Kanyakumari Revisited

While I muster the courage to post that series from the past year, here is a standalone(?) poem of the usual odd-semester-at-CMI kind.

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Transience 

Etch the ballpoint memory
Of a distant past that isn't me
Alongside the ramblings of
Another maddened poet.
The reptiles on the wall
Moult when curtains fall;
"Seasons will repeat", wisely,
Simplicity still wrote.

My pen is like a broken wing --

So heavy in pain, I cannot sing!
The open sky will draw your stories,
Eight of them in all;
The creatures on the edifice
Die when kingdoms fall.

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From the dumpbox

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Toyland

Matchbox cars on ribbon road,
Concrete, and your hand to hold:
Specks of human, red and gold,
Light our midnight way
Of Northwest winds that think aloud
Of lonely star and monsoon cloud.
I spin a yarn, for you and me,
Of a passing stranger's day.
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I had absolutely nothing even barely publishable left. This is my last stand. Send help.
This poem was written one of the last times I actually enjoyed eating Domino's.

Shorts 6 / Old Classwork 1

The third cue-word in this post was given by my English teacher in Class 10, as classwork, to practice for the composition portion of our ICSE examinations. Written in limited time by a much younger me, it qualifies both as a short and as the first part of my new series, Old Classwork. Being an assignment, the piece carries a title different from the cue-word itself, as we used to be required to supply. Though it contains certain word choices I would not make today, I have presented it here unchanged.

The second cue-word is mine.

The first cue-word was suggested by:

Ritwik, the all-knowing, all-encompassing, philosophically massive presence that pervaded the atmosphere of the CMI campus for over half a decade. A few of his myriad mysterious strengths lie in coding, gaming and dispersing gyaan. His chief weakness is being an extremely annoying brother. He wears ugly glasses on his ugly head. Disclaimer: this bio totally carries may carry extreme personal bias.

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Torture

It is a constant battle of tactical revelation. If I tell people too less, I miss out on the understanding that I unavoidably require to survive. If I tell people too much, they tend to guess what is wrong, and when; and then, it is worse then ever, because I've spread my darkness to other souls, and the guilt consumes everything else that I could or could not feel. All my life, too many that should not have been trusted (and, were not -- how strange) have convinced me that I am a source of inconvenience and trouble, a cancerous and depressing burden. Now, when light is offered, I can never tell how much is too much to ask without offering nothing in return.

Nice people. Gratitude. Friendship. Sympathy. Wonderful concepts, these, and also awful sources of torment and confusion. I am convinced that I cannot escape, and burden be I or not, a burden I sure do carry. My greatest fear is that the burden will have its way, and that is, on most days, worse than the idea of making some other lives a bit darker. If I forget all honour, what stops me from crying in front of others? Am I selfish? Am I a thief of happiness? Am I cheating the trade, gaming the system, swindling people out of light that is theirs? I shall never know, because my burden sits on my eyelids and my brain. It's on my throat, my limbs, my tongue, and it hurts. 

I don't tell you, but it hurts.

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Rewind

Right at this moment, all over your face and eyelashes, there are tiny mites living, crawling and having sex. All around you, electromagnetic waves are carrying speech, sound and words -- making memories, breaking hearts, and saving the world. Hence, the small and the seemingly insignificant appear quite important to you, if you think about it.

These days, I feel small and insignificant in the hierarchy of who you consider worthy of your company, love and approval. To you, perhaps, this moment is what decides if you will wish for a time machine, and to have never ever even met me. At the least, when you know, tell me before you go.

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Window

Pane of Pain, Pane of Joy

Could you imagine a foreboding castle, in an impenetrable fortress, rising before a stormy skyline with its imposing towers -- but without a single window?

Could you find a happy home, full of love and laughter, lacking only in that quaint little opening in the wall -- decorated with dainty curtains with frills and fringes galore -- could you?

Could you imagine how Rapunzel's story would turn out without a window in her tower, how journeys would have been if trains and cars had no windows, how school would be if the classrooms had no windows?

Sad thoughts, those. Sad, because conversations with the neighbours through the kitchen window keeps the homemaker entertained; because schoolchildren spread their innocent joy and cheer to the world when they yell and wave through the school bus's windows; because bereaved mothers, jilted lovers and betrayed friends weep beside the window, wistfully staring into the middle distance.

The window is a perfect little outlet for that yearning in all of us to be one with the world outside; despite our attachment to the safety of closed doors, we can communicate with the outside world -- feeling its vibrations of feeling and bursts of colour -- when we open a window.

The window is also an opportunity -- an opportunity to feed the birds, smile at strangers, be inspired to write poetry -- and for the neighbourhood's lovable five-year-old Robin Hood, an opportunity to steal a little something for his best friend, the son of his housekeeper.

The quintessential charm of a window increases manifold, and the window metamorphoses into a jolly theatre, when it is no longer stationary. Who can deny the charm of watching cows grazing in the fields, women drawing well-water, and people of all ages working in the farms, in the green little villages flanking the railway tracks?

The everyday person does not have the courage to brave all dangers and live in the open, but people like you and me will always have our windows. Families will always dine on mother's excellent cooking, the old man living alone will always play the piano, the ex-serviceman will always polish his weapon, while the stranger passing through the street looks at them through their windows.

As night falls, the lullabies sung to kids will always involve the bright white lights in the sky, playing hide-and-seek with the child from behind the window drapes.

Miserable is the man who lacks a friendly window.

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More cue-words are always welcome.

The Sky Company Tries New Things

Beautiful things can sometimes be so intolerable,  especially if you know that they don't intend to be beautiful. With every note of this deceptive music, a part of me dies because I have seen through its sweetness and found a heart of uncaring pride. My consciousness hurts, but my body is too weak to even care.

The filth seems to be receding, but I know that it is only a cruel joke -- I still have a long battle ahead of me. My army is feeble because it derives strength from me. I can't shift blame: they are but children!

Tonight's clouds have disappointed many, but I never expected anything in the first place -- I never do. My path is clear but I don't feel like walking. I need my army...

Letters from Bengaluru

To Maa, from the returning bus

I am an adult. My world spins, and for the first time I am facing it without your help. I am responsible for myself and for my comrades. I am responsible for my clothes, my hair, my money. I have others, but they are not you -- hell, they are not even me. This place is interesting. It has taught me a lot. When I come back to you, I'll be more of an adult than when you last saw me.

Love,

Gg

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To R and R, from Wonder-la

At the top of the uncertain world, when the fear of life is gone, there is a strange sense of peace. The view and the breeze, for once, become meaningful for their own sake and not as reinforcements to one's sense of existence -- perhaps there is some truth to what the sages say about letting go. Right now, at the still moment between anticipation and exhilaration, I am torn between a deep ascetic longing for absolute Himalayan solitude and a childlike stubborn wish for you to be here with me.

Love,

Your sister.

P.S.: I'm bringing back food.

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To the world, from everywhere

I have been reminded that while I am within you, my consciousness is forever beyond your reach. Thanks for having me, but aside from the mandatory gratitude for survival, I feel nothing for you.

Love,

Your umpteenth reject.
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The Adventures of The Sky Company

Five fifty-nine is my favourite time -- especially when the trees glow red in the blackened sky. For the first time, a star was more rebellious than I was.

Bottle caps on the ground don't matter as much as the waste that I need to get rid of; careless laundry in the sand can seek attention elsewhere. The filth is now a part of me, but there remain tiny hopes that the sun can disinfect.

Fine lines divide the said and the unsaid, but I listen intently -- lie to me. The tears that the concrete has tried and failed to absorb have left behind stains of disappointment on cheeks that cannot decide how old they are; a divergent mental age can be a severe impediment to a judicious rebel.

Today's sunrise has been a bad Photoshop job -- even the crows found it disgusting. In conclusion, sunrises mean shit if you share them with the wrong people: clever folks just want to watch things burn.

Childhood 5 : Imagination

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Imagination

His night is dark, so in city lights
He never sleeps.
Having faced scarce a brick wall,
He never stops.
He slept under infinite stars: numbers
Are his friends --

The city limits us, but he is free.

In the farmlands of the hinterland,
Books don't punish.
They don't prod or goad or compel,
For they are joy
To collect, covet, play with,
Pass the time --

Opportunity limits us. He's free.

The time that we wait for to come
For him, is now.
The growing up that was never ours
Is his, by fire.
We live by clocks -- he is disciplined
By the ancient sun.

Indian Standard Time sets him free.

When spoken to, we attempt to find
Meaning and logic.
He understands words as his books
Told him they were.
We imagine the future, best and worst
He feeds on today.

Unchained by fantasy, he is free.
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Dedicated to my new brother at CMI: the inimitable PBT.

Childhood 1 : Apparitions

So, once again the idea for one poem has gone haywire in my head with enough intensity to make me consider a series. Tentatively the series is called 'Childhood', and may contain prose pieces as well. We shall see. For now, here's the first one, inspired by life at CMI and specifically my first friend there, Subhayan.

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Apparitions

Two friends chatting on the ledge
Living life on concrete edge
Too many lights, and sounds too few,
And ghosts, and trees, and Scooby Dooby-Doo.

Precious possessions behind the door
Left unlocked 'cause the locks are a bore --
Watch it for me, please, will you?
Scooby Dooby-Doo, where are you?

Scooby Dooby-Doo, what do you find
In spaces ten times multiplied,
In water glasses measuring time,
And darkened stories missing rhyme?

Mystery Machine whirs on alright;
(Words, Cradle, Starry Night...!)
When one day Fred will drop the wheel,
Scooby Doo, how will you feel?

When Daphne becomes someone else's,
Velma drops her patent lenses,
Shaggy ceases to believe --
Scooby Doo, will you still live?

When all the questions have been asked,
Mysteries solved, and ghouls unmasked,
When all that you said becomes true,
Scooby, will they still love you?
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To The Place I Belong

Beneath the yellow flowers, the footprints of the greats make a second bedrock. By force of habit, the trees that were once green saplings continue to give seeds that grow into more trees, even as powerful ideas are sowed in the minds that shall perhaps be great someday.

The clouds are red in the western sky and the buzz of the afternoon mundane pervades. The office drones are flocking home, and so are the birds, but they won't find me travelling today. I'm not going home, because I already am home -- the ant I just stepped on agrees.

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First post from CMI campus, via the CMI-Hostel wifi. Title credit: Country Roads

A Short Ode To A Special Friend

CBSE East Zone Swimming Championship, hosted by Hem Sheela Model School, in the autumn of 2013. More than sixty schools from all over eastern India gathered in the J.N. Avenue campus. As the Class XI Coordinator in charge of the hosts' Student Volunteers, I was assigned a crew of Class IX and XI Students Council members and a ragtag group of additional volunteers from Class XI. Among these volunteers was a moderately troublesome rodent-like fellow who, one afternoon, seemed like a suitable person to take charge in the joint absence of me and my regular deputy.

Following my deputation of this kid, circumstances best forgotten dictated an unfavourable turn of events; but eventually, to myself and to the world, my initial instincts were proved right. This kid later volunteered laudably for the Council during the end-year personnel crisis; and when, in Class XII, I was to become Head Girl, taking oath beside me as Head Boy, in the torrential rain on 1st July 2014, was to be the same kid -- a crucial friend and colleague in the months to come, someone difficult to forget, a kid I have high hopes for.

As I write this annotation to my timeline nearly two years in the future from aforesaid events, on the verge of my leaving Durgapur, all I can say to Nihal is this: thanks, buddy, and wish you well.

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( +NIHAL SINGH )

Not Another One About Rain

People have too many passive thoughts about rain. No, I do not speak of those in love: I'm done with that lot's interpretation of the rain -- we all are, if the relevant (single people's?) wisecracks plastered all over social media are any indication. However, I myself am prone, like many others, to react to the rain with as much mushiness as the wet monsoon ground beneath one's shoes -- as is evident from my recent post about my high school and the rain. Then again, there are those who immerse themselves in dark and gloomy thoughts whenever it rains, and manage to enjoy or even crave that process, which (more often than not?) gives rise to anti-sunshine literary ventures that deserve a second look -- at the least from psychologists, if not from literary critics. Whatever the form may be, I find that the general mode of processing rain seems to involve sitting down, pensiveness, passivity -- and that bothers me. Yes, the rain is beautiful, refreshing, brings back memories, etcetera -- been there, felt that -- but what about the rain that is more truthful than beautiful, more warlike than romantic, more hopeful than reminiscent? What about the rain that slaps you awake and tells you, akin to a certain Mr. LaBeouf but in a less amusing manner, to 'Do It'?

Now that rain is the kind I wouldn't mind having every day. Because, while I enjoy rain in all forms, this one is forever going to be my kind of rain. It shows no Grey World, but reveals the exact true colours hidden under layers of dust. It reminds me of no one but myself, and of my dreams and what I stand for. It removes false associations and presents everything at face value -- it removes the identities of Success and Failure and reclassifies them simply as Milestones; it melds Friends and Foes and makes them People; it takes Love and Hate and makes them Attachment. This rain falls on me but does not seep through because it is content to just be. This rain is confident in its silent potency, and cares not for provoking a reaction to itself. This rain connects me with all souls, but binds me to none. It asks me not to raise my face to it, but to drive my shoulders and my limbs across its path.

I like rains the most when they come with thunderstorms -- because each thunderclap is like a fresh start that whacks my self-doubt over the head and yells at it to buzz off; each bolt of lightning is like an epiphany, like a shocking bout of clarity from some inaccessible dimension, made available to me for a split-second. The rumble of a dying thunder across the sky is like the laughter of an eternally victorious spirit, beating a false retreat merely to amuse itself with the premature jubilations of the enemy, and announcing to all allies that it will return doubly enthused; and when the entire sky lights up in a flash of lighting, I feel the spirit throw me a mischievous, knowing wink, right before it disappears.

So, while the rest of you are looking at the rain, or dancing in the rain, or sitting or walking or laughing or crying in the rain, you'll find me standing alone and motionless, somewhere far out in the open, with the wind and the spray in my face -- my shoulders squared, my feet ready to spring, and my damn stupid mouth smirking itself silly.

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Title Credit: Mousam Roy, via Paint Me With You, specifically this.

And The Monsoon, Which Stayed Behind

Perhaps the rains were not meaningless. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I am convinced that they were definitely meant to be. One day last summer, they were meant to invest with inspiration, sacrifice and courage. Many days in a life, they were meant to bring clarity, solace and peace. Many a P.E. class, they were meant for drenching ourselves and our shoes in the vestiges of that special kind of defiance, the rare kind that nature mysteriously tolerates -- the defiance of a child just standing there, rain clouds above, wet earth below and sonorous monsoon streaking the air all around. (Nature also mysteriously tolerates the defiance of unfed labourers' shivering toils; but that is another story).

The ominous heralding showers of two kids with dreams; the Grey World of pensive poets who hate the sun; the massive waters that meld with the flesh-painted concrete and make it their own; the torrents drenching football players in the muddy fields and basketball players on the wet concrete courts -- the rains surround the story of our lives with warmth unexpected from something so inherently wet and cool and blue and grey.

Because, the rains are Nihal and Ankita and the Students' Council. The rains are also Shriyank and Chetna and Srimoyi and Shrestha, joyous and carefree on the waterlogged basketball courts; and Baidya and Suku and Bose and Roni on the imperfect football field of perfect glory. The rains are, yes, XII A, B, C, D, E, F and G. The rains are a better picture of us than all the pictures on our phones and the group photos clicked by the school -- because the rains are not just faces and blazers and regulation shoes -- the rains are alive. They are alive with smells of mud, grass, and grime; of sweat and rain all mixed together; of drenched canvas and wet paper and a single umbrella shared by far too many people. The rains are sports gear reluctantly left behind and books hurriedly shielded at the expense of necks and backs; the rains are that bunch of girls who were always teased for raising their flimsy odhni-s above their heads as they ran to escape the rain (as if that'll help!), while some boys were similarly stupid with their handkerchiefs; the rains are the P.E. teachers yelling for the classes to shift indoors and prodding the last kid in line with the butt-end of an umbrella; or some other teacher reasoning with a rain-drunk class to shut the windows of the room, through which the wind-driven rain, to the pupils' added delight, went trigger-happy on the wooden desks. The rains are, also, the shoe-tracks in the mud, outside the gates, leading up to the ice-cream cart; the brown waters sloshing between the paved pathway to the teachers' car park; and DHRC fading behind the white waters as the bus pulls away.

So no, when I visited HSMS the last time and it rained and rained and rained, I didn't mind a single bit. Because wherever we may be hereafter, I like to imagine that the alma mater would remember us whenever it rains, and so we'll live on in Hem Sheela. Because the rains are, and the rains always will be, those parts of all our souls that stayed behind -- within those walls, on that ground, in those halls and, one would hope, in those hearts.

You're Mean

Bookkeepers, bets and gambles, risky investments, desperate choices. I am a statistic. I am someone's project, I am someone's way to live their dream, someone's card out of the rut. I am someone's point to prove or disprove, someone's shortcut to fortune, and the receptacle for someone else's self-loathing.

When I was weak, when I was but a seed, they made me strong, yes? Cold water, stinking animal shit, painful cuts, etcetera? Pruned to help grow, they say-- oh, I see, so that's what it was -- and I must pay. My opinion of their pruning be whatever it may, I must pay -- for being sneered at, for being lied to, for being manipulated and dragged into none-of-my-business feuds, I must pay. I must pay with lifelong thanks, with folded hands. I must pay in infinite gratitude.

Bringing out my inner potential by convincing me that I had none at all? Cool story. I believe you. I am where I am because of you, eh? Well, though I don't know where exactly that is supposed to be, hey, I believe you. If this goes well, it's all you; if it doesn't, it's all me -- per public trend, and per tradition of this here glorious country.

If this goes well the sweets are on me, for you. If this goes well the applause is for me, but I'm supposed to deflect it towards you. Oh, and, the respect is for you, the feather-in-résumé is for you. If this goes well, some four to six years of tolerating more people like you is for me. Still, if this goes well, I stand to gain, you say. Well, by force of habit, I believe you.

I believe you, and I bless you. I bless your automobiles, your smartphones, your children's educations, their new clothes -- all paid for by my willingness to let you, essentially, be paid for being mean to me. No, it's not a sacrifice that you made! It's not a sacrifice if you, well, sacrificed nothing for it, and are working the best-paid job you could get. It's not a noble profession as per tradition if nobleness is no longer considered a requirement before allowing you to get into my head.

Yet, I believe you when you say I must pay, because that's just me -- and pay I will. Whichever way this goes, whether I buy you sweets or not, I bless you and your goddamn life -- and your ugly car, your stupid phone and your children who  you are, probably, already raising badly.

So consider that your payment, you, uh, you... well, ugh. This blog is supposed to be PG. So here:

Farewell Jottings -- Part Five (The End)

Today Hem Sheela Model School bade farewell to the Class XII batch of 2015. With Head Boy Nihal Singh, I, as the Head Girl, had to deliver a speech at the event. The speech was about leaving HSMS and being grateful and the like; but if I had to deliver a speech where I could say anything, the following would probably be it.

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The End

The lost designs of my youth,
The fairy stories electric blue,
The proud crusades to find the truth,
The dreams of lives built anew --

Insane dreams of evermore!

Dreams of luxuries and love,

Dreams, that for every chore,

Divine Grace awaits above.

Something awaits, we still believe;

What it is, we know not still,

But someday it will come for me..

Or perhaps it never will.

There she goes, that girl who wrote
Joyous songs for feasting nuns,
Who woke at six to rush to school,
And cared after the little ones.
Went she away to new green fields --
New children, new dreams and hopes:
On her way to the world beyond,
Stopped she awhile to learn the ropes,
But not for long -- two years, they fly,
Up and out, hair streams behind,
Run, run, girl, for time is nigh:
Visions of expectant mankind --
Imagine them! With bated breath,
Waiting and watching for something new --
Something great, something fresh,
Something rare, in a million, few...!

Legend says that demons live
In human form, with us they walk;
With sweet voices, Grandma said,
Demons, in our ears, they talk.
Songs they sing, said the book
That steal innocent souls away --
Uncle Tiger said, if it's true,
Your mission is to find and slay
The demons that in humans live --
If you don't, who else will?
And so I learnt of my place --
The empty space for me to fill.

So hearken all my Farewell Song,

For today I sing sincere.

Today I bring a message true

To all my people gathered here:

You were born to fill a need,

Because no one else would do;

You were born because the world

Was waiting, eagerly, for you.

Don't let the world tell you now

That it's done and there's no more --

Tell the world, and tell yourself

Of all the promises made before,

Of proud crusades to find the truth,

And dreams of lives built anew,

Of grace, and love, and glories great--

A dream designed just for you.
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We returned the badges at the end of the event, by the way. Officially done with the Council, now to trust next year's Council to keep up the (hopefully!) good work.

Farewell Jottings -- Part Three

Assortment of tiny flowers in the grass. Maroon multitudes sandwiched between green and blue never notice, but I do. Funny thing is, these probably existed back when the place was a forest.

Tall, bare concrete wall arches beautifully across the field. At partings we are promised completion -- it will be painted when I return. Supposed to feel good at the time but probably won't: will not laud progress, will selfishly feel outdated.

Little girl will tumble on without me. Will win things I never knew existed, fight wars I never heard of. A host of fifty seven will rise where there was a gaggle of fifteen; seventy three on seventy three will rise like never before -- new beginnings. Perhaps catalysed by recent past, oh praise oh applause! No comfort. Success no use in absentia despite gratitudes abundant.

Feel like a mushroom cloud, waning wake of potent impact: witness to noise, clamour, opinion, long after said event. Wane, however, non-negotiable. Can be extended by aftershocks as encouraged, to fade again alongside noisier clamour. Photographs and sundry evidence archived far from the sun. Radio silence that follows nearly undisturbed by few starry eyes.

Walls will be painted and repainted. Field flowers will live and die every season, as wild flowers must. Touch-me-nots will bow to different feet -- soles of shoes only they recognize: wonderful equalizer. Today's gritty new sport will be worn smooth, will be less desirable ancestors to sprightly young bouncers. As promised, flawed lines on concrete will be accurate soon. In future play if ever, will err on correct lines: blame old adjustments to the wrong. Games metaphorical and actual will have different players, all too short-lived to change the way they're played.
Hopeless hope to inspire the next wave of dreamers, to impact memory sufficiently to remain at the least a voice of conscience from days long gone (can you hear me?) Meanwhile, own memories to grow overgrown as is wont -- voices first to go; then faces and entire identities sequestered from the perpetual struggle to be relevant.

Successive visits will see diminishing recognition. Indomitable, the flux will carry away the familiar. Onus of excellence will pass to those irreplaceable to new and alien to old. Reminiscences will go from three a year to one, to none; greetings, reduced to transparent stares, will become colder and colder and emptier and emptier: at length will be a ghost of Hem Sheela past.

The stray cat will have kittens, maybe. Will she tell them about me?

Farewell Jottings -- Part Two

Tumultuous times lie ahead. The young are on their way to become the youth! Fires will be lit and cleansing floods will bring sweeping changes across hearts that will survive the first rite of passage to adulthood that is finishing school and getting into college. At the very cusp of this change, there are two things on my mind -- regrets and fears.

Unlike many of my peers, regrets I have none -- and that worries me because I fear that perhaps no regrets means not enough staked in the first place: that, maybe, I played safe.

Maybe in my fear of losing myself I lost you; maybe in my fear of never knowing myself, I never knew you; maybe in my haste to find myself I never bothered to find you.

You, my lost friend. You, the friend I could have made but didn't. You, the friend I made and then drove away. You, the smile; you, the light; you, the opportunity -- bypassed, perhaps, I fear, for the sake of me: me the brave who was not brave enough to save you, me the compassionate who was never kind to you, me the tolerant who took pride in looking down on you.

So, while regrets I have none because I never met you, fears I have in abundance that, somewhere, you exist, and in that somewhere beyond my reach you live, knowing me to be the person who could have been there for you, but didn't. Despite my confidence in my own assertions, I fear that somewhere there is someone who is a victim of hypocrisy on my part, even if that hypocrisy exists only in that someone's perception. (Or my own. Reality matters very less, dear unknown friend -- me thinking ill of me and you thinking ill of me are equally ill fates!)

The projector will drone on. Reel after grainy reel will flit away on the screen. Regrets and fears will change shape but will always remain. Laughably, shadowed one, these regrets and fears provide some of the best creative inspiration, some of the best screenplay for the dramedy of our lives. So if you think me a hypocrite (or if you think yourself a hypocrite -- one can always come to one's senses), fear not and regret not your past actions. Let it fuel you to greater heights, where your movie will be a blockbuster, where people will applaud you and chant your name. Believe, that despite all hypocrisy, despite the missed chances and swallowed smiles, your movie will get made. It will break the box office and get awards of the red carpet sort -- it'll even get ninety percent ratings on Rotten Tomatoes. Believe, I say, because self-belief has served me well, and because, if I had known you, I would have believed in you as well.

When you do become a celebrity, friend, give me a call. I'd like to know if and when our dance of hypocrisy pays off. Adios!

Farewell Jottings -- Part One

Emotional mush is always difficult to handle, but it feels warranted in this case, so please hear me out.

Your journey henceforth won't be easy. The world's general muck and your difficult personality are not a good match, and you are hellishly hard to like. So before we part, I'm going to pretend that the 246 days between our births were actually 246 months, and give you some advice.

You see, friend, growing up means that the ground beneath your feet will shift. It's only normal. You will learn that the world is unfair, and that foes always outnumber friends. You will learn that envy is a stronger emotion than gratitude. You will learn to suspect -- because people will have betrayed you. As I said -- it's only normal. But hopefully, you will also learn courage, grace and strength; hopefully you will find your voice, and you will love and be loved. Underneath the greys of essential suspicion, hopefully, you will see the sparkle of those rare few who will, in turn, see you for the sparkler that you are. Hopefully, my friend, you will not lose hope.

To put it simply, it's normal, and desirable, for you to learn two things -- one, that all the world's light cannot kill darkness; and two, that all the world's darkness cannot put out the light inside you if you decide to let it shine.
Now, you ask, all this while, what will I do for you? Where will I be when you go about this difficult journey? Maybe in a fit of indignation you will even question the kind of friend I am, to give so much advice and then disappear when our time here is done. You will say that you want to know more, to talk more; you will say that it only makes sense, and that we are not done -- if we want to talk, there's always WhatsApp! But you see, I will have a life and so will you. Talking so much works for carefree youngsters studying and working in the same place -- not for adult individuals responsible for feeding themselves and, in time, others. So, buddy mine, what can I do for you? Will I be physically absent when the going gets tough? Perhaps. But whether I know you in the future or not, remember that friendship means that I am with you in spirit, and in spirit, you have my otherwise unconditional support on one condition. The condition being, you ask?

Well, my friend -- it is simple. In spirit and, if possible, in flesh and blood, I will hold your hand when it's dark outside and it's difficult to see. I will grab your shoulders and pull you to safety when it is dark beneath you and above you and all around you. But I will run -- in selfish and mad disappointment I will run, miles away from you I will run even if it kills me -- if I ever find you inviting the darkness in and letting it invade your sparkling soul -- because I will not sit tight and watch while yet another light goes out. I simply won't. So promise me -- promise me you will shine.

Now, buddy, that's enough of all that. Steel your nerves, and best of luck. Gimme a fist-bump before we go.

Back to School, Students' Council, and Small Good Deeds

In less than eight hours from now, I will begin another day of normal school -- the same old 7:45 to 1:50 routine, studying, socializing, Students' Council work, and keeping a lookout for inconspicuous opportunities to affect other people's lives in a positive way.

Since the day I became Head Girl of HSMS, life has been... well, pretty much the same really. Mostly, I go around setting straight things and people that stray, or go askew, or make mistakes, or get hurt, or cause hurt to other things and people that matter -- which I've been doing since last year (and that is just in this one school) and has simply become official and organized now. My day consists of making the most of class hours, and then in the breaks, aside from eating, I try to utilize the time to make a difference in the HSMS experience for my fellow students.

Students in the school tend to think that being Head Girl (or anyone in the Students' Council, but especially a Head) is all about power trips, power walks, power talks, power yelling, power play. The older students do somewhat appreciate the discipline and streamlining we bring to the school, but that is hardly everything. As a leader in my previous school and in this one, I have tried, in every working hour, to inspire goodness in my fellows and juniors -- especially my juniors. I don't know how much I've succeeded, but the journey hitherto has been amazing, and continues to be so. Every day I deal with volumes of troublesome kids and friends who refuse to listen or understand, and sometimes I have to take action to extents that break my heart. But from time to time, there's that kid who comes up and asks me how someone can become the Head Girl or Head Boy, and I tell them about being true to oneself, about sincerity, loyalty, dedication; and also about time management, compartmentalization, innovation and self-discipline. Whenever I can, I try to dispel from the minds of children the image of a leader who is nothing but an authoritarian -- which is difficult to do in a day and age of rebellion against all forms of authority. Having passed through such a rebellious phase myself, I continue to strongly believe that rebellion, in essence, is indicative of free thinking and intelligence: qualities that, if channelized, can make marvellous grown-ups out of children, which is why I, self-punishingly, make those kids, the problem kids, my business.

Ask any kid who has ever been yelled at by me (individually, that is -- crowd management is a different story), and they will tell you how their first offence has been handled discreetly, and as far away from the public eye as possible. I strongly believe that a calm voice and an explanation, instead of shaming, can go a long way: Mother always explained to me what I did wrong, and so, unlike my classmates, I never resented my mother for a single moment of my life. Annoyed with her, maybe; angry, maybe; disappointed, oh yes all the time: but I never doubted her loyalty to the cause of my betterment, as opposed to what most grown-ups prioritize -- their authority, their pride, their public image and not the child's. Children need that -- they need to trust someone to be truly dedicated to their cause, their life, their hopes and dreams. So when kids act out, I try to apply my mother's methods -- I try to seek the root of their rebellion and do my bit to repair it. Sometimes it is, unfortunately, out of my hands: factors like home conditions and peer groups have influences greater than mine, at times. But at other times, kids have changed because of things I told them, which is a rare beauty in my life given the fact that I, myself, am essentially still a kid. It is cause for great thanksgiving, and a deep satisfaction that many adults never get to experience.

Back in Carmel, there were countless juniors and peers who were brought back to the mainstream of school life after I spoke to them, and they continue to keep in touch and thank me from time to time -- I feel immensely humbled to have touched their lives. There are also children who were always in the mainstream, but lacked confidence or organization, and I could, if not for privacy concerns, name a handful who claim that they learnt those missing skills because of me. One kid told me almost a year back that I changed her life, which is when I first thought of penning this post. My teachers in Carmel have praised me for creating more leaders before I left, and hopefully those leaders have created more. In Hem Sheela, the task is more uphill, given the larger body of students and the shorter time I had here for groundwork. But still, I persist to do leadership differently. The kid from above is in Hem Sheela now, and she reminds me every day of the gift that I must share with all: the gift of integrity, passion and kindness, which I learnt from my mother and some unsung stalwarts in my family and among my teachers.

The things I do differently are simple, really: in fact, by the book, they should not be different but normal. First, aside from doing this for myself (which I don't mind admitting I do), I also do this for others. Specially, I do this for those kids who are invisible and cannot stand up to miscreants and bullies. Sometimes they are too scared to make formal complaints and they come to me, and I coach them in making compact, logical and believable complaints to their teachers, with courage, composure and willpower, which will ensure that their message gets across. Many have reported back to me that they were no longer scared of the authorities, and they managed to approach their teachers and get problems -- bullies, thieves, evil twins -- sorted to their satisfaction.

Second, I go to great lengths to make sure that I'm fair, and that I don't overstep my bounds. People may have cause to complain that I'm cruel, but they will never, ever be able to complain that I'm unfair or against the rules. If I'm cruel, I'm equally cruel to all, as a leader should be. Third, I know when to swallow my pride and get help. My friends sometimes resent me for reporting problems to teachers and getting someone in trouble in the process, but I know when something is out of my league. And so yes, I run to momma. Things get done, don't they? Fourth, I don't do things just to show people who's boss. I don't hit people, I don't curse at people, I don't loudmouth people into submission. The things I yell are logical -- always. Simple, don't you think?

Yet these simple, textbook, rules of leadership are considered unnecessary, ridiculous, outright weird even. Still I try, and I attempt to instil the same in the budding leaders who work under me. I must reiterate here that among all the kids I meet, the few that change positively because of me are the beauty and joy in all of this. They are my fuel, my inspiration, my light. They are the real strong ones, because change is scary, submitting to help is scary, facing your problems is scary, but they have done it. They have learnt confidence, defeated bullies, controlled tempers, quit vices, improved in academics and co-curriculars: and so much more -- which they claim, is all because of something I said to them someday, but is really because they always had inner strength. Granted, ninety percent ignore what I say and move on, but the ten percent is my reward. And friends, I'm not the only one with this gift. Clichéd as it may sound, every person can influence others positively. And if you try, you will feel the same joy that I feel as I write this. I swear, people, at this point if I were speaking to you instead of committing my thoughts to this piece of plastic and glass, chances are I would cry. I would cry out of sheer happiness and gratitude that I have seen things grow and bloom under my touch. It's wonderful, beautiful, transforming!

Which is why, people, I go back to school tomorrow despite the dreariness and the monotony. I go because of the sheer addiction of doing something good, bringing some change, showing people what leadership can be. I go for the hope that when I'm done, the people who went to school with me will not just remember my power walk and ninja plaits and loud voice (though I would love it if they did!), but also my smile, my jokes, my help, my hand on their shoulders in troubled times; and I also go for the hope that all of this will earn me a few, if not many, hands to hold and shoulders to cry on when I will need them. Because that's what we mean when we speak of humanity, don't we, people?

I must mention here a quote that caught my attention because of how perfectly it captures the philosophy behind my style of Students' Council work:

“Discipline without freedom is tyranny; freedom without discipline is chaos” -- Cullen Hightower.

Hence, people, I believe in the kind of discipline that fosters the freedom of mind, body and emotion in a way that this freedom is organized and equally distributed -- hence the tough love, hence the rules, hence the power walk.

I will leave you with a plea to wish me (and our Council) luck for restarting work after the Durga Puja holidays (work, unfortunately, will be in suspended animation till then because the junior Council members still have exams). Unfortunately, the last kid I tried to inspire disappointed me terribly, and I have, sadly, identified the factors at work to be beyond my influence. Hence, I'm a bit down on the good feelings. Therefore, let this post be a reminder to me and to all of you that despite the failures, touching even one life just a teeny bit is more than what most people ever get to do, and that it is the most beautiful and humbling feeling ever.

Peace out!

Owning Your Anger and other stories

Today I felt real, white-hot anger after a long time. I can't remember when the last time I felt like that was -- it had probably been more than a year. The reason I call my anger 'white-hot' is because of how I perceive it. Anger has traditionally been associated with the colour red, but despite my originally explosive temper that I keep gagged and bound, I have never, ever, seen red. When I'm really angry, angry without adulteration by disappointment or sadness, I feel my forehead and the tip of my nose grow hot. I've been told that they turn red, but inside I feel it like a blinding white glow, and you won't believe me when I say that I feel a strange wave of clarity and logic sweep over my thoughts. The irrationality characteristic of anger kicks in only when it comes to translating thought into action. Which is why, when I began to work on my temper, I felt my mental faculties damping. Suddenly, my moral instinct and righteous energy had no outlet, and all of it stewed in my head until they boiled up everything else, eventually resulting in more severe albeit infrequent bursts of anger -- in trying to control my temper, I had transformed from short-tempered to hot-tempered.

It was at the bottom of my anger management curve that I realized that trying to deny myself my anger was not the solution, since the cause of my anger itself was never illogical -- only my consequent actions were. Having realized that, I decided to separate the two. About a year and a half ago, I began to successfully stop myself from acting on my anger without extinguishing the anger itself -- I learnt to think when angry and act when calm. It worked. However, I didn't need the method for long, because soon, ICSE was over and times changed.

Since then, I have transitioned from a Xth Board examinee to a XIIth Board examinee and from SPL of Carmel to Head Girl of Hem Sheela, which in a very short time has uprooted my entire life, taken it for a ride, and planted it somewhere else. In all this time, I was so occupied that I probably forgot to be angry, or to be precise, I never had the time in which my anger could peak, until today.

Today was essentially a very busy day, but unlike most busy days, which I enjoy, today was a disappointing and annoying day as well. To begin with, we (Head Boy Nihal and I) were wantonly disappointed in one of the junior members of our Students' Council. We spent half a class period yelling at the kid and another quarter picking up the pieces of the giant mess he made. To put it lightly, he embarrassed (not to mention disgusted and annoyed) the hell out of us. As if that wasn't enough, I had two different kinds of unpleasant interactions with two different teachers through no fault of mine, no thanks to my uncontrollably 'romantic' (read debaucherous, more on them later) classmates, and to how Indian mothers raise their sons, in reverse chronological order. Also, I had a mildly unsatisfactory Physics Practical test -- mild enough not to bother me, if the rest of the day had behaved, but hell, it didn't. To top it all off, the Council incident made me late for PE -- not only did I lose out on play time, but I also missed my call for the long jump test. They allowed me to take it when I explained, and I beat my personal record, but I believe I could have done better without the preceding 150 metre dash from the main building to our sports complex. My distance was third highest among the girls and somewhere in the top 10 overall, which is much better than anything I've ever done in that test, but I believe I could have made it further.

So, as you see, I had cause to be angry, which my long-sleeping anger took full advantage of, and my method came out of retirement. I allowed myself anger but not action. The white light flooded my head, and I saw it all clearly. The deception, the manipulation, the breach of trust and loyalty, the classroom politics, the moral blame games, the power trips -- all of it opened up like a giant, interactive chart. And then when I calmed down, all the information was right there in front of me, and with Nihal's cooperation as an occasionally vocal sounding board, I chalked out the Council problem. That done, I navigated the others as well, remaining mostly unscathed. I expect some repercussions and hurt feelings come Monday, but hopefully the weekend damper, despite the Saturday Parent-Teacher Meeting un-damper will cushion them. The good news is that this meeting is optional unless a teacher specifically calls in your parents, which is done for academic underachievement and severe discipline issues. So basically, I'm in the clear and tomorrow can be a relatively normal Saturday.

Hopefully, my methods won't be required anytime in the near future. Lessons learnt : self-control of all kinds is worth learning; negative emotions can be channelized for positive effects; and a sounding board is always a good idea as long as it knows what to echo, what to absorb, and when to do a bit of both.

P.S. : The clock tells me it's 1:18 am... so all the todays should be yesterdays and all the tomorrows todays, I guess.

HSMS Students Council, 2014-15... and good tidings!

People, this is a short post to share some overdue good news. This 1st of July, Tuesday, after a postponement due to rain, and finally braving the rain anyway, the HSMS Students Council 2014-15 were invested with their badges. The preceding Saturday, the Principal, Vice-Principals and some senior teachers had interviewed potential candidates for the various posts available to Class XII students...

The Badge. Slightly battered by
time, but hey, who cares?
(The Head Boy's badge is identical
except for being inscribed 'Boy'
in place of 'Girl'.)

... and I'm pleased and grateful to announce that they chose me as Head Girl! the second time I've held the top post in a school. To add to that, I've hardly been in HSMS for over a year.. I'm so damn happy!
It was a grand, grand moment, despite the rain, to wear that ornate badge and to take oath with the entire Council repeating after. The wait of so many days, the nerves during the interview, the speculation from all my friends, the three preceding years of student body work in two different schools culminates in this : the top post in my last year, not to mention

Alongside myself, my friend Nihal Singh was chosen as the Head Boy, a choice that I am hitherto happy with. He is formally new to this Council, although he did volunteer work with us last year. Hopefully his leadership alongside mine, and my collaboration with him, will enhance and fortify what the preceding Councils, including myself last year, have built.

Personally, I am loving the opportunity to finally lead the Council formally. After the seniors left school last year I was informally in charge, but this is a whole new ball game. As I write this, we have had our first meeting with the Council, wherein I have announced everyone's duties from this year's new roster, which combines my experience from being Coordinator last year with new ideas from Nihal and myself. We (the Heads) have also divided the supervisory duties between the two of us... let's see how it all works out, and please wish me (and all of us) luck.

P.S.: Pictures of badge coming soon! (Edit: included in post above).