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!!!
Thursday, September 28, 2006
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!