This morning I was followed to the bus stop by a very malicious looking goat.
The kind of goat that has a sort of a beard and more importantly, two very sharp horns. I have no clue why it decided to accompany me to my destination. All I had done was look at it a little longer than I would look at a goat minus beard and horns. It was breakfasting as though it had all the time in the world (which is true, anyway) when I happened to walk out of my building. We looked at each other and then, finding me a trifle more interesting (a very diplomatic word!) than the average human, the animal stood up and started to walk behind me. Having reached the stop, I halted. It threw me the kind of look that humans do when a very pleasant activity they are engaged in is suddenly and rudely interrupted. After having stared (glared?) at me thus, it settled down next to me and went ahead with the chomping of grass with utmost concentration . My bus arrived and I bade farewell to my quadruped companion.
Later on, during a very boring bus-ride I amused myself by imagining the conversation we would have had if the goat could speak the human tongue.
Extract:
Me: (thinking) Heavens! What sort of a goat is that?
Goat: (aloud) Good Lord! What kind of a creation is this!!!!!?????????
Me: Errr..
Goat: What are you staring at? Never seen an animal enjoying a meal?
Me: (Gulp) Sorry, I think I shall get going. I need to get to work, you know.
Goat: Yeah right! You stare at me and you expect to be left unpunished? I am going to accompany you to wherever you are headed and embarass you. Heh! Heh!
Me: Oh.. I am sorry you know. I had not really meant to stare. But you do look so different from the other goats.
Goat: Gee.. stop it kid! I am blushing. Now that you have paid me such a compliment, I shall ensure that no evil soul hovers near you till you reach the safety of your stop. Let us venture forth..
Me: Well.... That was not exactly the pupose of my statement, but... never mind..
Goat: (Gets up and starts to walk) Nothing like a nice, peaceful morning walk!!
Me: Hmm..
Bus stop arrives and I come to a sudden halt.
Goat: (throwing me a look of the deepest loathing that a goat can manage) Thank you ever so much for interrupting two very pleasant activities. My breakfast, and a morning walk... humph! And, by the way, you are a pathetic conversationalist..
(I start to make a very rude comment, but the sight of those horns stop me)
Me: Accept my apologies, O great muncher of the grass, but I have to leave now that my bus has arrived.
Goat: Yeah, Yeah.. Go on. And please dont expect me to protect you from evil people every morning. And the next time you interrupt my breakfast, I shall poke you with the horns..
Me: (Getting into the bus). As you please, your Goatness... Phew!
This morning was not the first time I had been followed by an animal. My sister often remarks that I have the brains of a goat and the face of a chimp. This high degree of association with the animal world may be the reason behind the times I have been followed by quadrupeds.
Undoubtedly, the most memorable incident was the time when I was accompanied to the bus stop by three stray dogs, a goat and till a certain distance, a buffalo. I did not object to this till they were at a distance from me. My sister saw the our progress from the terrace and had a hearty laugh. She went around telling everyone who bothered to pay attention, that I had shifted academic interests from Physics to animal husbandry. My grandfather actually believed her and gave me a thirty minute discourse on other career options. :) It took me a while to assure him that I had no plans such as my sister had been advertising.
For a while, I used to travel to school by the school bus. One morning, while we were waiting for a stationary vehicle to be removed from our way, I saw a dog engaged in an activity that was undoubtedly a source of extreme delight to the animal. The activity in simple steps:
1. Crouch inside a garbage bin.
2. Wait till a human is heard approaching.
3. The minute garbage is felt on the head, jump out at the human with a yelp.
4. Watch the human run for dear life and grin to self and the garbage bin.
5. Crouch back into original position and wait for the next victim.
I am reminded of another interesting incident that occured when I was in class 8. We had just finished studying a chapter on animals and some of the defence mechanisms they use. Utterly enchanted by the discoveries I made in class that day, I went back home and started to poke around the garden for an insect that might provide me with a firsthand demonstration of the text.
It is of utmost importance that I mention here, that I am terrified of the members of the 'creepy-crawly' family. I dont mind them as much if they are small and seem harmless (like the brown worms that lie around in bunches after the rains); but of the more able members (like lizards - eep!) produce a shudder..
So, I restricted my investigation to the safer parts of the garden. Soon, I found this green coloured worm crawling and I decided to explore the mechanisms of defence that it might have. I had a foot long stick in my hand and I poked the worm in it's middle (from a safe distance). To my amusement and utter surprise, the worm began to wiggle furiously, (much like someone who has a whole lot of ice put in their clothes) and then lay quite still. Convinced that I had murdered the poor creature, I thought I must bury it; give it a decent farewell. To my surprise (again) and fright, just when I was trying to lift it in my palm, it moved and merrily crawled away!
I have since refrained from poking a worm (or any other insect/animal for that matter). They are interesting to watch, loyal when treated with kindness and more sensible than humans sometimes (no animal has ever poked me in the middle to study my defence mechanism)!!
It is true that the book does not teach you everything - One of the most important things being kindness to animals.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Unexpected holiday a.k.a Myth!!!
Since she started class ten, my sister has proved herself, quite an effective alarm clock to me...
I realise that the preceding sentence does not make too much sense at first glance and hence,
Explanation: Having entered class ten, my sister is out of bed by 7 AM. Therefore, if I happen to see her asleep, I assume I still have some more time before I get out of bed.
This morning, she refused to get out of bed. After having assumed the time thrice, I glanced at the clock. It was 7:40 AM. I shook her awake violently, imagining scenes of her being punished for being late for class. I recieved a well aimed punch, a very sour look and the following sentence "I have a holiday today, ---(a whole load of rude words..)!!". The sentence was followed by a lot of grumbling and groaning and curses. Finally, she went back to sleep.
They had a holiday, right in the middle of the week, when every other institution (in particular, my office) seemed fully functional...on account of a bandh. Apparently, her teacher called her in the evening the previous day and broke the good news.
Alright, this might sound frustrated... AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!
Phew! That felt good.. :D
Gone are the days, when the phrase "unexpected holiday" was valid to me. Back in school, the words sounded like music. The feeling was one of pure bliss, ecstacy. It was like being rewarded for some good deed in a previous birth.. :P
I remember one morning, I had not finished my assignments, I had a feeling I had even forgotten some assignments and I had not slept properly the previous night. I had dragged myself out of bed and through the chores of the morning. While I was walking towards school with visions of being hanged by the toes and being boiled in a couldron, I noticed that the road was not swarming with people as it usually did. By that time, I would have met at least 3 classmates, 7 juniors and a teacher or two. I reached school only to find it deserted. The bulletin board announced with great pride that "Today --- (date) is a holiday on account of a --- (political party) bandh". The emotions that washed over me, are beyond my abilities of description. I wanted to fall to my knees and worship the board, but I abandoned the idea the minute I saw two others happily staring at bringer of good news.
We had discovered that in cases of confusion regarding sudden holidays, extremely rainy days and public transport strikes, the attendance in class was quite poor. A more delightful discovery was that on such days, the teachers seeing no point in teaching a handful of students, left the classes to do as they wished. The ones who turned up that day ended up having the time of their lives. Some of the more sportive teachers even joined us in a few of the less boisterous games.
One morning, I peeped out of my sheets only to see a curtain of rainwater through the window. It was pouring like there would be no tomorrow. I jumped out of bed and got dressed at record speed. My mum thought she was hallucinating; my sister thought she was having a highly animated dream, and went back to bed. By the time I got to school, the rain had soaked my shoes and socks and was persistantly trying to get to my uniform. I was convinced, that I would be one of the very few people in class that day, and the day could be spent having fun and fooling around.
Apparently, every other classmate of mine had thought the same... humph!!
The teachers had a hearty laugh and we had all our classes that day. By the end of the day, half of us were starting a cold, the other half were sounding like frogs, and all of us were wet, tired and grumpy.
Ever since I started working holidays have become a rarity and unexpected holidays, a myth!! And hence the frustrated aaaaaarrrrgghhhhhs are put into use more often these days..
Alright, one last time.... AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGHHHHHHh!!!!!!!!! :P
I realise that the preceding sentence does not make too much sense at first glance and hence,
Explanation: Having entered class ten, my sister is out of bed by 7 AM. Therefore, if I happen to see her asleep, I assume I still have some more time before I get out of bed.
This morning, she refused to get out of bed. After having assumed the time thrice, I glanced at the clock. It was 7:40 AM. I shook her awake violently, imagining scenes of her being punished for being late for class. I recieved a well aimed punch, a very sour look and the following sentence "I have a holiday today, ---(a whole load of rude words..)!!". The sentence was followed by a lot of grumbling and groaning and curses. Finally, she went back to sleep.
They had a holiday, right in the middle of the week, when every other institution (in particular, my office) seemed fully functional...on account of a bandh. Apparently, her teacher called her in the evening the previous day and broke the good news.
Alright, this might sound frustrated... AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!
Phew! That felt good.. :D
Gone are the days, when the phrase "unexpected holiday" was valid to me. Back in school, the words sounded like music. The feeling was one of pure bliss, ecstacy. It was like being rewarded for some good deed in a previous birth.. :P
I remember one morning, I had not finished my assignments, I had a feeling I had even forgotten some assignments and I had not slept properly the previous night. I had dragged myself out of bed and through the chores of the morning. While I was walking towards school with visions of being hanged by the toes and being boiled in a couldron, I noticed that the road was not swarming with people as it usually did. By that time, I would have met at least 3 classmates, 7 juniors and a teacher or two. I reached school only to find it deserted. The bulletin board announced with great pride that "Today --- (date) is a holiday on account of a --- (political party) bandh". The emotions that washed over me, are beyond my abilities of description. I wanted to fall to my knees and worship the board, but I abandoned the idea the minute I saw two others happily staring at bringer of good news.
We had discovered that in cases of confusion regarding sudden holidays, extremely rainy days and public transport strikes, the attendance in class was quite poor. A more delightful discovery was that on such days, the teachers seeing no point in teaching a handful of students, left the classes to do as they wished. The ones who turned up that day ended up having the time of their lives. Some of the more sportive teachers even joined us in a few of the less boisterous games.
One morning, I peeped out of my sheets only to see a curtain of rainwater through the window. It was pouring like there would be no tomorrow. I jumped out of bed and got dressed at record speed. My mum thought she was hallucinating; my sister thought she was having a highly animated dream, and went back to bed. By the time I got to school, the rain had soaked my shoes and socks and was persistantly trying to get to my uniform. I was convinced, that I would be one of the very few people in class that day, and the day could be spent having fun and fooling around.
Apparently, every other classmate of mine had thought the same... humph!!
The teachers had a hearty laugh and we had all our classes that day. By the end of the day, half of us were starting a cold, the other half were sounding like frogs, and all of us were wet, tired and grumpy.
Ever since I started working holidays have become a rarity and unexpected holidays, a myth!! And hence the frustrated aaaaaarrrrgghhhhhs are put into use more often these days..
Alright, one last time.... AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGHHHHHHh!!!!!!!!! :P
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
I cross therefore I am
Road crossing is probably one of those things, the finer points of which, not many people bother to appreciate or understand. Having crossed some of the most terrible roads, I have started to think of it more like an artistic endeavour rather than a regular activity.
Broadly classified, there seem to be three kinds of roads:
1. Fairly empty roads which one can cross at one's own pace and leisure. It is rather easy to engage in this form of the art. Not much expertise is required, except for functional eyes and legs.
2. The ones packed with vehicles stuck in a traffic jam. These are easy too, for the vehicles are in static conditions and hence, are harmless.
3. The moderately crowded ones. These are the roads on which there is always a stream of traffic not very unlike a party of ants running to and fro, very fast.
The third kind of roads are the most difficult to cross and require loads of patience and concentration, a Zen-like-calm and extremely superior reflexes. This form of the art is strictly for the experts and novices are advised to stay as far away as is possible.
One pleasant morning, I was crossing a road that belonged to type 1. It transitioned from type 1 to type 3 at an alarming rate. Apparently, all traffic had been stopped for a certain important person was to pass that way. The important person having passed, the vehicles charged forward like troops in a battle.
Suddenness of any sort, startles me to a greater magnitude than it startles other people. The sight of trucks and buses and a whole load of vehicles approaching very fast on a previously empty road most certainly qualifies as sudden. And matters were a little more complicated, for I was right in the middle of the road. One truck driver took pity on me and slowed down long enough for me to remain alive and cross the road.
Another interesting event occurs when one is trying to cross a road that belongs to type 3. The minute one thinks it is safe to venture forwards, a malicious looking vehicle comes charging at you and you have to move back again. A friend pointed out to me that from across the road, it seemed like I was executing some kind of a dance. Not being anywhere close to a dancer, I took that to be a compliment, though there was absolutely no effort on my part. :P
I have a cousin who claims that crossing roads is one of the simplest and easiest things anyone could ever do. Very true, if the "anyone" involved is not me. He walks across the road with his hand positioned in a manner that asks the drivers to please slow down so that he can cross. I once tried to imitate his example. I put out my hand, the minute I started to cross the road.
Nobody slowed down.
And I was subjected to some of the most rude looks in existance. The next time I met my brother, I beat him up till he felt like he had just crossed the worst road in existence sans the outstreched hand..
To cross a road of type 3, I sometimes follow a strategy. This I usually employ when there seem to be entirely too many vehicles to dodge.
Strategy:
Step 1. Look for a person who is headed in the same direction as me.
Step 2. Stand next to that person so that he/she faces the traffic.
Step 3. Follow!
One morning, I got off the bus only to discover that there had been a sudden increase in the number and the speed of vehicles. Hence, I decided to implement my trusted strategy. I noticed another girl wanting to reach the other side of the road. As per step 1, I went and stood next to her. To my amusement and utter dismay, she promptly came and stood next to me so that I faced the traffic!! Both of us were executing the dance-like movements (described earlier), when an old lady walked next to us with utmost confidence, put out her hand and started to walk across the road as though it were no more than a garden. With a very sheepish look on our faces and admiration for the confidence of the senior citizen, we followed her to our destination..
Ever since, I have implemented my strategy (humph!) more often (and with more success) when older people are around. Most times the drivers are considerate towards the older people and allow you to walk across without theatening to kill you.
A wise man once said "I think therefore I am". If he had also crossed roads like the ones in existance today, he just might have quoted the title of this post.. :P
Broadly classified, there seem to be three kinds of roads:
1. Fairly empty roads which one can cross at one's own pace and leisure. It is rather easy to engage in this form of the art. Not much expertise is required, except for functional eyes and legs.
2. The ones packed with vehicles stuck in a traffic jam. These are easy too, for the vehicles are in static conditions and hence, are harmless.
3. The moderately crowded ones. These are the roads on which there is always a stream of traffic not very unlike a party of ants running to and fro, very fast.
The third kind of roads are the most difficult to cross and require loads of patience and concentration, a Zen-like-calm and extremely superior reflexes. This form of the art is strictly for the experts and novices are advised to stay as far away as is possible.
One pleasant morning, I was crossing a road that belonged to type 1. It transitioned from type 1 to type 3 at an alarming rate. Apparently, all traffic had been stopped for a certain important person was to pass that way. The important person having passed, the vehicles charged forward like troops in a battle.
Suddenness of any sort, startles me to a greater magnitude than it startles other people. The sight of trucks and buses and a whole load of vehicles approaching very fast on a previously empty road most certainly qualifies as sudden. And matters were a little more complicated, for I was right in the middle of the road. One truck driver took pity on me and slowed down long enough for me to remain alive and cross the road.
Another interesting event occurs when one is trying to cross a road that belongs to type 3. The minute one thinks it is safe to venture forwards, a malicious looking vehicle comes charging at you and you have to move back again. A friend pointed out to me that from across the road, it seemed like I was executing some kind of a dance. Not being anywhere close to a dancer, I took that to be a compliment, though there was absolutely no effort on my part. :P
I have a cousin who claims that crossing roads is one of the simplest and easiest things anyone could ever do. Very true, if the "anyone" involved is not me. He walks across the road with his hand positioned in a manner that asks the drivers to please slow down so that he can cross. I once tried to imitate his example. I put out my hand, the minute I started to cross the road.
Nobody slowed down.
And I was subjected to some of the most rude looks in existance. The next time I met my brother, I beat him up till he felt like he had just crossed the worst road in existence sans the outstreched hand..
To cross a road of type 3, I sometimes follow a strategy. This I usually employ when there seem to be entirely too many vehicles to dodge.
Strategy:
Step 1. Look for a person who is headed in the same direction as me.
Step 2. Stand next to that person so that he/she faces the traffic.
Step 3. Follow!
One morning, I got off the bus only to discover that there had been a sudden increase in the number and the speed of vehicles. Hence, I decided to implement my trusted strategy. I noticed another girl wanting to reach the other side of the road. As per step 1, I went and stood next to her. To my amusement and utter dismay, she promptly came and stood next to me so that I faced the traffic!! Both of us were executing the dance-like movements (described earlier), when an old lady walked next to us with utmost confidence, put out her hand and started to walk across the road as though it were no more than a garden. With a very sheepish look on our faces and admiration for the confidence of the senior citizen, we followed her to our destination..
Ever since, I have implemented my strategy (humph!) more often (and with more success) when older people are around. Most times the drivers are considerate towards the older people and allow you to walk across without theatening to kill you.
A wise man once said "I think therefore I am". If he had also crossed roads like the ones in existance today, he just might have quoted the title of this post.. :P
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
The Classics and I
I have always been a little slow at understanding the works of writing that are best described as Classics. The kind of literature that is profound and serious and employs a lot of big words and long sentences.
I discovered exactly how slow, when I was in classes 11 and 12.
I had shifted to a different (and more difficult) syllabus after class 10. At that point of time, I had thought nothing could be tougher than the exams I had already written (Oh my innocent mind!!) and opted for a syllabus where I would have to study The Tempest, The Discovery of India, Great Expectations, a collection of short stories and a collection of poems.. (in addition to the mountain of books prescribed for science) whew!! We were told that we were allowed to study all or any 4 of these (Shakespere being mandatory). I was determined to do all the books.
Oftentimes, ordinary mortals like me do not realise what they are getting themselves into. We realise such matters only later, by which time it is extremely late.
I shall refrain from describing my attempts at understanding the sciences and shall continue to describe my adventures with the literature course.
The very first class of Literature served as what is commonly known as an eye opener, and left my eyes as wide open as they possibly could be! Our teacher began by reading a few lines from the play (ACT I Scene II)that went thus:
Enter PROSPERO and MIRANDA
MIRANDA:
If by your art, my dearest father, you have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,
Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffered
With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel,
Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her,
Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock
Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish'd.
Had I been any god of power, I would
Have sunk the sea within the earth or ere
It should the good ship so have swallow'd and
The fraughting souls within her.
Having understood about 0.3% of the entire reading, I looked expectantly at my teacher's face for further translation. The only words that fell out of her mouth were "Oh, the charm of Shakespeare!".
Erm.. that wasn't what I was hoping for. Undeniably, Shakespeare's writing has a large amount of charm, but at that point of time, I was hoping for words that would translate that charm into simpler words.
We were asked to go through the first scene of the act and summarise it in our own words. I wanted to burst out laughing. It was then, that I noticed that none of my classmates had followed the reading. Well, at least I had company.
The summaries that the class turned in the next day were atrocious, disgusting, ridiculous and about 5 other adjectives that my memory simply refuses to remember now. To the absolute relief of me, my classmates, our teacher and probably the great bard himself, my teacher consented to explain the entire play. Once she began to do that, I genuinely started to appreciate the writing. We were required to quote the text in our examination and we started to memorise the more important lines. We even started using it in class. I got into trouble when my mathematics teacher thought I was using terribly foul language when I called another classmate a "debauched fish"! It took us a while and the textbook to convince her that I was not using foul language in school.
Just when I was beginning to think that I will be able to scrape through the examination after all... we began work on "The Discovery of India" by Pt. Nehru.
I was introduced to some of the longest, most profound and at some places the most contradictory sentences ever written. Sometimes the sentences were so long that one lost track of what was being expressed in the beginning. I remember one afternoon that seemed extremely hot, my teacher's voice started to turn more soporific than usual. Let me tell you that reading and understanding something Pt. Nehru wrote is extremely difficult, at least for me. And things like sleepy afternoons and soporific voices do not help at all. That seemed to be the case with most of my classmates who were absently staring at the teacher.
We were in this state of semi-consciousness, when she suddenly stopped reading. For those of us who fear the stage, there is a fear that numbs one's limbs when one walks up on stage and looks at the audience. This fear numbs the mind as well, in cases like mine. I experienced something not very unlike this particular fear. All the others did too, for they all looked as alert as soldiers at war.
We then discovered that after reading a particularly long and jumbled sentence (which we were frantically trying to spot now), she had realised that the contradiction was too much and had slowed down to make understanding the idea easier for us. A remarkably polite gesture - only that none of us knew which sentence she was talking about.
I thought this was the toughest it could be. I thought this with extreme confidence for I had not yet seen - I repeat..seen - the book of poems. After one class of poetry, I decided to be sensible and opted not to study that extremely-well-written-but-impossible-for-my-head-to-understand collection.
The collection of short stories and Great Expectations were much much better. I finally saw a ray of hope with respect to passing the examination, which I miraculously did.
As the examination approached, I was extremely nervous. I had learnt the text so many times that my sister complained one morning of having heard Shakespeare for 20 minutes in the middle of the night. One friend told me to look at it this way.. 'they'll just come and go, and after that we shall be free'.
Erm.. remarkable approach..but what was I supposed to do after they came and before they went?
Well, like she said, they came and went and I managed not to faint with nervousness in the meantime. I must admit they were not all that bad...
I won the gold medal for highest marks scored in the Literature paper. Heh! Heh! :D
I discovered exactly how slow, when I was in classes 11 and 12.
I had shifted to a different (and more difficult) syllabus after class 10. At that point of time, I had thought nothing could be tougher than the exams I had already written (Oh my innocent mind!!) and opted for a syllabus where I would have to study The Tempest, The Discovery of India, Great Expectations, a collection of short stories and a collection of poems.. (in addition to the mountain of books prescribed for science) whew!! We were told that we were allowed to study all or any 4 of these (Shakespere being mandatory). I was determined to do all the books.
Oftentimes, ordinary mortals like me do not realise what they are getting themselves into. We realise such matters only later, by which time it is extremely late.
I shall refrain from describing my attempts at understanding the sciences and shall continue to describe my adventures with the literature course.
The very first class of Literature served as what is commonly known as an eye opener, and left my eyes as wide open as they possibly could be! Our teacher began by reading a few lines from the play (ACT I Scene II)that went thus:
Enter PROSPERO and MIRANDA
MIRANDA:
If by your art, my dearest father, you have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheek,
Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffered
With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel,
Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her,
Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock
Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish'd.
Had I been any god of power, I would
Have sunk the sea within the earth or ere
It should the good ship so have swallow'd and
The fraughting souls within her.
Having understood about 0.3% of the entire reading, I looked expectantly at my teacher's face for further translation. The only words that fell out of her mouth were "Oh, the charm of Shakespeare!".
Erm.. that wasn't what I was hoping for. Undeniably, Shakespeare's writing has a large amount of charm, but at that point of time, I was hoping for words that would translate that charm into simpler words.
We were asked to go through the first scene of the act and summarise it in our own words. I wanted to burst out laughing. It was then, that I noticed that none of my classmates had followed the reading. Well, at least I had company.
The summaries that the class turned in the next day were atrocious, disgusting, ridiculous and about 5 other adjectives that my memory simply refuses to remember now. To the absolute relief of me, my classmates, our teacher and probably the great bard himself, my teacher consented to explain the entire play. Once she began to do that, I genuinely started to appreciate the writing. We were required to quote the text in our examination and we started to memorise the more important lines. We even started using it in class. I got into trouble when my mathematics teacher thought I was using terribly foul language when I called another classmate a "debauched fish"! It took us a while and the textbook to convince her that I was not using foul language in school.
Just when I was beginning to think that I will be able to scrape through the examination after all... we began work on "The Discovery of India" by Pt. Nehru.
I was introduced to some of the longest, most profound and at some places the most contradictory sentences ever written. Sometimes the sentences were so long that one lost track of what was being expressed in the beginning. I remember one afternoon that seemed extremely hot, my teacher's voice started to turn more soporific than usual. Let me tell you that reading and understanding something Pt. Nehru wrote is extremely difficult, at least for me. And things like sleepy afternoons and soporific voices do not help at all. That seemed to be the case with most of my classmates who were absently staring at the teacher.
We were in this state of semi-consciousness, when she suddenly stopped reading. For those of us who fear the stage, there is a fear that numbs one's limbs when one walks up on stage and looks at the audience. This fear numbs the mind as well, in cases like mine. I experienced something not very unlike this particular fear. All the others did too, for they all looked as alert as soldiers at war.
We then discovered that after reading a particularly long and jumbled sentence (which we were frantically trying to spot now), she had realised that the contradiction was too much and had slowed down to make understanding the idea easier for us. A remarkably polite gesture - only that none of us knew which sentence she was talking about.
I thought this was the toughest it could be. I thought this with extreme confidence for I had not yet seen - I repeat..seen - the book of poems. After one class of poetry, I decided to be sensible and opted not to study that extremely-well-written-but-impossible-for-my-head-to-understand collection.
The collection of short stories and Great Expectations were much much better. I finally saw a ray of hope with respect to passing the examination, which I miraculously did.
As the examination approached, I was extremely nervous. I had learnt the text so many times that my sister complained one morning of having heard Shakespeare for 20 minutes in the middle of the night. One friend told me to look at it this way.. 'they'll just come and go, and after that we shall be free'.
Erm.. remarkable approach..but what was I supposed to do after they came and before they went?
Well, like she said, they came and went and I managed not to faint with nervousness in the meantime. I must admit they were not all that bad...
I won the gold medal for highest marks scored in the Literature paper. Heh! Heh! :D
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Four and twenty blackbirds..
It seemed extremely simple to me, stringing together a rhyme. Now I know how very wrong I was..
It all began when one very good school decided to organise an "Inter-school meet". Now, this meet was not just a gathering where one could generally go and speak to contemporaries and have fun as indicated by their slogan..."the meeting of young minds". It was (and I should have realised this earlier - before signing up) a series of contests to be held over three days.
The list of contests read thus:
Dance (Group and solo)
Music (Group song, Solo song, instrumental)
Theatre (Solo act, One act play)
Literary (Poetry writing/recitation, Essay writing, Short story writing.) - Hindi and English.
I weighed my options thus:
Dance - Yeah, right!
Music - Group song: No group members to sing with; Solo song: erm...nope!Instrumental: ha! ha! ha!..
Theatre - hee! hee! hee!
Literary - Only hope. :D
In school, I was quite a decent writer (or, I think I was quite a decent writer). My teachers thought so too, and that is what resulted in me signing up for the Poetry writing contest. I had always thought essay writing was the safer form of expression and wanted to sign up for the same. Unfortunately, when you have a teacher who is entirely convinced that you are the next great poetess (and you discover that both the events are to be held at the same time), signing up for the essay writing contest is not very easy. She wanted me to contribute to the recitation contest, but as described in an earlier post, I cant really face an entire crowd of people on the stage. And here I did not even know the crowd. Also, an incident in the past involving a recitation had been quite embarassing. Narrated as follows:
I have always been very fond of nursery rhymes. My favorite poem being
Sing a song of sixpence a pocketfull of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing
Oh wasn't it a dainty dish to set before a king?
The king was in his counting house, counting out his money
the queen was in the parlour, eating bread and honey
the maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes,
when a blackbird swooped down and pecked off her nose!
We were supposed to recite this rhyme to pass an examination in kindergarten. I think that was when I started to like the poem so much. I recited it day and night. The thought of the blackbird pecking off the maid's nose was extremely appealing.
When the day of the recitation arrived, I was so nervous on the stage that I mixed up the words of the last few lines. The modified lines were recited thus:
The queen was in the counting house, eating bread and honey
The maid was in the parlour, counting out the money
The king was in the garden, hanging out the clothes,
When a blackbird swooped down and pecked off her nose.
Erm... disaster.
Well, at least the queen did what she was supposed to!
And therefore, to avoid being the laughing stock of another school, I decided not to obey my teacher that one time and put my foot down rather firmly.
The topic was to be announced on the day of the contest. I had never rhymed as much as "toad" with "load" before this event. The sheer excitement of being out of school for an entire day erased from my mind the fact that I actually had some work to do there, and I spent my days in absolute harmony with all who surround me.
My mind recollected that fact at the speed of light the minute we reached the place. Amazing, how a contest can spell 'absolute agony' to some.
The topics announced, were as follows:
A day I had enjoyed
My country
Modern love
Neither of these inspired the poetic genius that I had assumed them to. The third one did not even make sense to me. For fear of offending my social studies teacher (who was already appalled at my knowledge of the subject), I decided to stay away from the second one too. The title of my poem was now evident and my abilities as a poet were attaining remarkable clarity once I wrote down the title.
At that point of time, I fully appreciated how the twenty four blackbirds must have felt being trapped inside a pie, for I felt like one myself.
I could think of around a dozen different days that would have made excellent subjects for my poem, but putting them into that form of expression was the problem. I ended up writing around eight lines of what I called my first poem. As soon as I thought that the length looked decent enough, I gave in my paper and bid farewell to all the others who were furiously scratching away, having been inspired by the likes of Wordsworth and his daffodils.
That event made me realise:
1. What extremely talented people poets are.
2. How extremely difficult it is to express things in verse for those in my league.
3. That I must think before signing up for an event!
I thought I could put them in rhyme
I was so entirely wrong,
To rhyme two words like 'sun' and 'fun'
It took me oh so long!
A song of sixpence
easier sung than written,
Will be shy the next time round,
Now that I have been bitten!
Yay!!!
It all began when one very good school decided to organise an "Inter-school meet". Now, this meet was not just a gathering where one could generally go and speak to contemporaries and have fun as indicated by their slogan..."the meeting of young minds". It was (and I should have realised this earlier - before signing up) a series of contests to be held over three days.
The list of contests read thus:
Dance (Group and solo)
Music (Group song, Solo song, instrumental)
Theatre (Solo act, One act play)
Literary (Poetry writing/recitation, Essay writing, Short story writing.) - Hindi and English.
I weighed my options thus:
Dance - Yeah, right!
Music - Group song: No group members to sing with; Solo song: erm...nope!Instrumental: ha! ha! ha!..
Theatre - hee! hee! hee!
Literary - Only hope. :D
In school, I was quite a decent writer (or, I think I was quite a decent writer). My teachers thought so too, and that is what resulted in me signing up for the Poetry writing contest. I had always thought essay writing was the safer form of expression and wanted to sign up for the same. Unfortunately, when you have a teacher who is entirely convinced that you are the next great poetess (and you discover that both the events are to be held at the same time), signing up for the essay writing contest is not very easy. She wanted me to contribute to the recitation contest, but as described in an earlier post, I cant really face an entire crowd of people on the stage. And here I did not even know the crowd. Also, an incident in the past involving a recitation had been quite embarassing. Narrated as follows:
I have always been very fond of nursery rhymes. My favorite poem being
Sing a song of sixpence a pocketfull of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing
Oh wasn't it a dainty dish to set before a king?
The king was in his counting house, counting out his money
the queen was in the parlour, eating bread and honey
the maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes,
when a blackbird swooped down and pecked off her nose!
We were supposed to recite this rhyme to pass an examination in kindergarten. I think that was when I started to like the poem so much. I recited it day and night. The thought of the blackbird pecking off the maid's nose was extremely appealing.
When the day of the recitation arrived, I was so nervous on the stage that I mixed up the words of the last few lines. The modified lines were recited thus:
The queen was in the counting house, eating bread and honey
The maid was in the parlour, counting out the money
The king was in the garden, hanging out the clothes,
When a blackbird swooped down and pecked off her nose.
Erm... disaster.
Well, at least the queen did what she was supposed to!
And therefore, to avoid being the laughing stock of another school, I decided not to obey my teacher that one time and put my foot down rather firmly.
The topic was to be announced on the day of the contest. I had never rhymed as much as "toad" with "load" before this event. The sheer excitement of being out of school for an entire day erased from my mind the fact that I actually had some work to do there, and I spent my days in absolute harmony with all who surround me.
My mind recollected that fact at the speed of light the minute we reached the place. Amazing, how a contest can spell 'absolute agony' to some.
The topics announced, were as follows:
A day I had enjoyed
My country
Modern love
Neither of these inspired the poetic genius that I had assumed them to. The third one did not even make sense to me. For fear of offending my social studies teacher (who was already appalled at my knowledge of the subject), I decided to stay away from the second one too. The title of my poem was now evident and my abilities as a poet were attaining remarkable clarity once I wrote down the title.
At that point of time, I fully appreciated how the twenty four blackbirds must have felt being trapped inside a pie, for I felt like one myself.
I could think of around a dozen different days that would have made excellent subjects for my poem, but putting them into that form of expression was the problem. I ended up writing around eight lines of what I called my first poem. As soon as I thought that the length looked decent enough, I gave in my paper and bid farewell to all the others who were furiously scratching away, having been inspired by the likes of Wordsworth and his daffodils.
That event made me realise:
1. What extremely talented people poets are.
2. How extremely difficult it is to express things in verse for those in my league.
3. That I must think before signing up for an event!
I thought I could put them in rhyme
I was so entirely wrong,
To rhyme two words like 'sun' and 'fun'
It took me oh so long!
A song of sixpence
easier sung than written,
Will be shy the next time round,
Now that I have been bitten!
Yay!!!
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
My experiments with fruit
For those of you who panicked, I am not writing a book. :D
Once upon a time when days were a little less hectic and one did not find me staring at a computer for 7 hours a day.... my weight was acceptable. I have noticed, that after I started to work, my weight has increased to quite an extent and has rendered it unacceptable (at least to me...:P). And hence, inspite of my mum claiming that I looked healthy and my grandmum refusing to even consider the fact that I had put on weight, I decided to go on a diet.
Ahem.. I must mention here that I fall into the category of humans who enjoy eating, and hence, the very thought of a diet is quite disheartening.
The minute I said I was dieting, suggestions poured in.. at alarming rates. One acquaintance even suggested a diet where one is supposed to survive only on water (har! har!). I told her that I merely wanted to get rid of some fat, not me (incase she had mis-interpreted the intention).
Anyway, a friend of mine suggested something that seemed practical. She told me to go on a fruit diet. I could eat as much fruit as I wanted to, but nothing else. I was supposed to eat a particular fruit on one particular day of the week (watermelon on monday, bananas on tuesday and so on..). At least she did not tell me to starve.
Thus, the following week saw me embarking on a journey never undertaken before (by me). I started my week with watermelons and finished it with grapes. My sister had the time of her life eating (read eating indecent amounts of food that I like) in front of me, with utmost relish.
By the end of the week, I:
had hardly lost any weight
lost colour from my face (mum)
looked weaker (dad)
put on weight (sister!)
looked extremely weak and tired and had lost loads of weight (grandmum).
And, I had started detesting bananas.
As is evident, the diet went into the list of "Things to be erased from memory" - much to my parents' delight and my sister's dismay. I started to practice yoga and found that a much better means to lose weight.
Some things just refuse to happen... me going on a diet and actually losing some weight seems to be one of them. :D
Once upon a time when days were a little less hectic and one did not find me staring at a computer for 7 hours a day.... my weight was acceptable. I have noticed, that after I started to work, my weight has increased to quite an extent and has rendered it unacceptable (at least to me...:P). And hence, inspite of my mum claiming that I looked healthy and my grandmum refusing to even consider the fact that I had put on weight, I decided to go on a diet.
Ahem.. I must mention here that I fall into the category of humans who enjoy eating, and hence, the very thought of a diet is quite disheartening.
The minute I said I was dieting, suggestions poured in.. at alarming rates. One acquaintance even suggested a diet where one is supposed to survive only on water (har! har!). I told her that I merely wanted to get rid of some fat, not me (incase she had mis-interpreted the intention).
Anyway, a friend of mine suggested something that seemed practical. She told me to go on a fruit diet. I could eat as much fruit as I wanted to, but nothing else. I was supposed to eat a particular fruit on one particular day of the week (watermelon on monday, bananas on tuesday and so on..). At least she did not tell me to starve.
Thus, the following week saw me embarking on a journey never undertaken before (by me). I started my week with watermelons and finished it with grapes. My sister had the time of her life eating (read eating indecent amounts of food that I like) in front of me, with utmost relish.
By the end of the week, I:
had hardly lost any weight
lost colour from my face (mum)
looked weaker (dad)
put on weight (sister!)
looked extremely weak and tired and had lost loads of weight (grandmum).
And, I had started detesting bananas.
As is evident, the diet went into the list of "Things to be erased from memory" - much to my parents' delight and my sister's dismay. I started to practice yoga and found that a much better means to lose weight.
Some things just refuse to happen... me going on a diet and actually losing some weight seems to be one of them. :D
Friday, September 15, 2006
Of Symphony and cacophony..
My sister is a fierce fan of music. Not the kind of music that can soothe the nerves after a long hard day at work, but the kind of music which qualifies more as noise. Everytime she plays some of the tracks she is extremely fond of, I wonder how her ears dont rebel. Mine start squirming in protest. If they had a little more freedom, they would probably have organised a rally..
I have always wondered how she can enjoy the loudest and the most un-melodious music with such enthusiasm. Sometimes the music is tolerable, but the volume is not.
My sister maintains that I dont have an ear for modern music. I maintain that if I listen to that sort of music for very long I will cease to have functional ears.
She laughs at me because I take after my grandfather where music is concerned (Mughal-e-Azam being my all time favorite). I like the kind of music which is calming, melodious, soft. In short, I appreciate music..not noise.
I remember one fine saturday morning, I woke up with a start to see my sister with her walkman, singing in a shockingly low volume. I was just about to congratulate her on this excellent development, when she started to jump up and down and sing at the same time. The activity giving her a remarkable resemblance to a frog in terrible pain. My grandfather who had just returned from his walk, thought the sun had gotten to him. When the fact dawned on him, he went and fetched my mum. It took us a while to convince my grandfather that my sister was not in pain and all that noise she made was actually a song.
He always thought we were pulling his leg.
Some of the songs are actually nice...only till their singer does not start to scream as though he was being subjected touture of the worst kind.
An uncle of mine used to state that There is a very small difference between symphony and cacophony. I wholeheartedly second the statement.
I have noticed about old songs, that the more melodious they sound, the more difficult they are to sing. These are the ever popular kinds. Classics. Most popular songs today seem the easiest to sing. And more the noise, more the popularity. It is disheartening to note that the number of people who appreciate old music is lessening.
Consider the following:
A man singing quite melodiously suddenly starts to howl as though in excruciating pain accompanied by a random hammering of the drums and other objects that are considered musical (!!) instruments.
That pretty much describes one of her favorite songs. We had an argument regarding this once. When she started to play one of the songs to prove a point, I let her be.
I value my ears above opinions. :D
I have always wondered how she can enjoy the loudest and the most un-melodious music with such enthusiasm. Sometimes the music is tolerable, but the volume is not.
My sister maintains that I dont have an ear for modern music. I maintain that if I listen to that sort of music for very long I will cease to have functional ears.
She laughs at me because I take after my grandfather where music is concerned (Mughal-e-Azam being my all time favorite). I like the kind of music which is calming, melodious, soft. In short, I appreciate music..not noise.
I remember one fine saturday morning, I woke up with a start to see my sister with her walkman, singing in a shockingly low volume. I was just about to congratulate her on this excellent development, when she started to jump up and down and sing at the same time. The activity giving her a remarkable resemblance to a frog in terrible pain. My grandfather who had just returned from his walk, thought the sun had gotten to him. When the fact dawned on him, he went and fetched my mum. It took us a while to convince my grandfather that my sister was not in pain and all that noise she made was actually a song.
He always thought we were pulling his leg.
Some of the songs are actually nice...only till their singer does not start to scream as though he was being subjected touture of the worst kind.
An uncle of mine used to state that There is a very small difference between symphony and cacophony. I wholeheartedly second the statement.
I have noticed about old songs, that the more melodious they sound, the more difficult they are to sing. These are the ever popular kinds. Classics. Most popular songs today seem the easiest to sing. And more the noise, more the popularity. It is disheartening to note that the number of people who appreciate old music is lessening.
Consider the following:
A man singing quite melodiously suddenly starts to howl as though in excruciating pain accompanied by a random hammering of the drums and other objects that are considered musical (!!) instruments.
That pretty much describes one of her favorite songs. We had an argument regarding this once. When she started to play one of the songs to prove a point, I let her be.
I value my ears above opinions. :D
Thursday, September 14, 2006
A Whack to remember!
This may turn out to be quite a violent post, as is indicated by the title. It is rather amusing, that though the incident was not pleasant by any strech of imagination, the memory brings a smile.
I was, at the time period in question, a happy three-year-old with not the faintest hint that my happiness was going to bid temporary farewell to me. It all began, when I was selected by a dramatics teacher to play the role of Sita in Ramayana. In our adaption of the great epic, all Sita was required to do was, look helpless when Ravana kidnapped her and cry softly in the garden where she is imprisoned. As I generally have a vague and helpless expression on my face and soft crying may be induced by a threat from behind the curtains, the casting committee (comprising of the dramatics teacher) thought me perfect for the role.
The rehersals went without a hitch. The soft-crying-induction did not even require a threat. A glance at the glaring teacher sufficed. I was as helpless as helpless could be.
My mother was delighted at my newly discovered talent and two rehersals later one could see her telling the neighbours of my skills at playing "The helpless one" to perfection.
The day of the performance arrived and I was the center of attention the entire morning. I was washed, dressed, jewelled, pampered and fussed about. For the life of me, I could not understand this sudden outburst of affection in the household. I was thoroughly enjoying myself when I realised that I was being taken to school.
Now, that was a little confusing for I was wearing a bright green saree in contrast to the dull blue uniform I wore each day. I assumed that the teachers had decided to make rehersals a bit more fun.
To my utmost astonishment (which was turning to horror at an alarming rate), my mum walked in the direction of the stage. All this while I was assuming that I was acting helpless only for the entertainment of the class. I had not imagined that the play was to be performed in front of the entire school.
As the curtain went up, I was probably the most helpless looking soul ever to have walked the earth; much to the delight of my teacher. The soft crying did not need any sort of a motivation, for the minute Ravana put in his appearence I started to bawl with all my might. Ravana thought he had scared me a little too much and apologised loudly in front of the audience. Rama, being the ever loyal husband, came and punched Ravana for annoying his wife more than was necessary, with Lakshmana cheering his brother in the background. The creatures in the jungle where we were supposed to be residing, found the fight between Rama and Ravana more interesting than the grass they were supposed to be chomping, and started to applaud..
It is very true that when you are kids, you can get away with almost anything - including ruining your class play. The key word being almost.
Once I was brought back home, I recieved the worst spanking a child could ever get. Of the whacking spree, the less written..the better.
I remember my mum being reprimanded by my aunt, who had come over to visit and find out how my performance had been (and brought me chocolates!). As a result of the aforementioned reprimand, I was duly hugged and pampered and drowned in chocolates. :D
Ever since, I have never been a part of a play, except for once when I helped with the decorations and the prompting. And another time when all I had to do was deck myself up and nod approval at nobody in particular; so I looked very much a part of the decoration anyway.
Everyone has a good laugh whenever the desribed incident is told and retold on sunday afternoons. All I manage to do is laugh along and at the more traumatic points of the description.. look helpless!!
I was, at the time period in question, a happy three-year-old with not the faintest hint that my happiness was going to bid temporary farewell to me. It all began, when I was selected by a dramatics teacher to play the role of Sita in Ramayana. In our adaption of the great epic, all Sita was required to do was, look helpless when Ravana kidnapped her and cry softly in the garden where she is imprisoned. As I generally have a vague and helpless expression on my face and soft crying may be induced by a threat from behind the curtains, the casting committee (comprising of the dramatics teacher) thought me perfect for the role.
The rehersals went without a hitch. The soft-crying-induction did not even require a threat. A glance at the glaring teacher sufficed. I was as helpless as helpless could be.
My mother was delighted at my newly discovered talent and two rehersals later one could see her telling the neighbours of my skills at playing "The helpless one" to perfection.
The day of the performance arrived and I was the center of attention the entire morning. I was washed, dressed, jewelled, pampered and fussed about. For the life of me, I could not understand this sudden outburst of affection in the household. I was thoroughly enjoying myself when I realised that I was being taken to school.
Now, that was a little confusing for I was wearing a bright green saree in contrast to the dull blue uniform I wore each day. I assumed that the teachers had decided to make rehersals a bit more fun.
To my utmost astonishment (which was turning to horror at an alarming rate), my mum walked in the direction of the stage. All this while I was assuming that I was acting helpless only for the entertainment of the class. I had not imagined that the play was to be performed in front of the entire school.
As the curtain went up, I was probably the most helpless looking soul ever to have walked the earth; much to the delight of my teacher. The soft crying did not need any sort of a motivation, for the minute Ravana put in his appearence I started to bawl with all my might. Ravana thought he had scared me a little too much and apologised loudly in front of the audience. Rama, being the ever loyal husband, came and punched Ravana for annoying his wife more than was necessary, with Lakshmana cheering his brother in the background. The creatures in the jungle where we were supposed to be residing, found the fight between Rama and Ravana more interesting than the grass they were supposed to be chomping, and started to applaud..
It is very true that when you are kids, you can get away with almost anything - including ruining your class play. The key word being almost.
Once I was brought back home, I recieved the worst spanking a child could ever get. Of the whacking spree, the less written..the better.
I remember my mum being reprimanded by my aunt, who had come over to visit and find out how my performance had been (and brought me chocolates!). As a result of the aforementioned reprimand, I was duly hugged and pampered and drowned in chocolates. :D
Ever since, I have never been a part of a play, except for once when I helped with the decorations and the prompting. And another time when all I had to do was deck myself up and nod approval at nobody in particular; so I looked very much a part of the decoration anyway.
Everyone has a good laugh whenever the desribed incident is told and retold on sunday afternoons. All I manage to do is laugh along and at the more traumatic points of the description.. look helpless!!
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
An ode to the garrulous..
I have often been told that I dont speak very much or very well. It is much like telling a giraffe that it is tall or a zebra that it is striped. An attribute that maybe the gentle creatures are not exactly proud of (or maybe they are..), but has been bestowed on them nevertheless by mother nature. Looks like mother nature was not in a very pleasant frame of mind when she was giving me the "talk" gene.
I have never belonged to that category of humans that are called garrulous or talkative or chatty. Having said that, I have always wondered how certain people can talk and talk and not start feeling like radios. Certain acquaintances of mine can say the same thing in about 5 different ways in around 3 minutes. All I can say to that is, erm..
I have always marvelled at such people.
My sister is one such person. She can tell me that I am dumb in about 10 different ways in 2 minutes. I dont appreciate the fact that she is calling me dumb, but I cant help being impressed at her capability to talk so much.
Another acquaintance of mine tells me that my voice and speech dont have expression. She calls it a problem. Her body does not have a neck. Now, that is something which qualifies better as a problem!
I guess I have always been a better writer than a speaker, which is why debates and elocutions in school found me adorning one of the very last places, cheering the remarkable participants with great enthusiasm and visibly shrinking at the very thought of me being at the recieving end of all the cheering.
When it came to writing, I was all for it. The idea of the other participants not knowing what I was up to, appealed to me. Pick a sheet of paper, get a pen that writes, choose a topic, put together some words that make sense.... and voila!! You have a composition. See, that is so much easier than walking onto a stage against the will of your legs, and forgetting the very purpose of existance the minute you realise exactly how many people turned up to watch the event.
I did risk one such expedition in days when I believed religiously in the phrase - the young mind knows not the impossible (or something to that effect). I signed up for an elocution contest much to the delight of my teacher who maintained that a person who could manage to write a speech should be able to deliver it as well. It is almost as good as saying that someone who builds a plane can fly it.
Anyway, the day in question arrived with me having spent the previous night trying to memorise my speech and questioning my sanity. I was nervous to the point of breakdown even before the event began. After it did begin, whatever little I thought I had sucessfully memorised leaked away faster than water would in a badly cupped palm. By the time the 5th person had finished speaking, I was a wreck. And before I could calm down, or even begin to calm down, my name was called. Time has this very annoying habit of making the very things you dont want to happen soon, happen instantaneously. With time having a good chuckle at it's latest antic in the background and the audience enjoying a hearty laugh in the foreground, I wobbled onto the stage.
Of the rest, I'd rather not write. A friend tried to cheer me up afterwards. She said things like "It's alright", "Maybe you must look at another activity", "It was only the first time" and things of the sort. Hmm.. Friendship puts a smile where an elocution leaves tears.
Ever since, I have applauded them, marveled at their talking skills, not participated in elocutions and made contributions to the literary sphere in my own way.
So here's to the ones who talk and make existance for others interesting. Here's also to people like me (for cheering them on).. and the giraffes....and the zebras, for being the gentle creatures they are..
I have never belonged to that category of humans that are called garrulous or talkative or chatty. Having said that, I have always wondered how certain people can talk and talk and not start feeling like radios. Certain acquaintances of mine can say the same thing in about 5 different ways in around 3 minutes. All I can say to that is, erm..
I have always marvelled at such people.
My sister is one such person. She can tell me that I am dumb in about 10 different ways in 2 minutes. I dont appreciate the fact that she is calling me dumb, but I cant help being impressed at her capability to talk so much.
Another acquaintance of mine tells me that my voice and speech dont have expression. She calls it a problem. Her body does not have a neck. Now, that is something which qualifies better as a problem!
I guess I have always been a better writer than a speaker, which is why debates and elocutions in school found me adorning one of the very last places, cheering the remarkable participants with great enthusiasm and visibly shrinking at the very thought of me being at the recieving end of all the cheering.
When it came to writing, I was all for it. The idea of the other participants not knowing what I was up to, appealed to me. Pick a sheet of paper, get a pen that writes, choose a topic, put together some words that make sense.... and voila!! You have a composition. See, that is so much easier than walking onto a stage against the will of your legs, and forgetting the very purpose of existance the minute you realise exactly how many people turned up to watch the event.
I did risk one such expedition in days when I believed religiously in the phrase - the young mind knows not the impossible (or something to that effect). I signed up for an elocution contest much to the delight of my teacher who maintained that a person who could manage to write a speech should be able to deliver it as well. It is almost as good as saying that someone who builds a plane can fly it.
Anyway, the day in question arrived with me having spent the previous night trying to memorise my speech and questioning my sanity. I was nervous to the point of breakdown even before the event began. After it did begin, whatever little I thought I had sucessfully memorised leaked away faster than water would in a badly cupped palm. By the time the 5th person had finished speaking, I was a wreck. And before I could calm down, or even begin to calm down, my name was called. Time has this very annoying habit of making the very things you dont want to happen soon, happen instantaneously. With time having a good chuckle at it's latest antic in the background and the audience enjoying a hearty laugh in the foreground, I wobbled onto the stage.
Of the rest, I'd rather not write. A friend tried to cheer me up afterwards. She said things like "It's alright", "Maybe you must look at another activity", "It was only the first time" and things of the sort. Hmm.. Friendship puts a smile where an elocution leaves tears.
Ever since, I have applauded them, marveled at their talking skills, not participated in elocutions and made contributions to the literary sphere in my own way.
So here's to the ones who talk and make existance for others interesting. Here's also to people like me (for cheering them on).. and the giraffes....and the zebras, for being the gentle creatures they are..
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Certain times, when I read through profiles of people who claim that their hobby is travelling, I wonder if they are refering exclusively to the more civilised variety of air travel, a little lesser civilised form of train travel or does "Travel" also include the meanest and the most "courage-requiring" (if that constitutes a valid phrase!) form... bus travel.
It is an experience in itself.. bus travel. My average day begins with me dreading this experience. It is a marvel how an otherwise harmless looking 4 wheeled vehical can look like a monster with people falling out of every opening. Rude drivers, grouchy conductors, irritable people, bawling babies, the college girl cooing to her object of affection over the phone while trying to hang on for dear life, and about 10 other kinds of people make my "busmates".
I am almost of the verge of authoring "The diversity of the Human Race: A complete study".
On an average morning, I travel in that rickety contraption they call a bus, for around 45 minutes. For the first 15 minutes I look as human as you (a more uncomfortable one though). The 16th minute brings with itself an overcrowded bus stop with every person present there wanting to somehow make a contribution to increasing crowd within. And hence, by the time the bus starts to move again (roughly the start of the 20th minute), I begin to look like someone who has been out in a very strong wind. The next 20 minutes are spent enduring the agony of people stamping my foot as though it were a part of the flooring, trying to breathe some fresh (!!) air, laughing at the third person trying to remain seated on a seat meant for 1 and a half, marvelling at people who complain of a life-threatening pain in the legs, but dive at the slightest indication of an empty seat, cursing the person at the window seat, who has shut the window blissfully ignorant of the plight of people like me and trying to stand up and not get stamped all over by the people getting off (am I at the 45th minute yet?).
The last five minutes see me trying to make my way through to the door. Now, this is quite an elaborate procedure, and having counted myself amongst the women of science for three years in college, I follow a rigid procedure. Details follow.
Objective: To get off at the right stop with all belongings (Bag, Phone and Dupatta if i am wearing one).
Apparatus: A strong push!
Procedure:
1. Try and gather your belongings - Pull out the handbag which is presently resting between two other people who took it along during their journey from the door to the inch or so of empty place behind you. Check if the phone is still there. Try and extricate the dupatta from the tangle it is currently in. Wrap around self to prevent further tangling. Avoid wrapping the next girl's dupatta.
2. Congratulate self on accomplishing the first step. Ask the person in front if she is getting off, if the answer is in the negative, try to convince her that moving backwards to let you occupy her current position is a more convinient way of life for both of you. If she does not follow, or pretends not to follow, push her aside. Follow the preceding step till you reach a person who is also getting off at the same stop or the door, whichever is first.
3. Having reached the door, ask the people on the footboard to get off and make way for you. This request is oftentimes met with a blank stare, as though the language you employed is not used by ordinary humans in this age. In such a case, follow the "Push-aside" formula and get off.
4. Having finally descended, check if belongings are still there (Bag - yes, Phone - yes, Dupatta - trailing on the road, but still there)
5. Try not to look like a person who has just been put through a car wash by accident.
6. Yay!!
Observations:
1. The force of the push is directly proprtional to the speed with which one can reach the door.
2. The longer one remains in the bus, the more one starts to smell like a mixture of sweat, dirt and a variety of perfumes, resulting in a very stong urge to throw oneself out of the window.
3. The more violently you lose your temper at the conductor, the safer your feet are.
4. It is a lot easier on the nerves to walk!!
5. Becomes a lot easier if one is not wearing a dupatta.
Conclusion: Requires a lot of patience and can actually be pleasant on days when the entire population of the city does not want to travel with you in the same bus!!
And if destiny is giving you one of those rare smiles, you just might find a place to sit.. like I did today. Heh heh..
It is an experience in itself.. bus travel. My average day begins with me dreading this experience. It is a marvel how an otherwise harmless looking 4 wheeled vehical can look like a monster with people falling out of every opening. Rude drivers, grouchy conductors, irritable people, bawling babies, the college girl cooing to her object of affection over the phone while trying to hang on for dear life, and about 10 other kinds of people make my "busmates".
I am almost of the verge of authoring "The diversity of the Human Race: A complete study".
On an average morning, I travel in that rickety contraption they call a bus, for around 45 minutes. For the first 15 minutes I look as human as you (a more uncomfortable one though). The 16th minute brings with itself an overcrowded bus stop with every person present there wanting to somehow make a contribution to increasing crowd within. And hence, by the time the bus starts to move again (roughly the start of the 20th minute), I begin to look like someone who has been out in a very strong wind. The next 20 minutes are spent enduring the agony of people stamping my foot as though it were a part of the flooring, trying to breathe some fresh (!!) air, laughing at the third person trying to remain seated on a seat meant for 1 and a half, marvelling at people who complain of a life-threatening pain in the legs, but dive at the slightest indication of an empty seat, cursing the person at the window seat, who has shut the window blissfully ignorant of the plight of people like me and trying to stand up and not get stamped all over by the people getting off (am I at the 45th minute yet?).
The last five minutes see me trying to make my way through to the door. Now, this is quite an elaborate procedure, and having counted myself amongst the women of science for three years in college, I follow a rigid procedure. Details follow.
Objective: To get off at the right stop with all belongings (Bag, Phone and Dupatta if i am wearing one).
Apparatus: A strong push!
Procedure:
1. Try and gather your belongings - Pull out the handbag which is presently resting between two other people who took it along during their journey from the door to the inch or so of empty place behind you. Check if the phone is still there. Try and extricate the dupatta from the tangle it is currently in. Wrap around self to prevent further tangling. Avoid wrapping the next girl's dupatta.
2. Congratulate self on accomplishing the first step. Ask the person in front if she is getting off, if the answer is in the negative, try to convince her that moving backwards to let you occupy her current position is a more convinient way of life for both of you. If she does not follow, or pretends not to follow, push her aside. Follow the preceding step till you reach a person who is also getting off at the same stop or the door, whichever is first.
3. Having reached the door, ask the people on the footboard to get off and make way for you. This request is oftentimes met with a blank stare, as though the language you employed is not used by ordinary humans in this age. In such a case, follow the "Push-aside" formula and get off.
4. Having finally descended, check if belongings are still there (Bag - yes, Phone - yes, Dupatta - trailing on the road, but still there)
5. Try not to look like a person who has just been put through a car wash by accident.
6. Yay!!
Observations:
1. The force of the push is directly proprtional to the speed with which one can reach the door.
2. The longer one remains in the bus, the more one starts to smell like a mixture of sweat, dirt and a variety of perfumes, resulting in a very stong urge to throw oneself out of the window.
3. The more violently you lose your temper at the conductor, the safer your feet are.
4. It is a lot easier on the nerves to walk!!
5. Becomes a lot easier if one is not wearing a dupatta.
Conclusion: Requires a lot of patience and can actually be pleasant on days when the entire population of the city does not want to travel with you in the same bus!!
And if destiny is giving you one of those rare smiles, you just might find a place to sit.. like I did today. Heh heh..
Of a Write..err!!
I wonder what gave me the idea that I can write. I ask myself this question, for it has been over 15 minutes and all I have managed to write are the preceeding words..
I have not been much of a writer ever since the days at school where one (writer or otherwise) has to put words together that can pass off as a piece of creative genius (!!), decent enough to scrape you through the examination.
The essays in class 12 were a pain, to put it moderately. We had to compose a piece of writing 3 sheets long, picking the topic of our choice from a list. All for 10 measley marks. I always ended up writing short stories (which we had been told to treat with extreme caution). Funny short stories. Or at least, that's what I thought. I do remember her giggling while she corrected my paper, though now when I look back, I wonder if it was the story that amused her.
But I seem to have taken a fancy to the noble art and shall make due contribution through this column.. :D.
That was not all that tough to do, and it took me approximately an hour and a half. Not exactly INSPIRING, but then.. it's a start!
I have not been much of a writer ever since the days at school where one (writer or otherwise) has to put words together that can pass off as a piece of creative genius (!!), decent enough to scrape you through the examination.
The essays in class 12 were a pain, to put it moderately. We had to compose a piece of writing 3 sheets long, picking the topic of our choice from a list. All for 10 measley marks. I always ended up writing short stories (which we had been told to treat with extreme caution). Funny short stories. Or at least, that's what I thought. I do remember her giggling while she corrected my paper, though now when I look back, I wonder if it was the story that amused her.
But I seem to have taken a fancy to the noble art and shall make due contribution through this column.. :D.
That was not all that tough to do, and it took me approximately an hour and a half. Not exactly INSPIRING, but then.. it's a start!