will actually happen.
Psymnatised-Dereiving sadistic pleasure.
Quaffrintia -English equivalent of kannada Kobbu. (words like 'nerve' didnt sound expressive enough)
Ephluviated- Feeling of mastery after a task such as making up a word.
Vole`me- A vague reason.
Ptolemia- When you're really tired n sleept but cant sleep, or really hungry and the food is right there but cant eat for Vole'me.
Kank- Something that is an insult to intelligence.
Quarliscent- Something painfully obvious.
Frizzlentia- Beyond bugging.
Carestraining- Conversation when both know that the other is joking but carry on the conversation with wild exaggerations,neither caring to be the forst one to start talking sense..The exact meaning will only be known on personal experience.
Extrabeheadificating - Something disappointing to the pint of wanting to rip the other person(s)'s head(s) off.
Kaantentulated- Extreme shock and surprise expressed at an event in the nature of a certain person dancing for 'Kaanta laga' on stage.
Vicilaggerate-The exact opposite of exaggerated.
Aflaxophonia-Vicilaggerating under circumstances of having too much but it not being enough.( Derevied from the situation of P having only 3 phones... )
Saune- Greedily eyeing something.
Dondilimed-Negatively surprise and equivalent to saying 'Why on earth or anywhere else would you or anyone else do something of that nature?!'
Paranymphoteration -The art of doing innovative things such as this but whoch people fail to appreciate and instead think we're developing insanity. Leads to extrabeheadification.

A masterly sentence by Ad- I CARE to deny Ar's statements for I think she has too much quaffrintia herself!! And I must say that I'm kaantentulated that she denies being involved in carestraining!! Now, is that quaffrintia or what!!! I'm too eniggerated!! Give me a moment before I start fuming....!

I appeal to the other makers to decipher these words,the meanings of which i have forgotten,
Pacadacadania
Eniggerated
and also to add on the unmentioned words in the comments section.
Cheers!

Calvinisms- Priceless!

These make my day anytime i read them... i repeat-priceless!



"If people could put rainbows in zoos, they'd do it."

"There is never enough time to do all the nothing you want".

Mom: What would make you DO something like this??Calvin: Poor genetic material!

"Life's too darn short to waste time trying to please every meddlesome moron who's got an idea how I ought to be."”I agree. What about you? “

Calvin to Hobbes: The surest sign that Intelligent Life exists is it hasn't tried to contact us.

Calvin's Dad: The best way to enjoy your job is to have a hobby thats even worse.

C: I've been thinking, Hobbes.H: On a weekend?C: Well, it wasn't on purpose...

"The thing about life is its never so bad that it cant get worse"

Calvin: I want the last piece of pie! Don't divide it up! Give it all to me!Calvin's mom: Don't be selfish, Calvin.Calvin: So the real message here is 'be dishonest'?

“You know how Einstein got bad grades as a kid? Well, mine are even worse! “

"Do I need a reason for everything?"

'I don't want to be victimized by the notions of virtuous behavior'

"Mothers are the necessity of invention"

Calvin : "Me Tarzan, king of Jungle"Susie : "Nice underpants, does your mom know you’re over here like this"Calvin : (while going back frustrated) "i don’t think jane EVER said that to Tarzan"

Life's disappointments are harder to take when you don't know any swear words!

“If ignorance is bliss, this lesson would appear to be a deliberate attempt on your part to deprive me of happiness, the pursuit of which is my unalienable right according to the declaration of independence. I therefore assert my patriotic prerogative not to know this material. I'll be out in the playground”

“Every day of my life I’m forced to add another name in the list of people that piss me off".

“I let my mind wander and it didn't come back"

"Reality continues to ruin my life..."

C to Susie " Go play in a microwave"

C: Mom, can I have another plate?M: Why?C: Well, somebody just puked on mine.

“I wish I was dead....well no, not really. I wish everyone ELSE was dead. “

Calvin to Hobbes: I asked mom if I was a gifted child. She said they certainly wouldn't have paid for me

“People who get nostalgic about childhood were obviously never children. “
“Weekends don't count unless you spendthem doing something completely pointless.”

“Girls are like slugs - they probably serve some purpose, but it's hard to imagine what.”

"I know that life is unfair but why isn’t it ever unfair in my favor?"!!

Mum: Someday I hope you have a kid that puts you through what I've gone through. Calvin: Yeah, Grandma says that's what she used to tell you.
“I liked things better when I didn't understand them. “
Calvin: I've got an idea, Dad. Maybe I'd get better grades if you offered me $1 for every "D", $5 for every "C". $10 for every "B", and $50 for every "A"! Dad: I'm not going to bribe you Calvin, you should apply yourself for your own good. Calvin: Rats. I thought I could make an easy four bucks.
Calvin's science assignmentIf I were a scientist, I would invent a time machine, go to yesterday and then directly to tomorrow, so that I can skip this stupid assignment.

Life is full of surprises, but never when you need one.

If you couldn't find any weirdness, maybe we'll just have to make some!"

"If u feel like doing some work....sit down and wait until the feeling goes away"

Calvin: You can't just turn on creativity like a faucet. You have to be in the right mood.Hobbes: What mood is that?Calvin: Last-minute panic.

“There is an inverse relationship between how good something is for you and how much fun it is!

Calvin’s mom: Who wrote, “help I'm a bug" on my letter to grandma?Calvin: Evidently some bug, how strange.

The problem with people is that they're only HUMAN.

"You know what's weird, I don't remember much of anything until I was 3 years old"


Calvin to mom (middle of the night)” do you think love is just a biochemical reaction designed to make sure genes get passed on??
Mom
-whatever it is its what’s keeping me from strangling you now..

Nothing helps a bad mood more than spreading it....

Shamelessly aimless..true spirit of a holiday

One thing I succeed in unfailingly.
Plans for room-cleaning, sheet organising, trying my hand in the kitchen.. all take a nice comfortable backseat once the holiday actually comes. A computer in the room, a book in my hand, some source of music.. why bother about anything else?
Since this is not about anything in particular, i might as well talk about spelling mistakes.
Insanely silly ones I find a final year student of a professional course making- bacement.
An entire slide show with each slide containing the word isle, which is supposed to mean a passageway between sections of seats, as in a church.
I recently however made the most glorious spelling mistake in the galaxy. While taking down notes on requirements of a living room- Seating area, circulation, a TW... TW! Had I written 'teevee' it could be more forgivable. This is one spelling mistake which if anyone beats in a million years, I have promised my friend I would eat her orange bag with the attached numerous keychains.