World Poetry Day

Yes, it's World Poetry Day on March 21. It's amazing how they seem to have a day for every conceivable thing, including teddy bears (it's on 9th September). I missed celebrating the first Pi day last week on March 14 (how do you celebrate Pi day, you ask? Well, it is a universally established fact that you do it by eating pies!) but another one turns up on 22nd July, so I can relax. Good old mathematicians - with admirable foresight they have provided two days in a year dedicated to one thing - a modest, unassuming constant that providentially sounds like a yummy dessert dish.

But back to poetry - Charlotte Bronte says that there is nothing beautiful in this world which is not poetry. This assertion wouldn't have made any sense to me a few years ago, when poems were no more than a boring section in my English textbook which I never could connect to, and no teacher could ever make me understand how blank or free verse could be considered poetry at all.

Then I read a few poems of Wordsworth - The Solitary Reaper (CBSE students would remember it), the Daffodil and Tintern Abbey (ISC students would remember this). I simply fell in love with them. They are such deceptively simple poems, talking of an emotion deeply felt, soul-stirring, which could never be put in plain prose half so well. If you've ever felt lonely, or that all "the weary weight of this unintelligible world" is dragging you down, his poems offer solace and comfort, a simple feeling of kinship and of hoping for higher things and better times.

I think poems are very similar to angsty songs by any rock/soft rock/pop band you care to name. In fact, they are songs without the music, or songs are poetry with music, whichever you prefer. After all the numbers by Linkin Park or Dead by April also talk about suffering and pain and a wish to overcome them. I think that no one can become a really good poet or rockstar without being compulsive loners or extremely sad for some reason. 

All the good poets I've read about were slight misanthropes and they all reached their peak before they became famous, and either died or never wrote again, or wrote awfully once they were made Poet Laureate and began enjoying popularity. I don't know why - but fame seems to kill creativity. Maybe that's why so many bands break up after a while too - because they simply can't make the same kind of songs anymore.

Poetry is the intimate expression of someone deeply stirred by feelings not easily put in words. I have never written poetry in my life, except once - my verse is usually of the 'I have a canary, His name is Billy,' variety. Therefore I have all the more respect for people who actually can write good poetry - which I've finally understood as not something that has to rhyme or be so long but be something that flows from the heart, something that must flow from the heart or choke the person if left unexpressed. The best poetry is that which is simple and unvarnished - from the poet's heart and soul to the reader's.

Therefore I make this tribute to all my favourite poets, and authors - Wordsworth, Vikram Seth, who writes the funniest poems and first made me like poetry, Charlotte Bronte, and L.M. Montgomery who wrote prose but was a hardcore poet at heart and first taught me the distinction between a good poem and a bad one - Thank you for your gift of words for generations to come!

"So you're humanities are you? But why?"

I hear so many people saying how much they hated social science when they were in school. I really don't understand it. Hate history and economics? But why? Maybe according to you there was a lot to mug up and it was just a bunch of irrelevant facts. Maybe it wasn't taught properly: I was lucky to have some pretty good teachers. But I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that science is pushed by most Indian parents as the only thing worth doing and that the other subjects are somehow inferior, and this attitude obviously gets passed on to the children. As for me, I genuinely liked science but I had horrible science teachers and frankly, the people in my class who had been attending IIT coaching classes since God-knows-when scared me. They all discussed twelfth standard science in class and did extra papers while I was struggling with the concept of electromagnetism and floundering hopelessly.

I knew when I took Humanities that it was the stream for me. Of course now I'd happily chuck all my notes and text books into the fire and jump on the ashes with glee - because the board exams are pains, every one of them - but the subjects still retain vestiges of interest. I'm defensive however whenever people ask me what stream I've taken. When I said it one lady commented, "Well, children do whatever they want nowadays," and someone else spoke about how easy it is to get marks in it. Granted that chemistry and physics are tough subjects, but it is theoretically possible to get hundreds in them both. Do you know the possibility of getting the same in psychology or sociology? Zero. And do you know how much we need to get into a 'good' college? 96% minimum in all subjects, when the very maximum for these subjects, once you've worked like hell, is 96. So don't tell me any stream is easier or tougher than the other. If you're interested in the subject it automatically becomes easy, and if you aren't, well, tough.

However, I'd love to have done some more science too if the opportunity had been offered to take up the social sciences along with it. Come on, India! It's time to stop forcing children to choose between the arts, commerce and the sciences at fifteen. You can't demarcate them any more - every one needs each of these subjects to truly become well-rounded. Don't you think that the engineer and the accountant need the beauty of literature, the vast world of philosophy and the study of humanity around them as much as knowledge of computer programs or accounting standards? And also that the student of the arts might also be interested in the hard sciences and desire to know how gadgets work and what that highly mysterious and yet attractive-sounding thing called vector is (I might be wrong and they might actually be completely boring, but vectors do sound so cool).

So, dear government, please stop dividing the streams in school. Let children choose the set of subjects they want to study each term, like they do in America. You keep ranting about immoral Western influences - let's have some really good ones at least. And hopefully you will one day put as much energy into creating a world-class liberal arts college as you did in creating the IITs and the IIMs in the 1950s. Of course, this means a complete overhaul of our education system, which will probably be the best thing that ever happened to our country. We have tremendously smart and talented people here, who can really transform this country positively, who are all going abroad to study where their skills are valued and who feel no connection to our country at all. This isn't their fault, it's the entire system's. And I pray that before the brain drain occurs with even greater intensity a change occurs. Don't you?

The travails of a sensitive plant

I wrote this over two years ago - I found it just recently.

Life is not easy for a shy person. Granted, it isn’t easy even for the most confident and most brazen of people, but the shrinking introvert on the whole has a worse time. At least the brazen person doesn’t shudder when asked to attend a party or a social function; however, any function which involves plenty of strangers is anathema to the sensitive plant.

I’m a sensitive plant myself. I like nothing better to do on a Saturday or Sunday evening than curl up with a nice book or watch an old movie on the TV. Anything by way of parties or social-dos I avoid as much as possible and it’s only the most rigorous pleading that can get me to attend them.

However, that doesn’t mean I like being an introvert. Being thoughtful and loving to read is all fine, but sometimes I wish I’m able to put all that information into practical use, like chatting blithely when I am forced to attend some event or another. On such occasions, when I’m standing uncomfortably in a corner, nervously adjusting my dress or my hair, I wish I had that gift of sparkling and scintillating conversation all heroines seem to have in books. You can’t read the amazingly brilliant dialogues that take place between the hero and heroine without wishing that you too had at least partly such an ability.

At least being shy at a party full of strangers is better than being in a company of friends. With strangers I can shrink into a corner and get sucked into my own daydream, without a fear of being accosted by an acquaintance and asked to come and dance, or take part in some equally soul-searing experience.

But with pals it’s different. This isn’t close friends I’m talking about. With close friends even the most horrid of such outings become partly bearable. I’m talking about those people whom I know with just the right degree of intimacy for them to be called chums, but we have nothing in common to supply conversation for more than a desultory chat.

With such people, attending functions can be a downright nightmare. Most often than not, I’m wedged in the middle of an uncomfortable group, or even worse, hanging on the edge unnoticed and unattended to, not having a single comment worth making and feeling absolutely wretched, while all around me are laughing and chatting gaily and apparently having the time of their lives. In such cases the sum total of my conversation comes to many liberal ‘what did she say’s sprinkled about and an occasional inspired ‘this dish is good, don’t you think?’ thrown in for good measure.

It’s infinitely galling for an intelligent girl to find herself in such a position, yet all my efforts to change it come to naught. If I manage to actually contribute something worth listening to during a conversation, I’m usually so taken up by surprise that I lose track of all conversation after that. And then I’m back to square one.

At least if my friends, knowing my nature, leave me alone kindly, it wouldn’t be half as bad. But they ignore me for most of the time and then suddenly one of them realizes I’m part of their group. Immediately they all look pityingly at poor little me and talk very kindly, no doubt feeling very complacent all the time and mentally giving themselves a pat on their backs for noticing and condescending to speak to me. At such times, it’s hard not to feel annoyed, but then I remember they’re really well-meaning and I’ve brought it on myself anyway and I give a weak smile, no doubt adding to their self-satisfaction.

I also hate photographs. Even in a simple get-together my friends feel the need to bring all the expensive cameras (not counting the built-in ones in their cell phones) while I cower and hope no one will ask me to pose. The ‘say cheese!’ photos really make me shrivel up. There’s something about the lens of a camera that intimidates me. No wonder, since I see a gargoyle in spectacles every time I look at a picture of myself. Not something anyone would want to last for ages.

So it is pretty obvious that every time I’m invited on an outing with my ‘chums’ I’m in for a terrible time. There’s no silver lining during such events. The only time I get some respite is if someone even shyer than me turns me. That gives me some confidence. I feel sorry for her of course, but I’d rather it was her than me.

You might wonder why I even go out if it offers nothing but horrible feelings. I have no idea myself. The answer is partly I don’t know how to refuse gracefully yet convincingly. There is a limit to the excuses I can think up, and my friends are notoriously slow in taking up a hint. As far as I know, my presence at an event is of no joy either to myself or to any of the others, yet when I make some excuse for not coming they behave as though I’ve offered the greatest disappointment ever in their life.

The second reason is there is a kind of masochistic pleasure in going. I dress up, wear my make-up and set off quite jauntily for my evening of gloom. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, it’s even half-way bearable. I suppose if someone goes on the rack enough times, he might get used to it. It will be a pain, of course, and he can think of a thousand things he’d rather be doing, but he’d probably say the pain wasn’t so much as it was the first time. Well, I guess I’d say the same thing.

Let me just add in conclusion that if you’re one of those brazen ones I mentioned in the beginning, then you have all my respect (and fervent admiration) and if you’re in the same boat as me, well, all the best!

Sherlock Holmes

Isn't this picture so cute? Yes, that's Holmes on the left, Watson is the one with blond hair and a frown that means business, and that's his dog Gladstone at his feet. I watched Sherlock Holmes 2 and it's awesome! If you haven't watched it yet, do! Jude Law is hands-down the best Watson so far and even if you didn't like Sherlock Holmes in the books (which I totally understand - he was such an annoying, arrogant guy with a nasty drug habit), you just might fall for the movie.

Unless you hate Robert Downey Jr., in which case I have nothing to say. Moving on.

The line of other Hollywood releases this year I'm waiting for are all sequels - Ghost Rider 2 is out February and The Dark Knight Rises (whee! Can't wait. Dark Knight was one of the most mind-blowing movies I've seen) hopefully sometime later. Breaking Dawn part 2 is releasing as well. No, I don't really want to see it! I'm just sayin'.

The Great Gatsby, starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Carey Mulligan, is supposed to release in December. That's great, and I'm definitely watching it, but what the hell happened to BBC? They used to release awesome adaptations on TV of all these classic books which I so loved to watch - remember Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, Emma, Jane Eyre and even Nicholas Nickleby? My mother and I watched them avidly during my tenth standard study holidays (Thank God for those holidays :))

Now, however, I have been forced to download them all and my WiFi is so slow! And though I check BBC everyday in hopes of a new classic adaptation, I remain disappointed. It has gone the way of reality TV and boring shows. The closest I can find to a book adaptation is the new series Sherlock. It's ok, pretty interesting, but come on BBC! I would so much prefer to watch Jane Austen's classics on your screen than my computer's. It was so much fun watching my favourite books on screen and you always got the best actors to play all the amazing characters. You know movies are nothing to a TV series, of course.

BBC had better return to its former glory before my twelfth vacations begin, or I should get a faster broadband soon. And hopefully a more extensive DVD collection.

In sickness and in health

Oh it feels so good to be well again! I've had a terrible fever for a whole week. I know it doesn't sound all that long, but it's the longest I've ever been sick. Isn't it weird how when you recover you forget what it felt to be ill? I know I was restless and burning up, and my whole body ached and I was in a delirious state a lot of the time, but now I think about it I feel it wasn't as bad as it might have been. I suppose people truly can bear anything, and it's even worth being sick just to experience that glorious feeling of recovery and feeling hungry again.

There is one thing I don't and won't ever miss - having medicines. I simply cannot have them, I can't. When I was young I was given a horrible pink pill which I promptly threw up and ever since I've been mortally scared of tablets. I tried to get over my phobia, and I did take pills without spitting them out for a while in between, but now I'm back to detesting them and trying everything to avoid taking them. All through the past week I tried convincing people that medicines just worsened my health, but no one would listen. But it was true! I bet if I hadn't had to take those ghastly pills I would have recovered in a couple of days instead of a whole week.

I have just one prayer to make : that some study will support me and find that pills of all kinds are ruinous. Or that someone will make chewable tablets which taste sweet (since I cannot swallow them and they are simply too bitter and awful to eat any other way). Or that I never ever fall ill again. I wonder if there's an actual phobia named for tablets and pills. If they have one for something as weird as long words, surely they'd have one for something as God-awful as medicines? I'm not against all kinds of medicines : syrups are fine, and tiny pills. It's only those huge tablets - all yellow and pink and even white - which refuse to go down your throat and, if by some miracle they do, make your stomach feel queasy and queer that are so hateful. I think I will loathe them forever.

But there are other things besides medicines in this world. There are flowers, and books, and music, and puzzles! I've just discovered how much fun it is to do puzzles, especially ones about books and authors, when you feel too much bored to do anything else. I'd advise any recovering convalescent to get their hands on a good puzzle book in order to ward away their legitimate feelings of self-pity, restlessness and boredom; it sure worked for me. And now I'm going to do something that also helps - watch a nice movie while munching on whatever I can find!

Halloween Party

My final exams are finally over, and my sweet school has decided to throw us hard-working, studious students (ha, that's a laugh) a party as a stress-buster. And not just any party. A honest-to-good Halloween party, six weeks too late. The flyer they handed out said (it's copied word-for-word):

'It's a Halloween Bash.

Get ready for the Monster Mash.

Eat, dance and scare up a fight(um, what?),

Being spooky is a must on this night!'

Dress code : Scary

Is it any surprise that I can't find a single person, besides myself, who wants to go? I don't even know why I want to go : I suspect all the studying (cough, cough) has addled my brain. But at least this flyer was better than the last one for the overnight camp, which invited us to "energise our spirits with flavoured milk". The people who come up with these things are obviously bored teachers with a lot of time and too much imagination on their hands. A Christmas party would have been more appropriate this time of the year. I even have a cute Santa hat I bought at the Christmas carnival last year. At least, I hope it's around and my pet tigers haven't eaten it.

Anyway, back to the Halloween party; the dress code is seriously annoying me. What the hell is 'scary' supposed to mean? I wanted to go in a jeans and top and claim to be 'me - a vision of doom' or something. But I bet everyone would just split their sides laughing at that, besides which, it's completely unoriginal. I'm seriously considering not sleeping the entire night before -to get interesting dark circles - and applying loads and loads of powder and red lipstick, and turning up as a vampire. I have one of those plastic headband-thingies with red horns stuck on top so I can pretend to be the Devil if everyone else has the same idea.

I guarantee you there'll be twenty vampires, thirty devils and fifty bored people in jeans turning up as 'themselves' out of a party of hundred. So, back to the idea board. Can I wrap myself up from head to toe with bandages like a mummy? Nah, too much trouble. Can I get a loose black robe and a pointy-hat and come as a witch? Interesting, but where do you find pointy-hats nowadays? Besides, all the above options are so predictable. Maybe I can get a sober grey quakerish gown from somewhere, pull my hair in a bun, and go as a governess. The trouble with being in India is that society hasn't really woken up to costume parties and such stuff here. Now if I wanted a hugely over-priced, garishly designed pavadai from RMKV I'd have no trouble at all.

I'm going on a campaign tomorrow - to persuade (or force, if I need to) my friends to come for the party. Sure, we'll probably (definitely, more like it) have more fun at home, but it's our last Social Night ever in school! And it might be worth it just to see everyone else's costumes. And it's a distraction from the millions of tests we have scheduled after that.

Update : I’m not going to the Social Night myself. Wait – before you think I’m just chickening out because nobody else is up for it, that’s not entirely true (partially, maybe). I just recollected that I have art class tomorrow clashing with the party and it’s been ages since I’ve attended. This will be my last year of the class before I head off for college, so it’s a no-brainer. Hopefully the next party/event/social night in school will be a lot better, one we’ll all actually go to.

Happy Deepavali!

It’s Deepavali! I have stuffed myself with ghee-soaked sweets and delicacies dripping oil. I have also, after many years, exchanged sweets with the neighbours accompanied by my sister.

When I was young (very young), I loved going to my neighbours’ houses and being complimented on my brand-new Deepavali dress and making plans for the evening with my (also very young) friends. My sister was my present age then, and she hated it. I’m pretty sure I talked more than she did.

Fast forward to a year ago. My sister was studying for her CA exam, and I was appointed to do my Deepavali duty all alone. Intrepid and resigned, I took the tissue-paper covered tray and went around to the houses of people I’ve known my entire life.

I rang the door-bell, and when the auntie/uncle/neighbor-who-used-to-be-my-best-friend-but-now-acts-like-he-doesn’t-know-me opened the door, mumbled incoherently something which sounded like ’hbbi dvali’ and thrust the tray at them. “Come in and sit down, “ they invited, and I gingerly balanced myself at the end of the chair, looking wildly around for a means of escape. The door was open, of course, but my tray was here, and I was not leaving without it. Poor thing, it would feel so alone, and besides, I needed it to give the ‘bakshanam’ to other houses. The thought made me groan.

We sat in awkward silence most of the time, me jumping whenever someone addressed a question in my general direction. If you’ve ever made small talk with people you haven’t seen since the last festival, when you underwent the same torture, you’ll know the pattern of conversation by-heart. First, the mandatory, “I haven’t seen you in a long time!” to which you nod vigorously (it is true after all) and say, “Yeah.”

Next, the optional, “You have grown so tall!” to which you give a sickly smile and say, “Yeah.”

Third follows what might be unique to me. “So, you’re in ninth?” they say, randomly guessing. “No, eleventh,” or twelfth, as the case may be. It is a rule that nobody ever knows your real age or standard. They either guess below or above it by at least two years. When you reveal your actual class, they look surprised and say, “But you look so small! Do you eat at all? You have to get some meat on your bones!” to which you nod vigorously, give a sickly smile, and say, “Yeah.” If they ask you how college is like, it’s a sure bet their grand-daughter or niece, who is roughly your age, is studying in college, so if you know her name you can say, “And how is XXX enjoying college?” feeling mighty pleased at having brought out a sentence on your own, and praying fervently that her name isn’t actually XXY.

Now everyone looks astonished. “It speaks!” they’re saying to themselves, incredulously. “Who would’ve thought?”; And they are so lost in surprise, they forget to answer your question. Your resources are now taxed to the limit, and besides wondering if that blasted tray (for which you are courageously risking life and limb) will ever come back, and frantically trying to think of topics for conversation, you also remember that you have to repeat this all over again, in the next house, the owner whom you don’t even know all that well and whose watchman once

turned up ugly over a ball that sailed into his compound.

At the end of this whole rigmarole, when you are mustering up the courage to say those words, “All right, I’m leaving now and coming back,” (A literal translation from Tamil, and quite untruthful and insincere), the auntie finally comes through with the tray. You accept it with relief, and make good your escape, trying your utmost not to seem in a hurry to get away. When the door closes behind you though, you scamper, still not knowing if it was XXX or XXY, and dammit, does she enjoy college or not?

This would be a good way to end, but this year my sister, in a cushy job with lots to talk about – it’s distance, the timings, and work involved – and I went through the same process. She talked to everyone breezily, slipping in a confident ‘Happy Deepavali’ almost before they opened the door, and following it up with a sure question, “Aren’t you bursting crackers this year? The street’s so empty!” allowing the neighbor to inform us that they are doing this for the environment or that their aches and pains don’t allow them to (follow with a list of the aches and pains). It was so much better than last year.

We came home to my cousin on the phone. Last year, ignoring my frantic head-shakings and mouthing ‘I’m not here! I’m not here!’ (Seriously, how hard is that to understand?), I was forced to talk to my relatives. I love them, I love when they come to visit, but talking to them on the phone is nothing less than sheer torture, of which I had had enough already. This time, though, I was smart and came up here to type this, leaving my capable sister to bear the brunt. She doesn’t seem to look harried at all. I wonder, when I become older, will I actually be able to talk to people without having what my sister calls a ‘priceless expression’? Perhaps.