Vanilla Narrations

When the idea for this piece of writing germinated inside my head, it was with a certain amount of sadness.

All I wanted was a vanilla day. Plain and classic. But it was more like... Lemon rice. It began with great gusto, there were a lot of peanuts that made it yummy, but in the end, all that was left was a lot of cold, yellow, unappealing rice. After much of today's unpleasantness, I thought I wanted to be vanilla. To just exist pleasantly despite being the least favourite option. But I suppose we can never be on the same page as fate, sometimes.

For some time now, I've been going into a little bit of a loss in life, generally.

First, I couldn't find my copy of Tiger Hills by Sarita Mandanna, no matter where I looked or whom I asked. It was a book that was desperately close to my heart. I've never felt a story as much as I have felt Tiger Hills. And when I bought it, I didn't exactly have a lot of money. I saved up money for quite a few months before I could get my hands on it. I can't buy the same book again because that particular edition has now gone out of print. And there is no way I can ever replace the little notes I made in the margins of the book. But over time, I stopped worrying so much about it. Maybe I'll find it, maybe I won't. I will buy myself another copy, eventually.

Today was slightly more interesting.

I almost got a picture taken with MS Dhoni and Chris Gayle, only I'm not in the frame at all. I did, however, walk away feeling like I did a bloody good job of whatever was assigned to me. Cricket(ers), in any case, is not my area of interest.

Post a little private event with these players, I was only at two different places that were quite close to each other. Between this place and that, I lost all my keys. I tried really hard to find them- I crawled under places and pestered security guards, plumbers and a fair number of colleagues. But in the end, the keys were gone with no sign of returning.
I admit I was a little upset for losing a handy pocket-knife in the key-chain and of course every key in the bunch had a spare somewhere. But there was this one particular key I had emotional complications with. That key was entrusted to me. While preserving the actual key was less relevant, what it symbolized made me cringe at the thought of having lost it.

I put aside the keys from my mind after a while. I asked dad to bring the spare key to me so I could take my bike back home. It was when I was waiting for my dad, I checked my wallet to see if I had enough money for petrol. And it was then, standing in the middle of my office, I felt as if some weird joke was being played on me. Exactly 750 bucks was missing from my wallet. I don't know who would take my 750 bucks and leave the other 70 bucks right where it was. Before I jumped to any conclusions, I called mum and asked her to check my pants pockets and my other bags. Surely enough, there was no money anywhere else.

There is only so much one person can lose in a day. It really got to me and I did sit down and cry and cry for a bit. I was even ranting in Achcha Kannada in my head, hoping that my mother tongue would ease the pain and make it go away. I was definitely upset and visibly dead.

When I got home, my mum asked me how much money I was missing. I didn't dare tell her the truth. I only told her that I didn't remember where I put some fifty bucks. She didn't buy it.
I was thinking about how I should have just had a vanilla day instead of all this hoopla. And just then, dad told me rather sternly that I had better finish the butterscotch ice-cream tonight (though I don't know why).
Being home, in the midst of all the warm weirdness of my family and a supportive boyfriend on Whatsapp, I philosophized many a thing. I told myself that money was just pieces of paper... That I don't really need money at the moment and the person who took it probably needs it more than I do... That it was a lesson that life was teaching me to stay simple and not have the chance to be extravagant... That I SHOULD have spent that money, anyway and I must have been a little stingy somewhere...

But none of this calmed me down the way my people did. Life is never going to be vanilla, especially for someone like me. But there will always be that dad who'll hunt down butterscotch ice-cream from anywhere, the mom who knows what you're hiding but continues to trust you, and that love who will stand by you and tell you "That's my girl", with a big, dimpled smile.

I'm fine, really. I have forgotten these mishaps already. I'm going to cash in my next pay cheque really soon and (try to) make myself a little prettier or (most likely) buy books. I hope whoever has my money really needs it and he/she simply isn't buying cigarettes. I understand if it just tempted them and all they wanted to do is buy something nice. I know what it's like to be told that you can't buy stuff for yourself or go out to some place nice. And to be quite honest, I've done both quite recently. Maybe now it's somebody else's turn.

After all, I really have everything I need at the moment. Perhaps some of my more wise friends are correct- money does not belong to anyone, at the end of the day. I think I should be glad that I didn't have the chance to trade pieces of paper with perceived value for colourful things I don't like, anyway. Maybe I'm just rationalizing. But I feel like I'm in a really good place right now.

What would really suck, however, is if this turns out to be one big joke and someone hid my cash and keys to give me a hard time. Then I'd be really crazy to have written all this, right?

Grow up, already!

[This post is dedicated to Lokesh, whose Fresh and Honest, Cheap and Best coffee kept me awake through the boring bits!]

My brother is now in "that crucial point" of life where he has to slog his ass off to not be a total loser, if not a complete star. Indeed, it seems like only yesterday that I myself finished my 12th and whilst I'm still recovering from the trauma, my brother is already at it! And that obviously means he'll never get his bum out of a classroom or his nose out of a book... Well, ideally.

So tomorrow is his first day of Class 12. And before he needs to go to his class at 8.30 AM, he has to get himself to tuition first. 6-8 AM.

Now, all of us at home agree that he better take the morning classes and finish his day early so he can concentrate on other things but none of us are pleased to know that one of us needs to drop him to class every morning, morning after morning, for the rest of the year. 

You see, my brother is not quite eighteen. He's seventeen and something... But still not quite eighteen. And because my dad is my dad, he won't let my brother ride a bike yet. 

After I came back home from work today, I overheard my brother and my father arguing. 

"I'm taking the bike, if it's too much trouble for you to drop me!" says my brother authoritatively. 

"If you're interested in attending class, you might as well wake me up. I'm not going to lose sleep over your irresponsibility!" said my dad "And don't you dare take the bike! If the police catch you, I won't be there saving your lazy ass!"

A flicker of a memory. All thanks to Lokesh's coffee, I thought something passed my mind. The Justice Whats-his-name's review! What was Professor Rao saying?

Oh God, media laws! Media laws! I am the worst media student, ever!

Oh yes, the Delhi gang-rape case. And the accused minor boy. So after he had no choice but to receive a "juvenile's" sentence, the legal system kind of woke up and thought, oh yeah, he's almost eighteen and he did such TERRIBLE shit. People like him need to be tried like adults, yada yada. And then they had to cover up another gaping hole- that amended laws cannot be used in retrospection. Which basically means if they change the law because of this minor boy, they can't use it on him because he's already tried as a juvenile!

So it got me thinking... If my brother was caught riding a bike without a licence, he could be tried as an adult.  Right. So dad wouldn't have to go running after him to "save his lazy ass". 

But wait, I thought, There's something missing here. 

Where's the flip side to it? I mean, if he can be tried as an adult for being almost-eighteen, he can also be given a licence for being almost eighteen! (The fact that my parents won't let him apply is a different story). Which also means, he could have gone out and voted in the elections that just got over for being ALMOST EIGHTEEN! Well, why not? He certainly has some political opinion!

Dear God! I think, I've actually managed to think critically.

This feels so new to me. Did education actually make me grow up? Jeez. Three years and a college degree DOES seem to make a difference, doesn't it?  No wonder I keep getting words like "job" and "marriage" and "property" and "life insurance" hurled at me!

But it is so difficult.. So difficult to know when is it that we're old enough to do whatever. 

Right back in the fifth grade, I remember how I wanted to get out of my bloody pinafore and start wearing a skirt to school. And when I did wear a skirt to school, I wished so much I had the legs of that fifth grade girl who didn't have hormones rushing all over her body and sprouting leg hair faster than cockroaches multiply. 

When I was sixteen, I had the happy realization that I had reached the age of legally sanctioned consensual sex. But I settled for a first kiss. After all, it was "sweet sixteen", and the first kiss was sweet enough for my level of maturity. 

At eighteen, with a part-time job to support my book buying needs, I felt old enough to turn my nose up at my father every time I ran out of bookshelf space because, well, it was my  money, wasn't it? He had no say whatsoever. 

But at eighteen, I also felt young enough to cry and complain about how everybody else gets pocket money and I was given the unreasonable responsibility of fending for myself, when I couldn't cope with college work and my job. 

Same goes to my brother. At almost eighteen, he wants to be old enough to drive, but young enough to be woken up in the morning and coaxed into going to class. 

So, basically, we're permanently stuck in one place, even as we move on and on in life. 

At every damn point in life, you want to be younger... but you want to be older. 

You could be 21. You want to be young enough to continue studying but old enough to move out and make your own life.  

You could be 27, wanting to be young enough to date but old enough to "settle down".

You could be 32. You want to be old enough to have that second child but young enough to eye up that new girl in the office.

You could be 55. You want to be young enough to continue educating your younger boy but please, oh please, old enough to retire.

And the more we grow up, the more complicated everything becomes. We're all so strong and sure of ourselves because we've been through so much shit. 

I was an alcoholic and I got out of it.

My girlfriend cheated on me and we got out of it.

I attempted suicide and I got out of it.

My partner ran away with all my money and I got out of it. 

But when you're really old enough, you'll know that there's bigger shit waiting in the future. Because the more you live, the more you know, the more you complicate things like a pro. 

Life is like this GIANT game of tetris. 

At first, it's just a few blocks. It's fun. Silly, even. They're just floating down your gameboy and you're putting them in their place. 

Then you get used to the concept, you know you've got to fill in all the gaps.

Then you like the pace. It gives you small challenges every now and then and your adrenaline is shooting up all the time and you're having such a great time. 

And before you know it.... The blocks are out of control! They're falling at random. They're too fast for your reflexes to handle. Your screen is filling up right to the sky and you're going to lose, and lose and lose.

Oh. Game Over. 

The disappointment kills you. You beat yourself up for it. How did this happen, you wonder. Then you realize where you went wrong. You device a new tactic to play the game more effectively. And you start again. Maybe last time you're game was done at Level 10. And this time you make it to Level 12. 

You'll lose again, you'll start again. And you'll go some five levels further. 

Until your battery finally dies, you've got an unspecified number of new games to play, fresh starts to have. And mind you, it will all be complicated in the end. If it doesn't get complicated, you will want it to. Because a game without challenges is not worth playing, is it?

Grow up, already. Play it right for as much as you can. Then make stupid rookie mistakes. Because every time you're ruined, there's a fresh start coming. 

Will the Real Becky Bloomwood Please Stand Up?

Some two weeks ago, I picked up Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone on a whim. And I ended up reading the entire HP series like an obsessed person. Re-living my childhood is something, but the more I read it, the more fascinated I was of JKR's writing. I just can not describe how perplexing it is for me to take note of how an intricate plot falls in place across SEVEN books. As it happens, I have been itching to write some kind of serious fiction for a while now. And my plot somehow never sustains. So I thought maybe I should read a few series of books and that would give me an idea about plot-structuring.

Once I was done with the Harry Potter series, my fingers inched towards the paper-backs in my book shelf, like they had a mind of their own. Before I knew it, I was thumbing through Confession of a Shopaholic, and Shopaholic Takes Manhattan and Shopaholic Ties the Knot and... (you get the picture).

.... but the Shopaholic series is not meant to be "studied". That would be just unnatural. Like giving your dad a petrol allowance or shaking someone's left hand. Rebecca Bloomwood is not to be studied in a framework of novel-writing rules. Because one can't study oneself that way. The reader becomes Becky Bloomwood. Chick lit is like that. Before long, I was Rebecca Bloomwood and every two minutes I was thinking "Why don't I have a Louis Vuitton handbag?" or "God, I need a new pair of shoes".

I mean, here I am, doing this awesome internship and getting paid bucket-loads (It's bucket-loads because I've promised myself not to buy any more books until I finish all that I already have). And what am I doing with my money? Nothing. I bought a pair of contact lenses and that's going to last a year. I went to movie and bought lots of cake. So basically, nothing.

I mean, I'm Becky Bloomwood. How can I not have anything to wear? How can I not have a TV career? How come my boyfriend isn't Luke Brandon? Oh, come on!

So paramount was my craving that I finally put my book down and went out. Out, to a shoe shop. I said to myself "Screw functional! I am NOT buying anything in black!" and I march right down, try every pair of sandals on display, I almost buy a pair of yellow pumps with cute little bows on them. But I settle for something colourful in green and blue and whatnot. I am so proud of myself that I march up to the guy and say "I'm gonna buy these". So he wraps them up and puts them in a neat little box and hands it over the counter. The moment my fingers wrap around the cords, a whoosh of joy sweeps down my stomach. It's all mine! I just have to hand in a few bits of paper and it's all mine, mine, MINE!

So I look up expectantly at him and ask "How much?"
"Three-fifty" he says flatly.
I'm gobsmacked! Will I never. 350? That's all? I mean, I thought I'd bought shoes that would come up to some 1199.00 or some such fancy figure. I mean I really wanted to SPEND money on MYSELF. It just didn't seem fair!

So in a daze, I hand over his three-fifty. And in two seconds, he's thrusting thirty bucks back in my hands. I look up to him startled, and he says "Discount, ma'am. Just for you".

And I just want to PUNCH HIS FACE. I mean, who gives a goddamn discount to a person who isn't even bargaining? The entire point of my shopping trip was gone. Poof. Just like that!

But still, I had a new pair of shoes. I come back home and I put them away carefully. Then I start up my computer. While it's booting, I'm thinking of boots, and then shoes and then my brand new pumps. So I take them out and try them on. And then I check my e-mail for a bit. It's junk, junk, spa discount!, junk, horoscope, I-ching oracle, junk, e-mail from office... Hmm. The e-mail from office must be important right? So I open that first and to my surprise, I spot a smiley-face (which is rare for my manager). As I read it, I realize that it's an invitation to a dinner party. I RSVP immediately and I'm suddenly on party girl mode. I want to be in a Vera Wang cocktail dress all of a sudden, with glittery heels and everything. Except... I don't have a Vera Wang dress. And no glittery heels either.

So I'm planning my outfit when somebody pings me on FB and tells me how great I look in my DP. Genius! I could go with THAT outfit. And I pick out my freshly washed light blue jeans (with Swarovski crystals on the back pockets) and a plain green cotton top that hugs my body in just all the right places. And, wait for it, my new shoes would go perfectly well with it! So I put my clothes down with a little glow of satisfaction. I'm being Becky Bloomwood at last, aren't I? Maybe I'm a little short on the Luke Brandon part. My boyfriend doesn't own a multi-million pound, successful PR agency exactly and we don't go to the country for long weekends. But that's ok! All that matters is that I had a party the next day and I was so prepared!

Then I experimentally try on some make-up. There are two boxes of eye shadow that I never use. So I open them first. There's a tiny brush in the box with a small sponge-thingy on the other end. I really don't know how to go about it but I bravely put on some glittery stuff on my closed eye, and then on to the other. Now my eyes look all glittery and sparkly. And it's a kind of maroonish/brownish thing that looks great on me. Then I pick up an eyeliner and do my eyes. There's a HUGE tube of mascara. By now I feel really brave so I shut my eye and apply it vigourously. And then I stop. And look.
Oh God, I look horrible. Make-up is not one of my skills at all. It looks more like a paint job, to be honest.
So I put away all my make-up in my little orange bag and with a flump, fall into my bed.

So the next day (which is today), I take my time to get ready. I wash my hair and give it a blow dry. I feel all fresh and happy. I make a big drama out of dressing. I wear my jeans and admire the sparkle on my bum, I wear my top, yada yada. And when I'm all done (even the mascara, and it didn't look bad at all!), I look at myself in the mirror and there is a little glow of satisfaction. My eye make up hasn't blurred my contact lenses or anything. I put on my blue Vera Wang jacket. It makes me look a little bit like Nancy Drew. And that's alright. I wasn't going for biker chick, anyway.

My ride to the office is a black-exhaust filled floaty dream of sorts. And when I get there, I don't really work. I watch the telly a little, I play a bit of Criminal Case, I pick an argument with my boyfriend (so not Luke Brandon), and I jot down a couple of points for my report. Casually, I pick up my phone and I have a new message. I frown. I don't want it to be my boyfriend again. But when I open it, I'm completely flabbergasted.
"I was too shy to mention it, but you look really great today" it says. I look up shocked, and that person is sitting right across me. And nammappanaanegu (swear on my father, I say) he had such a poker straight face, my God! I could hardly believe it was the same person who sent that borderline flirty text to me.
I sit back and relax. He just paid me a compliment, that's all. I'm going to say Thank you and leave it at that.
The couple of people sitting around me get up and leave for a bit and then it's just that person and me.

"Is that a new watch?" he asks me all of a sudden and reaches out to my hand and examines it.
"Um.." I say, not knowing what to tell him.
And very bravely, he traces his fingers down from my wrist to my fingertips and cracks one of my knuckles.
I withdraw my hand (quite sharply).
"Is something the matter?" he asks.
"Just don't do that" I say and walk away.

Before I know it, my helmet is swinging on my arm and I just want to go home! To make matters worse, it began raining.

I get back into the office and find myself a quiet corner. I sit down, head in my hands and gather my thoughts.

About half an hour before that, my boyfriend had said to me "You're too nice to say anything to anyone. No wonder guys think you want them to get all over you." And how vehemently I argued, only I know. I was so cross at being labelled "easy". Well, I wasn't was I? Hadn't I just walked out on someone?
A Luke Brandon-ish someone, a small voice says in my head.

Suddenly, my whole fairy-tale crap-trap collapses around me. I want to get into a baggy gray T-shirt and tie my hair up in a messy bun. That's exactly what I want to do. I don't want my two coats of mascara and three inches of Broadway Bronze lip gloss any more.

I was SO SURE that nobody eyed me up that way. Not after wearing the same bloody gray T-shirts day after fucking day. I was the girl people pointed at and said "she doesn't look like a girl from any angle". And now I couldn't be a girl without someone wanting to hold my hand.

Confused and half-way angry, I wondered, does it really take a glittery bum and an underwired bra for someone to realize that they were in the presence of a woman? Is it me or are men just being men? Do the other girls get felt up every day (cuz believe me, they're hot as burning hell!)?

Wait. Pause. Rewind.

Ok. I'm not Becky Bloomwood, am I? I'm that nerd with no fashion sense with my nose stuck in a book. I'm a... BIBLIOHOLIC, ok? Not a shopaholic. And I'm not going to meet any Luke Brandon. I'm just going to argue away to glory with my existing boyfriend and read books. And not look nice. Exactly. I'll never look nice again. It's not what I should ever do in life- looking nice... and stuff.

I mean, I'm the same bloody person even when I wear lopsided glasses and big gray t-shirts (that I mostly nick from my boyfriend). And I happen to be a damn nice person too. I don't have to look nice to be nice, do I? And if someone doesn't bother to notice me on a non-dressy day, they've got no right to spew their testosterone all over me when I'm dressed up.

It stopped raining after a while and I just upped and left. I get a million phone calls from my friends asking me where I am and why I haven't shown up at the party. One of them is really quite distraught and threatens to end our friendship unless I show up. But I just put one foot in front of the other and walk over to my bike. I get mud all over my new shoes. I really liked my shoes but all people had the time to notice were.... Well, my boobs, actually.

I really don't feel like a party girl any more. And I'm definitely not in the mood for a Vera Wang cocktail dress and glittery heels. In fact, I remember, my legs are just about as hairy as my dad's at the moment. I'm just a girl who wears the right kind of bras, at the most. Yep. That's about all the credit I get under "fashion".

I head back home, thinking about "cognitive dissonance". And that, folks is the Daily Gyaan for today.
"Cognitive Dissonance" is that awkward moment when you think how sick his stubby fingers look on your arm but your body is developing involuntary goosebumps. It is that difference between your ideals and your reality that makes your life all the more shittier.

That's all folks.