Kill the *$%@!&*s.

The oft-mentioned cliché urges the world to stop telling girls to dress better, stop telling them when to do what and how, and stop blaming them in general for any assaults and invasions of privacy they may experience (“Haan haan. Dekha kaise kapde pehne the?”).

Contrary to the opinion of most, I suppose, I would do all within my power to not give dirty minds dirty ideas. I would tell myself to not wear so-and-so and go someplace sometime. Simply to protect myself, if not anything else.

I would be excessively stupid to tempt horrendous people to do the unmentionable to me, simply because I wanted to prove a point - that it wasn’t my fault. Small consolation my victory on that front would be, should anything happen. Yes of course! Nobody says it was my fault. Only that I could perhaps prevent it in a small way. Which, one must own, is true to a certain extent.

To a certain extent. What happened with the 23-year-old (in our oh-so-safe national capital) who is uppermost in our minds is far beyond that extent, and far beyond saving. The senseless anger and desperate, helpless, blind rage I feel is perhaps not unlike any of my fellow humans who have heard her story. And yet, the posts on Facebook going crazily viral are more often than not related to “Stop telling your daughter to stop (insert here the aforementioned blah-blah-blah). Start telling your sons not to rape.”

Which is all very admirable and revolutionary. And thoughtless. Because she did none of the blah-blah-blah! She was not alone, she was not dressed ‘indecently’, she did not in any way provoke her assailants or tease them, she was not out at an ‘indecent’ hour, and was all in all ‘above-board’ according to the standard definition of decency in our country. What then can you say about the extent one should go to prevent assault on oneself?

She could have done nothing. She was the victim of barbarous, brutal animals who deserve not to be called men in any sense of the term. They mutilated her beyond what a conscious, thinking individual who claims to have self-restraint or any semblance of a brain could have done. The inflicted cruelty and extreme physical torture they put her through, not to mention the horrendous crime they committed, the worst of any a woman can possibly go through, has ruined her young life forever and will haunt her to her grave, which she is currently fighting to stay out of.

We have the power of protest, and the internet within easy reach. But we must use these well. Sharing a senseless post will really get us nowhere. It will perhaps ignite a few fiery thoughts for a while and then fade away. What’s the freaking point of that?! Stop battling society and their words which you fancy yourself entitled to fight because, hey, isn’t that our aim? Ridiculing Indian society, and believing ourselves oh-so-superior?  No!

Stop using this incident and every other like it to tell the society to shut the hell up. This is not about the society, this is not about you, this is not about your attitude and your ‘birthright’ to rebel. This is about an innocent victim of six animals whose very thought makes my skin crawl. This is about demanding the very worst punishment there is for their heinous (it seems like such a hollow word, hollow as they all are to describe what this was) crime, and hanging them doesn’t seem a proportionate punishment. With feelings too strong for expression, I must abruptly sign off. But I must make one final appeal : Thoughts, anyone?

Over-analyzing a Take-Off

It’s going by fast, it’s going by slow,

Racing on and on in a blurry glow,

Still dragging its feet, hovering over its seat,

Refusing to stay, refusing to start away.

Life seems confused, disjointed scenes,

My last year in the happenin’ teens,

It may seem odd (you may secretly nod),

But sometimes I feel old, already draped in mold.

Is that strange? I haven’t even begun,

I ain’t seen nothin’ solid yet, it’s all just fun,

I have a careful tread, but this unshakable dread,

That I’ll soon tire, lose all that fire.

A light that keeps me going, in the nursery of life,

I’m terrified it’ll be but a wisp amidst real strife,

All this waiting around, waiting for a dream to be found,

Am I wasting away, wasting every single day?

Wasting every day I wait to grow up,

Waiting for experience, in a magic cup?

Or shall I shake it off, stop awaiting a take-off,

Enjoy being naïvely gullible, before I have to be responsible?  

One way or other, happiness is what we seek,

Worry and frowns won’t help the weak,

If I think I’m not smart enough, I’ll try harder with stuff,

If you still think I’m a child, a mild rethink wouldn't be wild!

I Don't Want to Be Perfect

             There are those times in life when you feel so inadequate, like you want to be that little kid again, giggling over flowers, catching the pretty butterflies, having your cheeks pinched and pulled, running to mommy crying after a little fall, hiding in her dupatta when a big, grinning adult looms over you, and having not much else to care for. Nothing you do or say can be contested or challenged. Nothing makes you feel any smaller than your peers. No difficult feelings invade your mind and threaten to sink you under them.

When did all that change? When did life become such a competition? When did people start judging people based on their ideas of what should be? When did we start caring about how these people felt?

             Nobody is perfect, and neither is it humanly possible to fit every person’s definition of it. And yet, we are constantly after pleasing someone or other. Most prevalent on that list of ‘someone’s is oneself. Why do we expect so much from ourselves?

 Why can’t we love ourselves, just the way we are? Strive to achieve, put in our all, but know we could not have done anything differently and thus escape crushing disappointment, should we fail? Why do we try to excel at so many things and feel extreme discontent when we end up being a jack of all trades, master of none? Why do we start judging ourselves and condemning ourselves when we fail to meet expectations despite giving it our all?

             The above is the stupidest thing I have ever written.

 Obviously, the above rant is all true and the answer to each one is “because we are human!” We are a mentally backward species with the tendencies of a deranged lunatic throughout our lives. We are irrational, self-centered, and utterly petulant-child-like.

              We are easily bored, and in eternal pursuit of comfort. We handle the difficult stuff with a pair of extremely long tongs, held carefully away like the most viral disease in existence. We are under-confident and wildly hormonal. Always. Not just when a teen, or pregnant, or menopausal. Always. And we refuse to believe it! Our lives’ aims are to show everyone around us up. Stupidly, we think that miraculously makes us look better than the actual creatures we are. But, hey! That’s who we are!

              And I am fiercely, dangerous-escaped-convict-like, wildly, and passionately glad of the fact. An ideal world would be such a drag, no fun at all. What would life be like if we all reacted rationally all the time? The very basis of enjoyment in life is its sheer unpredictability. If everyone’s reactions could be predicted, our existence would be so …so… yawn…mind-numbingly boring!

              Strange as this may sound, I want to be capable of feeling crushing, heart-rending sadness. I want to able to enjoy the heady feeling of complete victory or achievement.  I want to be able to stand the alternate extreme, warm joy and tear-jerking pain of a blushing heart under the spell of another of God’s imperfect creatures. I want to feel the irrational, all-forgiving, blind and fiercely protective love every mother does. I want to be able to appreciate the restlessness of my mind when I’m in the dark about things, want to feel the suspense that accompanies every one of life’s tests, want to be scared and feel the joy of overcoming it.

  I want to feel imperfect, inadequate, so I can feel the drive that accompanies it to do better. I want to feel the crushing disappointment or discontent when things don’t go my way even though I tried my damnedest. I want to feel the happiness I do in beholding pretty flowers or graceful cats or adorable puppies or my own Austen-inspired fantasies. I want to feel my heart thud in anticipation, the heat rise to my face in response to an affront or much-appreciated compliment, and my legs tremble on a stage in front of hundreds. I want to feel the uncertainty and insecurity accompanying any unsure thing, want to feel the tiny triumphant feeling in going ahead with it anyway.

  I want to feel the extreme curiosity over anything that can inspire it, and the magnificent dissatisfaction with anything that attempts to quench it. I want to be able to blush at my own stupidity, and laugh at another’s. Above all, I want to change not everything, not something, not anything at all.

 Life as an irrational human is the best thing that ever happened to me. We can always learn, grow, improve or have the appearance of it, but essentially, we are the same interesting, unpredictable, child-like creatures we always were. And Thank God for it!

Avant-garde Avanti

IIT Madras was a strange, intimidating place when I first stepped into it. In fact, I was close to wishing I had never been so uncharacteristically mindless as to think I, the very opposite of a fiercely independent, never-tied-to-mummy’s-pallu possessor of a devil-may-care attitude, could actually survive in a place like this, full of the multi-talented brain-iacs of the country as it was.

           

Of course, as I often am about such things, I was dead wrong. JEE preparation was a difficult time, a whirl of confusion and the feeling that I was in a never-ending race for my life, which I managed to save by the skin of my teeth. I felt as if my existence would be even more difficult in this mean green jungle that was now my home. I am not proud to say I was not above the popular reference to a chicken.

           

As I got used to things, life became new and exciting. I was lucky enough to be able to explore everything that caught my fancy and develop every little talent I possessed. I was finally made privy to the existence of Avanti Fellows in this, my first year at IIT, and the work they proposed fascinated me. My worries seemed to shrink into nothing, and I was heartily ashamed of having such petty problems and fears. As I began to realize what this ambitious non-profit organization had set out to accomplish, I was awed by the sheer willpower behind such an aim.

           

Alumni from IIT Bombay courageously decided to form Avanti, a mentoring organization wherein underprivileged children of the 11^th and 12^th standards with big dreams are coached for JEE by students of IIT wishing to do so. I was initially apprehensive of being responsible for part of a student’s education so early when I was so unsure of my own, but the thought of all the better facilities I had during my own JEE training as compared to these innocent starry-eyed children steeled my resolve, and pushed me to help them in any way within my power.

           

I was made in charge of a lovely young girl in the 11^th standard, Vasuki, who had passed screening tests and was now a fellow at Avanti. She is always eager to learn and I do everything I can to clear her many doubts, all the while reminded of my own difficulties during preparation. That is the beauty of Avanti. Teachers are people who are willing to work out of goodwill, and have themselves experienced various entrance exams recently.

           

As enlightening as my experience with Vasuki was, an incident, which truly opened my eyes to the sad situation a dream without funding is in, occurred some time after my induction. I was assigned the task of paying home visits to possible new students for Avanti along with a second year senior, also a mentor. The purpose behind these visits was to talk to the students’ parents, put them at ease when it came to the start of their child’s experience with Avanti, and make sure that they were indeed of the underprivileged.

I was not prepared for what I next saw. The pride on parents’ faces in the houses we visited was evident enough, along with their happiness and sense of gratitude. Equally evident were the conditions they lived in, the tiny rooms and meager furnishing that were occupied with ease and no dissatisfaction at all. I was silenced, overpowered, humbled by their hospitality and happiness against all odds. Equally fascinating were the bright minds we found there. I was suddenly reminded of the fact that this country possesses talent everywhere, unbound by material boundaries, talent that deserves to be nurtured and honed.

I can neither understand nor speak Tamil. That did not keep me from understanding one mother’s emotions, fears and hopes as she conversed with my companion unaffectedly in the only language she knew. Her expressions said it all. She was determined to provide her daughters and son a better education than she had received. And she had succeeded already to a large extent, we realized as we conversed with her daughter.

We cannot deceive ourselves by expecting all the students (fellows) of Avanti to get into an IIT, but we can always strive to do all that is humanly possible to at least afford them a decent shot at it. Whether they make it past JEE or not, they will always be a better-informed set of individuals than they would have been without Avanti. It is this conviction that drives all Avanti workers and helps bring fellows closer to their goals.

I always look back at my unreasonable dissatisfaction at the beginning of my life just before, and at, IIT with a guilt which has taught me something priceless. I will always feel an immense sense of gratitude for being given what Avanti works hard to give its fellows: a shot at their dreams.

^ Avanti fellows during Shaastra, IITM's technical festival

Not all that much Above Average

Jane Austen wrote, “ Let us leave it to the reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans…from pride, ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers.”

Above Average is a novel by Amitabha Bagchi, written relating to his own experiences in life revolving around his stay at IIT. I cannot go so far as to say it is a part of the oft-lamented trash Austen accuses reviewers of condemning, but to say that Bagchi has foes as numerous as readers when it comes to this book is no exaggeration. But it is neither pride, nor ignorance, nor fashion that leads me to make such a statement.

This is a story written from the point of view of Arindam Chatterjee, a seven point someone while at IIT. Written in a highly confusing way to put it mildly, it seems to be a collection of passing thoughts that the author chose to write down using his life and different names. A very strange hodge-podge of events in this person’s life as he grows from adolescent to adult forms the entire story. The strangeness I mention is entirely to do with narration, not the events themselves, which are at best mildly interesting or alternatively, shocking and at worst mind-numbingly boring.

Starting in a Tamil prep school in New Delhi, this Bengali kid’s life is something we can all relate to, having gone through various similar bouts of anxiety and pressure during our own JEE preparation. Passing with an All-India rank of 62, the 17-year-old looks all set for a B.Tech in Computer Science at IIT Delhi. The rest of the story takes him from boyhood to manhood back to boyhood once again to manhood to…and that never really ends.

While on his journey of life, he encounters a whole range of different characters, ranging from junkies to rock stars, the uninterested to the over-interested, the nerdy to the artistic, and the brutally honest to the tall-tale tellers. He explores his family life, values and friendship with those of other castes, besides matter-of-factly stating the various sexual goings on of the hormonal guys he is destined to acquainted with. His scandalous-tale telling friend seems to know the entire goings on of doodhwaalas of Mandawli and girls of Preet Vihar. Little everyday things of life in Delhi and relationships with friends have been indeed brought out naturally, if a little emotionlessly.

Male characters are numerous in this story, and girls but three, much like life in IIT. However, the girls leave an impression on the reader which is far more than can be said of most male characters. Each character, though having more than a single side, is poorly developed, and at times, rather forgettable. Despite tears being shed more than once in this story, the connect necessary to feel the characters’ pain is just not there, which leaves the reader feeling a rather odd restlessness to move on with the story.

Oddly enough, the character that features least and says but a few lines is the only one I felt for, the only one that rent my heart and evoked sensations other than confusion or downright boredom. Not central to the story, this girl is Arindam’s friend’s niece, an innocent child of fourteen when first introduced to the reader.

The story continues to be a confusing tangle of isolated incidents in absolutely no chronological order, and slowly takes the reader through competition, jealousy, dispute, anxiety, friendship and reflections at IIT during Arindam’s stay there, exploration of his own interests, musical as well as relating to his subject, a rather hilarious description of a class by a famous researcher, changes back home, and his colony friend’s and his own early infatuations.

Love forms but a small part of the whole, and is not dealt with much sensitivity, besides being entirely without dejection. The reader is also taken on a short journey with Arindam to Baltimore, where he completes his PhD, and describes his sensations there, a dark period.

The author does not seem able to settle on a tense for narration, and at several points, repetitive use of the word “would” nearly defeated my will to go on with the story.

Joining the league of the numerous books written on IITians’ lives, this book certainly is not deficient when it comes to being able to relate to it, but it fails to capture the reader’s imagination. It picks up slightly toward the middle of the book, but falls back toward the end. The reader is left feeling as if the story is incomplete and hasn’t been developed enough. It took me a while to go through it entirely, and almost giving up was not a one-time-only experience. All in all, this is not a read that is much above average.

The Hostel All-Tell

If I said that I fell in violent and irrevocable love as soon as I stepped about a year ago into the large, bustling building that is Sharavati Hostel, I would be making a laughable (not to mention: wholly unbelievable ) attempt at a gigantic falsehood.

 I was perhaps not unlike one of those pitiable little scared-out-of-their-wits mice you imagine caught squealing and kicking in a trap (that appeared as if out of nowhere!) so entirely unknown to them. Quite irrationally, I was wildly accusative toward my parents for unceremoniously kicking me out and dumping me into this (gulp) strange, unfamiliar territory full of so many intelligent, intimidating, and (if rumours were to be believed) rare creatures: girls on campus.

                Of course, about a week into my stay there, I was having the time of my life (really, it was as if the mouse had been freed into a private heaven made wholly of cheese).  The oft-mentioned, cheesy, clichéd saying of hostel life being the most memorable time of your life, I was firmly on my way to whole-heartedly acknowledging to be true.

A series of ‘interactions’ were destined to signify the commencement of my life here. These were completely innocent and as angelic as the seniors I had these singing-dancing-gen-fun intro sessions with (I was definitely not told to say that)! Every lost little fresh(ie) face became a fast friend, and we were already running head-on into night-outs full of laughter and heart-to-hearts. Predictably, adjusting to life on our own was different from the mummy’s-kids treatment we were used to, but seeing as pretty much everyone was in the same boat left us admirably unconcerned.

In this first year, we lived three or four to a cramped room, officially that is. Of course, one of these was always chosen as the general, unmentioned hang-out location. It was left only for a bed at night, a giggly brushing-session with at least five others, a hunt for an unoccupied, working, clean bathing stall, or alternatively, a washing-machine of similar description.

We lived in envy of the seniors who lived one or two to a room, and in awe of their all-knowing, or so it seemed, presence. They pretty much kept us afloat and saved us from sinking into a storm of new information. They also gave us our first lessons in insti lingo. “Gen putting peace” is now indispensable to us.

Hurrying five floors down to fill up our water bottles, mumbling to ourselves of the inconvenience of every dispenser on every intermediate floor being extraordinarily empty, and chatting with the security lady once there is a routine in Sharavati. As is scouring for movies, songs, lectures, notes, papers, every heard-of thing in existence on the LAN we cannot live without. DC++ is dearer to us than our dearest friends.

Granted, the lizards took some getting used to, but I love all the other creatures I met there! Food is common property, and I’m not talking about among us humans alone. Monkeys feel themselves entitled to barging into our rooms and snatching our dearest eatables, often just as we are about to taste them. Brooms transform into the deadliest weapons in our fearless hands at such opportunities to display bravery!

The notice board of announcements right opposite the ground-floor dispenser is the most visited place in the building (the full-length mirror next to it may be instrumental to its popularity). It is our window to opportunities in the institute, be it robotics, chess, dance, music, theatre, sport, literary or any other event. There is something for everyone on that beloved black board!

The colourful way Holi is celebrated here I will not forget. Election time sees extensive campaigning as we choose the most eligible leaders to manage affairs in their third year at Sharavati. Exam time sees extensive cramming, and is largely a combined freaking-out session, often lasting all night. Inter-hostel competitions are even more assiduously prepared for, with multiple night-outs. There is always something happening at this dear place (pun intended)! And a year into my stay, I can now safely say: I am most violently (and irrevocably) in love with the wonder that is my life in Sharavati Hostel.

Rebecca Black Named Prime Suspect in Mantralaya Fire Case

Disclaimer:  None of it's true! Seriously, this isn't serious.

The Mantralaya fire that broke out at 3 p.m. on Thursday in Mumbai was horribly mistimed, according to reliable sources. Startling news yet to be revealed as part of the CBI’s, in their own words, “unbiased investigation” was related by a CBI official to this news body.

            “We have strong reason to believe that the infamous Rebecca Black is the mastermind behind this entire thing. However, we are yet to figure out jurisdiction problems.” He secretively revealed after much persuasion.

            Black’s single “Friday-the worst song ever” is speculated to actually be a coded message to her cohorts in India. “It was not supposed to go viral!” is what she is alleged to have said exasperatedly to the friend who’s by her right, yeh-eh.

Read: right-hand-man.

            An intricate plan of deception and greed is revealed on digging deeper into her would-be secret message.

“It’s just so obvious!” is what Mr. Prithviraj Chavan, CM, Maharashtra said, throwing his hands up agitatedly while giving us a statement. “How the CBI missed it until now is mind-boggling.”

            What they missed is Black’s brazen words. “Which seat can I take?” says it all.

“She wants my seat!” Mr. Chavan said, close to tears.                                                  >>>                                         

                

            The Adarsh Scam, which was the reason for one Chavan’s accession and the other’s ouster, seems to have been targeted in an in-genius plan to wipe out all relative documents. The sheer stupidity an over-optimism of the act seems to have led CBI directly to Black.

            

            “Na rahega baas, na bajegi bansuri” seems to have caught the musical Black’s fantasy. Allegedly a die-hard Ashok Chavan supporter, she figured that once the documents were gone, Prithviraj’s seat would be hers to give to Ashok.

            

            But everything did not go as planned. The fire was premature!

            

            The fire was supposed to break out at 7 a.m. on Friday, the 22^nd of June, it has been confirmed. Black’s first line, “7 a.m., waking up in the morning,” implies a desire to wake the city up with a bang at the indicated time.

            

            The bomb is yet undiscovered at the Mantralaya, but then, perhaps her friends did not adhere to her every direction rigidly. “Tickin’ on and on, everybody’s rushing” seems to very obviously point to an explosive with a timer.

            

            “It’s Friday, Friday, getting down on Friday,” is directly indicative of getting him down on Friday.

Black seems to have been big on numerology. The 22^nd was fixed because of his being the 22^nd CM of Maharashtra. 6+2+0+1+2 (June 2012) = 11, which is the exact half of 22! And of course, it’s Friday.

Ironically, this song was blaring out of the CBI official’s radio as we asked him for a statement.  “Kicking in the front seat, sitting in the back seat..”

What remains to be seen is the actual prosecution of this ‘singer’. Meanwhile, the CM lives in fear of his seat being sat on, or worse, kicked. 

Rain-maker Dhoble

                Combine sadistic inclinations, a lack of general knowledge, a studied search for old irrelevant laws, a sinister laugh and a bald pate and what do you get? A rain of misguided hockey-stick-brandishing lunatics, you say? Well yes, their leader, at least.

                Vasant “Rain-maker” Dhoble brings work to the Social Service Branch in the most effective way conceivable. The creative genius that hides behind his innocent salt-and-pepper moustached visage is a real delight to nobody in particular. But that deters him not! The sheer willpower that drives this man to incessantly hunt up those elusive, forgotten laws is condemnable...my mistake, commendable!

                The fighter is a man everyone is forced to look up to. His high-handedness besides, he’s lathi-charged against all odds to clear his name of alleged murder and continue as a shining beacon of morality today. This strikes no one as being gigantically ironic.

                The unique thought-process wherein invading the privacy of law-abiding citizens (or laws that make sense anyway) is considered acceptable, even downright necessary, is what sets him apart. In his impossible mission to show the power and activity of our preservers he stops at nothing. Accusing proper young women of prostitution because of his own ignorance of this world’s customs is just another day’s work for this young man. One can just imagine him blushing and muttering “Am I (MI)?” Cruise would probably choke at this reference.

                One can only imagine how over-stressed his limited mental faculties must be thinking up day-in and day-out which loopholes in our laws to exploit this time. They seem to be his friends, almost inviting him into every bar or nightclub there is and charging everyone present with drunken behavior. A startling image fills our mind wherein Rain-maker whirls around with a wildly happy look on his face and magically shuts off music and all activity besides chaining all his victims to the bar. One wishes he’d spontaneously combust with the sheer velocity of his rotation.

                But all our wishes to the heavens seem to bounce off him, and giddy as he may be with all that turning about, drunken he is vociferously not. Harassment charges have not yet reached his khaki-cloaked existence, and one dares not wish again.

                That he is a rave on Twitter seems to leave him publicly unfazed, and privately in moral dilemma, it is imagined. One does not often arrest oneself, and his unbelievable lack of common knowledge may leave him wondering at the best possible route by road to this Twitter place and how best to hush up all this nonsense about him. Nobody around him has either the guts or awareness to enlighten him. Or perhaps it’s his enormous stick that scares them.

                Anyway, party-goers are now in awful danger of developing a permanent crick in their necks from all that glancing over their shoulders. Doctors are increasingly worried about this threatening to become an epidemic. This impact on society has the incredibly sensitive Dhoble in splits and musings about his own greatness. Hold him in the tiniest bit of respect we owe every fellow human? As there are doubts as to the authenticity of that statement, I’m going to have to take a rain-check on that.

Image in the Glass

             I turned this way and that, admiring my heavy dress in the mirror, its swish-swish sound perfectly in time with my sway. The intricate embroidery was a silver mystery on the cream satin. A smile of wonder started at the corners of my mouth, and abruptly stopped as something odd caught my attention. I had thought I was alone, but suddenly they were all I could see in the darkened reflection, right behind me.

I stared at the bloodshot eyes in the mirror. The sight sent a tingling chill up my spine. They widened and the black irises enlarged to fill the extra space. They narrowed as the pupils became vertical, cat-like. The irises turned green. A piercing, unsettling, irradiant green. And the colour began to fade…began to reappear as a brilliant, bright, terrifying scarlet. The colour began to overflow, slowly trickled past the lashes as tears of blood fell on my neck. I could not move, not even to release the shiver building in me, not even to look away from the compelling, accusatory expression in those eyes as my sight blurred, my eyes filling with tears. I raised a shaking hand to wipe them away. I stared in horror as my fingers came away covered in a viscous, rich red. Those eyes…they were mine. Those bone-like fingers covered in rotting flesh…they were mine. That dead, gray, matted hair covered in seaweed…it was mine. My lips curled back to release a horrified wail, and no sound escaped them. I had no tongue.

I could only watch in silent, screaming terror as my full cheeks receded slowly, so slowly, as the tears continued in a shower of hot bullets. I blinked and there was nothing in the mirror but a gaunt skull-like face grinning back at me with a perfect set of dazzling teeth.

-----------

                I woke with a start, sweat covering my neck. My hand frantically groped the bedside table, and found the tiny mirror. I lit a candle and desperately stared at the reflection. My terrified eyes were bloodshot and my hair matted alright, but there was the rest of me – complete, whole. Full cheeks, full lips, straight nose, long lashes, whole skin. I sighed. The nightmares wouldn’t stop.

                I knew exactly why I was having these dreams, but would not admit it to myself; could not admit it. Because that would mean I was weak, and I was not. I refused to believe I was. It was not possible I was. Was it?

                My mind was trying desperately to tell me something, and I was fiercely denying the situation. Even my subconscious knew I was in trouble. Enormous trouble.

                I was eighteen years old, and I was going to be married. My mind was a strange place to be in, aflutter with so many varied emotions as it was. Doubt, anticipation, anxiety, and happiness – above all, swelling, glowing happiness – seemed to be swirling around in my head like light wisps of silver steam. But there was a dark, gray, thick smoke of another situation entirely that threatened to smother all the lightness, present at the very edge as well.

                My fiancé was a powerful king of a distant land. I knew not what he was like, not even how he looked. My people had heard only that he was thought of as handsome, shrewd, and merciful. He was twenty eight and looking for an alliance with my father. I had been trained all my life to be a married woman. I was ready.

                But I held a secret that I could not even admit to myself. The nightmares had started two months ago. And the cause for them four months previously, when I had stuck two fingers down my own throat.

                I had always had an extremely light, dainty figure. But I had recently gained some weight, and it showed. It was not much, only enough for everyone to comment how becoming I had started looking, how ready I was now for marriage to the king, how much rounder my already round face seemed, how my figure also had filled out and looked more womanly.

                I started hating myself. I felt like a fat old slave woman, and became paranoid about everyone’s attention. It seemed like they were all staring, whispering about my horrid looks behind my back, cackling about how I was lucky the king had never laid eyes on me. But I loved food, and could not get myself to give it up.

                I started thinking about food more and more, and all I wanted to do was eat. Eat everything that was unhealthy. Because I had weakly tried to forbid myself from these very things, my naturally perverse mind craved them more and more. And I lacked the will to stop myself.

                Five months before my marriage, I was desperate. So I excused myself from the table one day and made myself throw everything back up. I thought I had found the solution to all of my problems.

                I now gorged on anything I wanted and simply threw it all up. And I think it started having an effect on my weight as well. But with it came a price.

                A couple of months into my ingenious plan, my teeth felt weaker, and even if I had a small meal that I did not wish to get rid of, my body automatically made me throw it up. I could keep nothing down any longer. I was growing weaker. And I was having nightmares.

                My subconscious was telling me I was killing myself, slowly and surely. It was accusing me, showing me what would happen to my body. Of course, imaginative as I naturally was, it was dramatizing the entire thing to scare me. But one thing it absolutely had on the gold – I had to stop before I seriously damaged myself.

                My parents grew worried about me after they found me throwing up one night. They thought I had some serious, rare malady. One month before my wedding, I sat my mother, the queen, down and told her the truth. She was disappointed, and sad. But she helped me.

                The doctors had never heard of my condition. They were unable to do much. But Mother knew what to do. She helped me overcome my self-doubt and paranoia. She helped me realize my own inner-worth. She instilled in me my lost self-confidence. And I started eating small meals, and keeping them down.

                She kept me distracted. We played games in the gardens, took walks, read books, and ate freshly-picked fruits. And I started recovering. The paleness vanished from my face, and I was a strong, glowing bride on my wedding day.

                Before I departed from my palace room forever, to start my new, glorious life with a kind king, I asked Mother how she knew exactly what to do about my problem. She smiled that sad, knowing smile, gazed at an old portrait of my maternal grandmother and said, “Because there was a time… I was just like you.”

Lotter's Dilemma

Long slender fingers ran through the silky ginger hair, caressing, loving. She stretched, arched her back, with those beautiful eyes serenely shut to enjoy his touch with undivided attention, a low moan developing in her throat. He sighed and thought of yesterday, when his fingers were exploring fine filaments the colour of the darkest purple night. He had loved both his girls, and they practically purred at his touch. He half-smiled and waited. It was always the wait that nearly drove him insane.

She sensed a change and nudged him, finally opening those sharp green eyes. Her throaty purr was replaced by a low voice of appeal. Still he waited. Finally she said the one word he was waiting for. Instantly his hand flashed to her throat and squeezed ever so slightly, with ever increasing pressure. He looked into those wide eyes of alarm, those flailing nails trying to scratch his hand away. He looked, with an increasing delight deep within him, till the arms fell limp, till the eyelashes drooped, till the magnificent eyes of green lost their brilliance, till the last light went out of them.

He huffed out his held breath, happiness filling him, every inch of him, till he felt he could walk on air with his new emboldened spirit. He grinned like a maniac in his empty hostel room, until someone banged on his door screaming ‘Lotter!’ and damning in select words his lack of action just five days prior to Saarang. He gave back a few of his choicest words, and felt the effects draining out of him, felt himself sink back into an empty shell, a mask of his former self, into the Saarang 2013 Cultural Affairs Secretary, lit. Covering her up in his red bed-sheet, one by one Cul Sec Lotter put on twenty rings on his ten slender fingers and slowly opened his door to face the latest we’re-so-screwed story his remarkably unobservant Co-Cul Sec had managed to come up with.

Lotter was literally LOTR, or Lord of the Rings. He was a member of the rarest species at IITM – his name’s funda was neither uninteresting nor related to twisted guy fantasies. He had the courage to leave his room without disguise and fingers weighed down by twenty gold rings for twenty different gods. He locked his door behind him, a secret smile on his face and a plan for the dead he left in his room.

He had been in ‘love’ once (Why all IITians are delusional enough to think their fickle, mechanical, and entirely and selfishly RG-max hearts can experience anything of the sort is probably beyond anyone!). She was the prettiest freshie girl he’d seen last year (the mention of a freshie girl works like magic on IIT’s guys – they are more than likely to step ahead and slip on their own drool). A Tam Brahm to her very soul, she had a 9 point CGPA and the most goody-goody reputation in the Institute. At least she had had, until she was driven to insanity by her Sponsorship Creative Coordinator, Shaastra interview and subsequent rejection for the very year he was to be Cul Sec. She now spent her days in a straitjacket, bouncing off padded walls in the asylum she had to be packed off to, to avoid endangering herself and other students and further endangering the wildlife at IITM.

Her pitiable condition changed him in much the same sense Bella Became Bloodsucker. He became a ruthless killer, vowing revenge on the Sponsorship Core, Shaastra 2013. Five days before Saarang, Shaastra was underway. He’d already had his revenge. Now was the time to display it. 

       Evolve’s Shaastra Hacks had another weird run-down plane to display (their lack of originality, perhaps). Quietly in the dead of night he made his way to it with his strong arms weighed down by the two girls he dragged, and left them in there. The next day, all hell broke loose when a kid broke all the administration block windows with his single high-pitched screech on discovering it. In the KV grounds, Lotter’s eyes gradually met the shocked ones of the Sponsorship Core’s across the plane, and held them. His mouth slowly curved into a smile while the Core looked puzzled, and then alarmed as realization finally dawned on him. While his expression started turning into outrage, Lotter got lost in the memory of the silken cats in his hands the last two evenings, and the exhilarating moment when they had each finally uttered, “Meow?”

Mind's a Strange Place

How many times have you mentally scoffed at the maddeningly annoying amount of noise your we-take-this-route-together-everyday-whoopee neighbours on the morning bus manage to make, all seemingly fused to form one continuous  crap-spouting, mental-asylum-deserving flexible body, and how many times immediately after that have you suddenly and miraculously recalled similar embarrassing instances involving none other than you and your equally insane friends (though you dare admit that to no one but yourself. Learn to accept the hard truth.)? How many times have you condemned one of your love-struck friends forever to the island of There-Is-Less-Hope-For-Her-Than-For-Manmohan-To-Wear-Yellow, when she quite blindly chooses the wrong guy again, the stupid girl, and two seconds later recalled every one of your own failed and, sadly, stupider choices?

                ‘The point?’ you may well ask (probably damning this same piece as a piece of shit in your admirably well-read minds while secretly agreeing with every word, even recalling similar ‘It’s informal!’ instances of your own ill-received, it-hardly-qualifies-as-sense write-up). My entire point is to put on display (Aah.!) the immovable I-was-born-this-way hypocrisy of the human mind which is nevertheless acknowledged by itself, but never ever accepted. Or perhaps we were simply born senseless to our own senselessness while aware with all our (six?) senses of the same in others. Maybe we are selectively kindly and forgiving creatures, entirely self-centered. Or all born misanthropists.

                Whichever the case, it matters not. The conclusion is always the same. Everyone else is excessively stupid and oneself unimaginably superior in all one does. You RG everyone in the vicinity and the first instance of it you face in a situation unfavourable to you, you damn the person to the hottest confines of hell, the disgustingly selfish, unendingly contemptible weirdo. Tell me I’m not right…

                I certainly don’t pretend to be an expert in any way or sense on the bizarre workings of the human mind. I am merely an observer, who is herself not in any way immune to the very human nature I’ve tried to describe above. I’m probably more prone to that nonsense than anyone you know.

                Besides hypocritical, the mind seems to be a strange convoluted thing in more ways than one. It’s downright perverted. Let me try and explain. Can you deny that at least once in your life, probably too many times to remember, you have wanted something, or alternatively, someone with all you possess and on finally attaining the this-is-the-best-moment-of-my-life object of your desire, you’ve promptly lost all interest in it? As long as it was dangling there, elusive, you wanted it more than air (or so your utterly silly romantic heart whispered), and as soon as you touched it, the be-gone-you-repulsive-error-of-creation mode of your mind kicked in, effectively shattering the illusion.

                Perhaps we love the chase, not the finish. Perhaps we are strangely masochistic, and the pain of denial excites us more than attainment. I’m inclined to chuck the former goody-goody explanation off the nearest rooftop.

                With no effective conclusion in sight, I must abruptly sign off. There really is no end to speculation on the varied stages of degradation every mind is in. One can only hope the hypocrisy and perversion in oneself is muted at the surface. Though we may as well be trying to actually die of boredom. Alternatively, acceptance of oneself is, after all, supposedly the key to a happy life. Do I really believe that? Of course not, it’s a large vat of bullshit.