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i took out reading from my list of hobbies a couple of years ago. i remember going to public library to borrow algorithms texts last year. the year before that i browsed the shelves for books on development studies and sociology. this year ive visited only on behalf of my mother to get her yoga books from the ground floor main section. it is quite probable that i was never an avid reader. i mostly read what achu annan suggested bought me. an omnibus for every birthday when i was young. a lot of paulo coelho from our school library. those standard books almost everyone reads kite runner to kill a mockingbird jd salinger. he bought me cats eye in my final year and it was great. for some reason i really liked reading books written by women. there was this book by a lady i forget the name but im sure i have it written down in one of my diaries it talked of suitors and hemming lines dainty glass cups taken out in the afternoons with designs on them extra linen stored away in cupboards and wardrobes recipe books with extra scribblings in pencil on margins and double curtains not necessarily all plush mostly not and those being the best kind. too cosy. is it too english early 20th centuryish there were indian books among them as well. unlike wodehouse with golf and butlers that was my brother s thing. sapiens is lying around and he has asked me to read it more than a couple times. i tried and the contents page gave me the idea of a summary of anthropology texts evolution. achu annan still vouches for it but im not sure id visit again. i had a similar experience with 100 years of solitude. made a mental note of returning later to see if maybe i liked it now but havent yet. so i started reading again. my reading has over last 2 years been reduced to blogs on wordpress mostly recipes of thoroughly familiar and straightforward stuff like dal yes its a fetish medium articles and more stuff off the internet. on sundays i look for vasundhara chauhans cookery and recipes or culinary experiences in hindu mutton cooked in pressure cookers with meat falling off the bone and tender chicken pieces in stew. all of g. sampaths satirical stories especially the ones where his complainant wife is cooking a curry and finishes before the raunchy couple hes watching on tv does. as always i digress. im reading winesburg ohio. its a small town where everyone knows each other. i picked it from a list of rustic set books. honestly i do not stick to settings though and i picture a prairie land yellow meadow of grasses with sun shining over intermittent cottage houses with ivy walls and narrow roads connecting them. the landscape in love comes slowly precisely describes it. once in a while sherlock holmes visits to solve a case unimpressed and the lady from a sound of music is running amidst the dry grasses singing in the evenings in her skirt gowns. all the women are strong and wear layers of clothing. the men are strong as well like in those movies set in ireland and they eat freshly baked bread and chicken pies from firewood ovens with gravy. theres a beach adjacent to it the shore from a story about an old man once written by a friend. somehow it fit there right next to the prairie. the meadow segues into the short grassy ground in front of our engineering college quarters where boys played in the evenings after school and fresh cow milk was delivered by a woman who lived in the depths of the road that went behind our house to far away from where the sun shines. there was a facebook challenge long back where you had to pick an image out of 4 and it showed your personality. i know it sounds too simplistic it was i remember 3 of the options the sky the sea and a meadow. if you picked the sea it meant youre outgoing love hanging out with people etc. i was the meadow i remember being terrified of the sea picture lol. i cant remember what the description said but it fit me so maybe it was the clich loves to curl up in bed and doesnt like going out as much. i made a mental note to keep revisiting every few years to see if i ever picked the sea. we were taught daffodils in middle school i think we all were irrespective of the schools we went to. i had no idea what a daffodil looked like the teacher did describe them but our brains have their own way of concocting images no i was stuck in a vast daffodil field for a long time. the field over time metamorphosed into the meadow the prairie and everything else. i googled to find a match to the image in my head sometimes it occurred in dreams sometimes in stories and movies it just wasnt daffodils anymore. i don t think it ever was. i think somewhere in my childhood reading or english poetry classes i got lost in one of those villages. and i refuse to come out. or maybe i just love revisiting. do you know what the worst part about writing is it sometimes takes the magic out of things. i swear. i remember writing about indian coffee house once. it took me a long time to feel again what i wrote about after posting it cos when i returned all i could think of were people s comments. its like exposing a part of you. more importantly its just not in my head anymore ive put it down in words thereby limiting it defining it. you know its like some things shouldnt be put on paper until youre ready to let go of them. so winesburg ohio its mostly mens stories men from winesburg a small village town with vast open fields. there are women obviously else i couldnt bear it. this author sherwood anderson wrote it there are dainty cups from time to time soft hands and wistful smiles and a lot of cynicism. but most importantly there are evenings with the sun shining over the village and its cottages. i dont think i do a good job at a charismatic or even an accurate description. but i think i might be writing less and reading more now. its time to get lost again. i ll leave you with this image assuming you too like cosy beds  direct links to donate money for kerala flood relief available in the above options as well as in tez. when i have kids i m going to raise them in the forest until they re like 8 9 years old then introduce them to urban society and ask them to pick between the two the life they d like to live. i d give them choice not the illusion of it. i m not a fan of civilization myself says george. i met g on new years eve 2016 at mandi house. it was winter. the best part of winter. when it s cold but not too much. you can smoke fumes out of your mouth in the thick morning air while walking to class. peas still sprout when soaked overnight and parachute oil hasnt frozen in its entirety in the bottle. you wear just enough layers to not need a bra at least the less endowed ones yet do not have to hide your cute sweater under another quilted jacket. the chilly wind against their scantily clothed chests hasn t eaten into the rickshawbhayyas pace inthe mornings yet. shaving of course is out of the question. at this point i need to confess a couple of things. my roommate had been away for almost two months and i was thoroughly enjoying it. i lived in my natural habitat of a cluttered room the little floorspace was filled with copies of the hindu and printed fliers of ias coaching material collected and shoved into my bag after class. id started wearing bhasmamregularly because it reminded me of people i love. my warrior of a chair carried a backbreaking pile of dirty clothes to topple over any moment and i went to class in the clothes i went to bed in. the bed itself was filled with haldirams aloo bujia a thin plastic cover of 5 tomatoes bought for 10 and leftover packs from previous tiffin any time of the day. i fit my body in there somehow. evenings were dry and beautiful with an occasional warm drizzle and by all means i avoided being in my room for long. it s when home sickness slowly creeps in and lodges itself on your neck to stay until dinner. i was doing indias struggle for independence by bipan chandra. love you zindagi played in my room every night after i returned from the reading room. i routinely smiled at other building mates and refrained from clearly avoided talking. by this time the chetanat the sambar vada pizza sandwich shop that had open counters and high tables knew i wanted chai to the brim just like the chetan at office does now. old rajendra nagar was filled with puppies that followed you on the roads and needed to be fed from your tiffin bits at night. the terrace was still the only place i could see the sky wasnt as little as it seemed from amidst all the buildings on the ground. probably most important bit is i didnt have to zone into my thoughts like i do now and did before. i was living in them. in college i d go to canteen alone for a lot of different reasons and i was lucky to always have people that asked are you here all by yourself it was only after almost a year i realized i was disappointing people with answers such as it s alright cos they thought i was upset at not having company. so i later rephrased it to oh a friend is coming. it s alright and things were sorted out. unless they decided to give me company until the friend never came d. i hadnt talked to a soul at orn in the course of these two months. except the sabjiwala and komal at my reading room reception. and new years eve was to be spent watching a play at shrirams arts center mandi house. alone. yeah don t worry a friend was coming. can i have one at the extreme back please first time at a theatre alone and i had mistaken a play for a movie and extreme back for balcony view. g in the second queue overhears and looks over smiles a friendly stranger smile. i return the smile and wait for the doors to open. on the way to the arts center were walls painted inquilab zindabad posters of che guevera lots of young and older men and women all of whom seemed like students. reading newspaper and eating maggi outside shacks and shops nearby and on circles around tall trees. and all i could think was how id have turned out had i joined du and studied english or even joined for ma after b. tech. i wasnt sure then but when was i ever id quite probably have turned leftist sat under those trees reading the hindu turned up in loose neutral kurtas instead of my favourite lifestyle sweater worn chappal instead of converse and carried a cloth bag instead of wildcraft. id probably still have turned up for this play. probably. at least i knew i wasn t a literature person by then. as soon as i get seated i realize my folly. i can hardly see the actors faces having especially asked for the backseat. the play is about the revolt of 1857 and i have a leaflet about the troupe and the actors. theyre probably college students always rushing to catch the metro for their practice sessions in scorching summers and chilly winters. i would ve impressed with my doordarshan imparted hindi though started from the top every time i missed a line. i would ve sucked with the lines. memorizing dialogues and scenes indulging chai sessions between and maggi from that shop outside on lazy afternoons after naps. streetplays on weekends processions at india gate leftword books for every book launch. never miss a litfest and never miss a lecture. debate over yechury s points on the phone with achan and borrow amma s sari for characters when i went home for vacation. i dont really know how differently id have turned out. what if s and i have had a romantic relationship since forever anyway. theres a cosy canteen attached to centre s right with low tables and chairs. its evening now and the sky is losing light its getting chilly outside. i sit down with hot chowmein at an empty table. there are a couple of benches and desks outside and through the door i can see young students in their sweaters and mufflers clicking selfies before their foods arrive. we could all be at a tea shop in a beautiful hill station at manali or nainital sipping tea and eating chowmein. barfi could jump in any second singing iss dil ka kya karooon with ileana de cruz in her long dress shoes and pink hairband. and i wouldnt need to get up and dance because i d already be. next to me a lady who im positive appeared in taare zameen par to judge the painting contest comments isn t three arts club doing quite brilliant these days she has grey cropped hair wears a starched saree and is seated with other older men who look like they could be college professors or the hindu editors with a general wise air. all neutral shades. they drink tea. i wonder if i should ve ordered tea with my chowmein. g appears opposite to me at my table placing a bag on the last vacant one and has ordered maggi. i shift my water bottle away from g s plate polite. i m hardly ever impolite to strangers. at this point id like to say i m one of those i m sure everyone s good at heart people. i love being disappointed. is it your first time to a play g is smiling more broadly than the summer sun. i ve been to a couple back home first time alone though. g sits down. so where are you from i m from kerala. where are you from i can t help the full sentences amidst all the smiling. delhi. i smile broadly as well. like when you find the flavor of tic tac you were rummaging for in a large bucket ata supermarket. except there s no way we knew each other s flavors. yet. g is an arts graduate. pg in english literature. civil services preparation. orn yes. you go to vajiram i go to sriram. evening batch morning actually. you must go in the evening batch morning actually. later as we walk out from the canteen into the tall trees under the orange lamps i can spot g s backpack that says wildcraft. i smile stupidly like swetha says i often do when seated by the window in our office bus. everyone should have the privilege to meet themselves sometime. i had earlier decided i d remain stoic for as long as i could hold out. but that new year night i talked to more humans over never have i ever. and realized i d always always loved people. when umadri packed up and left for college in late may i asked her to list out the things and people she d miss yea i do that. on top of the list was who she was when we were at orn. some days i think i d give anything to go back to being the unfuck withable dragon hunter. impenetrable to my mother s calls tolife as we know it. why is life not the way i know it old rajendra nagar winter 2016  i have heard and i ve known it s true when you see someone happy you want a bite and you d expect the happiness would multiply but really you only care until you ve eaten it all up i don t think i have any happiness left you can leave now  20 november 2017 a rainy evening look at the stars look how they shine for you and everything you do yeah they were all yellow i came along i wrote a song for you and all the things you do and it was called yellow  i m a crier. i mean i own a weak ass heart that feels too much. it s funny because i didn t quite cry for a long time although i was sad for the longest time. then came this study leave before sixth semester exams in college when i cried 24x7. like after a breakup you look at your face in the washbasin mirror but realize it s already wet all over with tears. like you don t cry for two decades and then you do. and you can t stop. so one evening after my second last exam i cried to someone and although i didnt think it was possible this time i cried it out. well most of it. which is when i started crying for all the right you decide reasons. for those of us that feel too strongly crying just happens to be the easiest release in a world where were a minority. it isnt reserved just for when im really sad or really happy its for everything overwhelming in between. at how time conned us and didnt let me meet my parents magnificent younger selves. as most 70 80s songs play i can see my father contesting elections in engineering college to lose of course in black amp white while my mother in color cos she has described the shades of her college saris to me is studying her ass off in medical college hostel. achan vehemently yells sfi slogans in cet while amma scoffs at party members in mch and they both listen and tap their feet to the same songs but i never got to see or hear any of it. neither know at the time they d marry each other. or that theyd have 3 kids who ll listen to them humming these songs with a much much lower tempo some 15 years later on moonlit nights at engineering college quarters sleeping on their shoulders and laps and chests. so i was upset when i finally heard the originals of aayiram padasarangal kilungi that s not how you sing it those are not even the lyrics this record is all so wrong. because thats not how achan sang it to us. some days i wonder at how beautiful the world looks during sunrise and wish i could broadcast it across people s minds in a network so we can feel one another okay amal i know that sounds wrong on many levels. or how we could both be looking at it and i could be thinking of you right now and you could be thinking of me but we d never know. and the sunrise could be a kathak performance or a ghazal recital or two lines of a brilliant poem or a song or an instrument the beauty of how its boundlessness dissolves us into one for as brief and fleeting a moment it be. like listening to vijay yesudas malare and remembering thats the closest i can listen to his fathers voice sing it and how we werent lucky enough to belong to the generation whose lives can be traced along yesudas songs. or those dusty college windows with sunlight streaming into classrooms and how there was never such a romance as premamto enjoy all of that on evenings after classes how i never had the appetite for those back then either. of how we were i mean i was ugly and sweaty and sick dressers in school and college pfft and how the people and the happiness was innocently believed to be a trial version of what s to follow yet the trial was the best there ever came. that there was this magical duet of if i lose myself we practised during monsoon 2015 when the song could hardly be heard over the patter on chetan s studio roof that we never took a video of that the world never got to see that ll die in team memories. or of how we cycled through the college forests at madras at 4am on borrowed bicycles after placing a wrist watch on loan stopping under orange streetlamps for breaths and shouting across roads turning in zigzags as trucks passed us by not knowing it would be our only time. of how often i deserved to lose so many from my life yet how they always stayed. and stayed. of longing to have known certain people just a little bit more and to have hung onto certain chapters of our lives just a little bit longer. how life is short and life is unfair and life is cruel and yet how it comes back together to us every time. and just how much we endure in those hopes. alone. of the stories we hear delivered and how there remains so much more untold. of how no poetry is more beautiful than the conversations we leave unexplored. and at the end of the day how we all deserve more. so much more. i know most of this is worth smiling over. but you can only smile so much. and then you can only cry. no  g and i dont talk a lot. i need to notify a day in advance so the flight mode is switched off and we can call. so when we do its for the most pressing of issues. im considering quitting dragon hunting i chip in. at this point i havent decided and am awaiting comments. speculation is in order. yes. not no. not think about it maybe. not even the world doesn t care anyway so stop only if you want to as i d hoped. yes nos are powerful. they break hearts. they ruin self esteem. they cause damage that takes a lifetime to heal. yes nos change life as we know it. do not ask unless youre ready to have it go either way. the thing is surprise i dont really hunt dragons. not because they do not exist i knew that when i became a dragon hunter. i couldnt care less even if they did. i do not make a living out of it i hardly make anything out of it really. and not many know i call myself one its privy to few. you dont just tell people that youre surprise boring you let them figure it out. now i dont have a particularly fragile heart but dragons are a sensitive matter. well thats all for today i quit. theres stuff aplenty out here on earth ive found so i dont think ill be going back anytime soon. at least the dragons are happy. nbsp nbsp  some of us were born with the sun shining out of our asses. and with the stories we saw or the stories we lived slowly the world sucked all of our sunshine out soon filling us up with itsshit. and then they asked us why are you so full of it nbsp the day you remember what you once were push it all back out. the day you remember what you once were go get your sunshine back. there s still tons of it left in the world. a man walks into the only tea shop that doesnt sport animated neon signs in this part of town. he hands over a thermos flask to the owner at the counter stirring the large vessel of boiling milk. he doesnt utter a word but walks straight in and alights on the cranky red stool against the tea stained wall. its a line of adjacent shops on this side of the main road on the other side you have the hospital buildings the scanning center casualty the subsidized medicine store bpl cardholders queue up at. on this side the neon lightboards are turned on at least an hour before darkness sets in with dusk english medicines in red cursive letters hot tea amp biryani in a thick blue font vegetarian restaurant in another. many announce tourist homes funny theyd call the residents tourists considering none would voluntarily be here. the signs vie for your attention like a new breed of daily instagram feed. they would probably have been irrelevant in another part of town but here in the din surrounding the government hospital with a hundred people scampering around any time of day and night it sells. attempting to charm when every shop offers the exact same set of items buckets and mugs coarse threaded towels and thorth jugs and steel plates essential crockery spoons knives for families that came away from home in emergency magazines to lighten your mood and of course neon lights because every shop has it on this side. except this one. amidst the cacophony outside this tea shop slows time down. maybe because it lacks the urgency of those flashing lights. the owner takes the flask and fills it with tea looking for signs of objection from his customer before proceeding he sees and nods in approval. the man knows his customers well. the ones that want to engage in a bit of chitchat complain about hospital facilities or lack thereof others that want to know if theres black tea available some offhandedly commenting on the propensity to rain. but some just sit on one of his cranky plastic stools quiet. theyre the ones he wishes god would bless. though technically he doesnt believe in god. he lives with his wife in a one bedroomed apartment in a lane near medical college junction big enough for the two of them to keep their few possessions and their tv. business is good especially during monsoons when all the dengue kicks up. before this he and his wife sold teawith vadas in a road near the temple at guruvayur. business was podipooram there. he woke up at 4 and was at his shop by 4. 30 after an ice cold bath and a glass of black tea his wife prepared. men and women from all walks with their little kids occasionally older fathers and mothers with their newly wed children and in laws would arrive in venad express in the wee hours stop for a quick tea at his counter before checking into hotels nearby. you could see the sleepy eyed family kids rubbing their eyes some threatening to fall off their chairs there were very few in his shop before his tea jolted them back to wakefulness. theyd want to know when the queues at the temple were shorter and on what trains they could leave by evening. as day proceeded his shop would get crowded with people thronging at its steps. back then his shop was neater. life lent his sturdy communist spine a 12degree bend but he never acceded to his wifes suggestion of selling guruvayur appan souvenirs like every other shop nearby car fixities chain lockets rings pictures for the pooja room miniatures for the study table some guruvayur pappadams. it was big business all of it he could be heard saying often. the sheer number of sweaty weddings with couples and their tiny cohort of relatives that stood in queues devotees lining up from 5 am until 12 all that money clinking in purses and pockets to make way into the temple chests. it also made his living. his wifes idea would definitely make some extra cash but he was a non conformist and didnt conform. whats a tea shop got to do with the deity that feeds on all this money sell some knickknacks eda its not against our leaders ethics his wife appointed communist maaman assured him. neither is stashing money away in lockers and hitting their wives he had retorted. he was not one of them and he was proud of it. so he had never sold any trinkets at guruvayur and when his wife s arthritis drove them to trivandrum he had no neon light adorning the entrance to his shop. it was practically useless there were tall yellow lamps at the wide junction that lit up all 7 roads and the vehicles entering. and who keeps boards for tea people poured in anyway. this was a reference hospital and people came in without anyones invitation. away from home the poor needed hot tea for families for patients in bed for those in recovery and those awaiting surgery. he could make small talk it was part of his job more so part of his curious mind but it was the quiet customers he really liked having. who trusted him to do his work and handed over their apprehensions along with their flasks at least for the few moments it took him to fill them. its a solemn entrustment for someone else to take charge. he liked reading too much into things. his shop was an entry ticket away from the commotion from blinking neon lights and hurrying hordes. from the suffocation that built up when they had spent a few days at this place and longed to pack up their few belongings the mat and the newly bought buckets and mugs but mostly the mended patient and leave. of course he couldnt help them with their sons raging fever the mothers acute pneumonia or the longing for heading back home. but for a few moments life was back to normal the two glasses of tea everyday the only permanent bits in an unpredictable life. its why they longed to move out of hospitals onto this side they could talk about vadas and cricket here and nobody would judge. soon enough theyd leave with a word of thanks to the doctor another word to the person in white and white that nursed them injecting every dose of prescribed medicine into their vein asking with a smile if it hurt too much. the guy on the other side in the tea shop who filled their flasks with hot chayaand gave a reassuring nod every morning and evening remains forgotten. the stranger who asked you about your mothers illness and your hometown. youll remember the taste of his tea on the first evening back home and casually mention him as a token. and then youre allowed to forget all about the shop with no neon lights. ive been rummaging my mothers wardrobe for hours in search of a blouse to go with my fabindia kota saree. i need the two to be glaringly mismatched like that carnatic singer cum mini celebrity on my instagram feed. my mother doesnt seem to get the idea though. nbsp my initial impression on fabindia was made when at a literature fest in delhi i saw their brand worn by seemingly well read women and girls ladies. i knew i was moved for life as i watched similarly dressed others on national television express vocally their critique opinions on issues of the nation state. thats when i decided i too would paint my life not with h amp m or colors of benetton. i was ready to embrace the fabindia life not only elegant in vogue and ridiculously overpriced but also a sign of brains wisdom and good taste. i mean sure you ve to wash them separately in shampoo but i dont mind as long as i distinguish myself as an intellectual. the jnu kind. the sari of course must be draped carefully to look careless enough. that somehow lets everyone know i stand for indian culture and ethnic produce. and my solidarity withimpoverished artisans. all those ajrakh prints in indigo and maroon that are expensive enough to kill but worth it because they announce my elite upper class or at least upper middle class status. urban classy refined english educated and well grounded with the indian way of life. because i have an enriched vocabulary with phrases such asimpoverished artisansetc. to be worn with mismatched blouses not because i cant afford to match them are you kidding me but because thats the brand. you know that fabindia look. the stuff goes great with shades so i can step in and out of my armchair liberal look whenever i want to. you can stop judging me at least i care about equality. and human rights. also i paid for this shit. i mean this isnt your 200 kurta that was bought on a bargain off the streets this was available only in 4 sizes catering to international standards the smallest size available was still gigantic for the native me to fit into but i still took it. i deserve some respect. its almost sad how some alter them though hand them over to tailors seated behind rusted sewing machines. if all you wanted was for the clothing to fit you might as well have shopped at max. but of course i support individual s right to choices now that i don my liberal attire. one should shop wherever they want to. my fabindia style was also inspired by a certain left leaning uncle who happens to be a women empowerment evangelist. back in the day he had my aunt quit her job to feed his insatiable stomach three times a day. i mean food is important you know fabindia hangs loose and comfy against his throbbing skin on blood that s boiling for other women s rights. i havent been to sarojini nagar since i got my first fat paycheck the chaotic air and the crowd slathering their sweaty bodies against mine isnt worth it i realized. again i m too busy attending the meet up litfests i mentioned before. now i m one ofthem. although i admit i have heard awful things being accused of the fabindian style not everybody can afford it. but come on its affordable for almost all i cry. all except the impoverished artisans. and you. i mean if everyone could afford it i would go unnoticed in a sea of kalamkari weaves and ajrakh prints that isn t the status symbol i pay for. i seem to have mentionedclassy make thatclass marker shall we. the other day an ambitious junior walked into my cubicle while i was browsing through the website catalog on my pc. that seems like a reasonable price for a fabindia kurta. i can finally afford one myself she seemed delighted. dear i tell her genuinely apologetic and squishing a fly that as its final bad decision landed on my 9k kota sleeve. thats the price of the dupattathe model s wearing with the kurta not the kurta itself i had to explain to the poor girl no pun intended. thank god fabindia upholds its values. hopefully she knows she can buy an entire wardrobe at sarojini market for that money make that four. the dyes from both places are going to run out when you wash their clothes anyway. i hit post on my new instagram picture captioned couldnt find a blouse to match but this doesnt look too bad does it hashtag ethnic hashtag handloom hashtag indian fashion. afterthought i feel qualified enough now to add hashtag human rights. another picture maybe. nbsp  hello my name is ugly do not be fooled when they tell you you re something but and beautiful you re fat strong and beautiful you re skinny enduring and beautiful it just means you aren t good looking it means they re happy to not be switching lives. i ll let that sink in. i ve been called something with a side of beautiful for far too long for your soul they said but they haven t even heard my story yet. you know what i d like to hear what they really mean. so tell me i lookugly tell me i m not the fairest nor prettiest nor anywhere close to being lovely and i would thank you for not being nice it s not an insult to me nor do i find it impolite. tell me i don t fit into any of the boxes you ve created it s alright for a box with my name on it isn t to have your signature but mine. so save the sugarcoated bs for another day another soul and i ll take your compliment with a smile. give me some credit for being strong i ve lived with this for a while. ugly is aesthetic and i can deal with that know that i too am happy not exchanging lives. and i maybe inspiring i maybe wise i maybe all that you claim i am but please do not call me beautiful just yet. i haven t even shared with you my story yet. my mother is vehemently promoting mud vessels in the kitchen disapproving all things aluminum. i have reason to believe she would ve done away with steel as well were it practical. hence it is that i m ladling simmeringmoru curry in a mud vessel one of three we have at home with a steel spoonat 6 55am. i m not usually up at 6 55am. you would think i ma spoilt brat but truth is my brain is wired to be in dazed mode for the rest of the day when i wake up even 60 seconds before seven. i only survived jk s 5am physics tuition because i loved him. but i m early today. up because i was never down. last night was mostly fretting over our pregnant cat who disappeared day before yesterday and hasn t returned. she had been lying on a cushioned settee since evening decided to leave by 11 and hasn t visited all of yesterday. when i say our cat if you re malayali you d know she s not really our cat. poocha shere are like the jackfruit mango coconut trees in our compounds famously called chakka manga thenga trio. some call it a distasteful usage where did you get that from they ask unimpressed. why everywhere. and everyone. d now shut it. so yes cats are like them you have at least one by default if you live in a house as opposed to living in a flat apartment. you cannot keep your own cat or grow your own mango tree if you live in a flat. we ve always had cats because we ve always lived in a house and we ve always been an especially cat animal friendly family. i m not sure but i think central to malayali cats hanging around kitchens is the fact that they expect all our fish. cat human relationships must be sad in non fishy states they start by walking in and out the kitchen door to make sure the mother spots them. the key is to remember humans love to say no the first time around it s their privilege. the rejection and almost outright denial of entry to the kitchen house must always emanate from the mother. this has to be followed by gradual cozying up to the kids first later to mother herself who holds key to fish and everything else cats want. meanwhile your dog has already welcomed this other tiny ier being. sometimes the canine even starts aping the tinier one because they exude such mettle and spunk. and ayou can pet me but nobody owns me vibe. with nobody to stop them now fathers are quite irrelevant in the cat world this is followed by an invasion of the settee and sofa one by one until humans have acquiesced to the claims of the new member on family furniture and acceded to the revised norms around the house. then the cat would relax have kids and more kids until you can draw out their family tree in your head to explain who is whose who to bored relatives. our ownpoochakutti not really kutti and not really ours has given birth at least thrice this must be his fourth. we refer to him as avan eda masculine. yesterday amma had saved up three fat fish heads for him but henever showed up. it was a sad day. so i was wondering last night if he wouldbe holed up somewhere warm how many kittens there would be and so on. the moru curry is almost done whenmy mother announces well look who s back finally and i only want to know are the kittens still inside. they are out yay. d nbsp i forgot to mention the final step after house invasion the lap. which was also the last best scene frompoochakkutikalude veeduby t. padmanabhan nalinakanthi. when it was taught in class x i remember smiling broadly it s a scene from home of course my mother doesn t pet cats or kittens she disapproves of excessive pda to them. some days when we got back in the evenings from school amma would be reading the daily seated unusually steady. with only her glasses and forehead visible the paper would block the rest of her from view. when you got close enough you d see the four pawed little thing seated on her lap with its limbs under its body eyes engrossed in meditation and the human striving to let it stay unperturbed. d nbsp  day 1 i m just feeling a little tired and a lot sleepy in the afternoon day 2 just a little tired rest of the week oh i m killing this. guess i m just one of those people that can live on 3 hours of sleep a day. i knew it saturday collapses doesn t get out of bed for 4 days  hard boiled eggs ham sandwiches bacon jars of potted meat scones and homemade jam crusty loaves of freshly baked bread slabs of butter fresh farm cheese red radishes and lettuce apple pies short bread biscuits and homemade lemonade. ring a bell there s more tongue sandwiches that s the giveaway cold ham bacon and egg sandwiches pork pies tinned sardines bars of chocolate potatoes gleaming with melted butter jars of fresh clotted cream fruit cake jugs of milk cherry tarts and ginger beer. i got real hungry when i put this list together. food writing must be the best thing in the world in what other genre would you not be irked by the author s overuse of fresh fresh farm cheese and fresh clotted cream are a blessing i first read enid blyton without a clue of what scones bacon tarts pies were and could only hope tongue sandwiches didn t serve real tongue. when famous five and secret seven went on their picnic teaparties i would re read the list of foods they got packed savoring every single one slowly. as if drooling the first time wasn t enough. the faraway tree with its land of goodies and birthdays was every kid s dream treat though after sometime i restlessly turned pages to find the land of stationery there was none. i mean what about tiny aesthetic perfect edged faber castell erasers what kid isn t obsessed with sketchpens and color pencils only flavored jellies and macaroons honey filled pop cakes popsicles and icecream pound cakes dipped in white candy and blyton s regulars of boiled eggs ham bacon and cucumber sandwiches could make up for it. but the start of term great feast fare in hogwarts was never as tempting as a plainly written enid blyton afternoon tea menu. roast chicken boiled and mashed potatoes are all i recall and the movie scene where ron chows down chicken legs. of course there were grand coursemeals with bacon beef lamb and steak yorkshire pudding and gravy but i was happiest during the burrow visits where molly weasleyperpetually tipped sausages and fried eggs onto plates and sent extra helpings of chicken pie flying around. would i want toindulgein the elaborate spreads described in books not really rousing or is it torturing my senses is indulgence enough. and only enid blyton can make cucumber sandwiches seem so appetizing. though i d like to taste the gruel porridge from oliver twist because the way sister pramila mouthed thin watery soup in class 6 englishmade it sound like sheregularly prepared it at the conventand it was in fact delicious. and french onion soup there was so much of it in the harry potter series it pushed me to google the recipe i mean i m not that kind of person. i had pictured it a faded pinkish brown with soggy yet not mushy half rings of onion submerged in a thick creamy broth. savory than sweet. maybe i ll try cooking it someday. i like soup. ps i think this is the most fun i ve had making a blogpost. my salivary glands are exhausted. . i consider myself privileged to have been alive the day india decided to go cashless november 8 2016. with no tv set in my room i only knew when my roommate arrived around 9 30pm exultant and jumping i m so happy now all my ias uncles are going to jail. if you think this is going to be yet another article slamming the demonetisation drama debacle come on it came in a package then no. too late for that. and i know even the people that only scroll down their fb feed had enough of it. the trolls felt distasteful after a while probably on account of mocking a mockery that was playing out in real life. i mean it s all funny until you run out of money yourself. don t get me wrong i m all for less cash economies. but if you re anything remotely indian or have really visited this place and not just prosperous pockets of it you d know we re lightyears away from a cashless economy so who were we kidding who was kidding who might have been a better question but i hope all questions have been appeased by now. casual fun fact about me my stomach can t digest beef. now that casual lynching s been crossed out read on knowing that the author s still alive. anyhow this post is to share my favorite news article from the past one year. i guess it took a while to make it to the blog mostly because there were trolls satire and what not being churned out everyday on the topic and i generally dislike commotion. i copypasted in case you didn t want to left click on the link. it happened in delhi. digital village asks what s netbanking the hindu 09 02 2017 digital village asks whats netbanking around 10 days ago a team of delhi government officials handed over two pos point of sale machines to kirana grocery store owners surat singh and ramesh kumar both residents of surakhpur village in najafgarh on the delhi haryana border. the officials taught the two how to use the machines. on wednesday when the hindu visited the village where the front walls of most houses are plastered with cow dung cakes it found mr. singhs machine safely locked inside a drawer in the shop. mr. singh 60 who runs the store his wife raj kor said i run a small shop. people come here to buy basic items and the bill amount is usually low. for other necessities they go to delhi. who will bear cost he said initially some curious customers tried to use the machine but now there were hardly any requests for online payments. mr. singh does not know who will pay the internet charges for the machine whose plastic cover is still intact. also the internet connectivity is poor in surakhpur. most of the time the server is down he said. the approximate population of surakhpur is 1 500 and the nearest bank and atm are around 3 km away in mitraon village. this effort to promote cashless transactions in surakhpur started on december 26 when sub divisional magistrate anjali sehrawat along with her team inspected the area. a camp was set up and people were asked to get their aadhaar cards made and fill up forms for opening bank accounts. the purpose was to ensure that in each household at least one person has a bank account. surakhpur was chosen for this pilot project due to its less population said ms. sehrawat. two workshops the officials held two workshops at the chaupal a meeting place for the elders and taught the villagers about netbanking and e wallets. led screens were installed for the demonstration. after providing the pos machines and opening bank accounts the project was over. on tuesday the delhi government officially declared surakhpur as the first village in delhi to be fully digital payment enabled. but most residents here particularly the women are clueless about the project. the literacy rate in the village is low and not everyone uses a smartphone. meenakshi a 22 year old mother of two said she had never been to a bank. i dont think any woman here knows how to withdraw money from atm leave alone making payments through phone. like meenakshi most of the women the hindu spoke to said they did not have bank accounts or smartphones. ajit singh a retired central government employee was surprised over the announcement. how can they declare our village cashless or digital when the work hasnt even started he said. water woes another resident amit kumar said he doesnt know if surakhpur is a cashless village but it is definitely a waterless village. the residents still rely on water tankers despite a pipeline being recently laid. the villagers said the piped water is contaminated. some residents even contested the claim that each household has a bank account holder. a resident who didnt wish to be named even wrote to the prime minister office on january 16 after the bank in mitraon village refused to open the accounts of 19 residents whose documents werent in order. even ms. sehrawat accepted that there was still a lot of work to be done in the project. she clarified that surakhpur is not a cashless village as reported by the media. the literacy rate is poor and network connectivity is low. our main aim was to provide infrastructure which we have. now it is up to the people to make payments digitally she said. i do not know if officials followed a target based approach on attaining digital villages but after all we re the nation of ramanujam and aryabhatta and an array of astonishingly great gdp figures. surely if nothing else we should be able to produce good numbers no a little twisting here a little tweaking there and we re good to go. nine percent of rural india had access to mobile internet in early 2016. that s a single digit number. it may not seem shocking but it would ve had i asked you to guess the figure first. for non indians who wonder why this is relevant seventy percent of our population resides in the villages. before we bash or hail decisions and more so before taking decisions it s good to put some perspective in place. but whether it s reasonable to expect that in a nation of political gimmicks is debatable. ps for the purpose of closure my roommate s mom clarified that all her uncles cash was invested in real estate they caught all the non uncles in the country though i think. nbsp  miss shodhahad nominated me for the sunshine blogger award back in february 2017. actually it is shwetha spelt shweta but isn t shodha so much better i ve called her that since school. she writes tiny tales poetry and literally anything under the sun that has caught her attention. this might be a good time to mention that i almost immediately get to know when she has read a post of mine because my phone hangs up from the deluge of notifications. it s time to return the favor p check out her blogmy random ramblings. d anyway if any of my readers especially non blogger friends find the idea of virtual awards in the blogosphere ridiculous it almost is. an award would be nothing but a picture you would have to copypaste from your friend s award post onto your own acknowledgement post. like so thankyou shodha for this picture yet another attempt at murdering my phone and for neglecting my neglect and nominating me for a second award. i loved answering your questions d but then the idea is networking and references linking back and the like you get the point so it falls short atalmost. the rules. thank the person s who nominated you in a blog post and link back to their blog answer the 11 questions sent by the person who nominated you nominate 11 new blogs to receive the award and write them 11 new questions list the rules and display the sunshine blogger award logo on your post and or on your blog shodha s questions 1. do you rememberwhy and when you decided to be a blogger of course i remember. i also wrote a post about itjust in case the blog ruined my life and i couldn t recollect whose fault it was. 2. if it were so that you can listen to just one song on repeat for the rest of your life which song would you choose velikku veluppan kaalam or neeraduvan. 3. which hogwarts house do you think you would be sorted out into sorry if you arent a harry potter fan i had to pay homage to my favourite book series d ravenclaw d 4. who is your favourite author confession after paulo coelho back in 8th i haven t followed any author series religiously. but khaled hosseini can make anyone cry so. 5. which famous person do you wish you could be neighbours with sherlock holmes. 6. if you could bring a fictional character to life who would it be also please do explain the reason why you chose them sherlock holmes. then be neighbors with him. then ask professor watson if i can work with him on his blog. i too hate myself for saying that let s not sabotage the plot. 7. if your blog had a playlist what songs would be included despacito iris the middle hawa hawai an irish party in middle class pinneyum pinneyum love you zindagi tonight i know up amp up hymn for the weekend chinna chinna asai budapest hey soul sister did i take this question too seriously 8. do you have a favourite book to film adaptation if so which one any adaptation that i liked was only because i read the book after watching the movie or because i never read the book i think. i can watch chamber of secrets over and over cos of the former. 9. if the world were to end tomorrow what would you do today 1. have a panic attack 2. remember everyone s dying so it s alright 3. gather my family which might take a while since it s a big one now 4. ring up friends one by one to tell them i was off whatsapp during the last couple of months sorry for no messages i love you. oh that was a good one shodha. 10. name your favourite tv show and at least two reasons as to why you think its awesome. i hardly watch any these days so favorite youtuber ryan higa. original content. doesn t post bullshit even if that means losing out on views ads revenue. 11. whats your greatest fear you know the incidents you feel guilty about thinking they were your fault and you have nightmares about them just me okay. greatest fear is coming to know they re true. inominate nipun road to roadblock anu frank prem laya my black rusted harp owning a dog with anxiety niall o donnell sunith perceptions inspiresn my questions 1. is there a country you have always wanted to visit and if so where 2. what do you do on a rainy day 3. what is your favorite book or if you prefer your favorite author 4. what four people would you invite to a dinner party contemporary historical or fictional 5. if you could live in a book tv show movie which one would you pick and why 6. how did you start blogging 7. whats the story behind your blog name 8. if you could talk to your younger self what would you say 9. is there anything you would change delete from your past 10. do you play an instrument 11. if the world were to end tomorrow what would you do today  i can drink tea directly from the steel tumbler at home the smaller one with the steel handle only when ihave prepared it. because with amma s tea there s enough only for 4 modest sizedglasses or 5 or 6 based on how many of us are missing from home no more. and why would you drink from a tumbler if your glass had as much tea to offer unless you didn t want to bother washing that extra glass. we also have in our kitchen the steel tumbler with the steel handle in a bigger size it lets me pretend im chaya adikaling beating tea over the kitchen sink that temporarily functions as a spillover tank for the tea i send flying all over. usually little if any is left by the time im done performing the rhythmic beating adikal. a scaled downdemonstration ofbeating tea. when you really perform the act it should look something like this beating tea chaya adikaling to scale for people who haven t witnessed the sorcery. im a bad witch i guess. also a bad translator. i specifically mentioned the steel handle of the steel tumblers because we also have in our kitchen a steel tumbler about the same size with a black plastic handle that we take kanjivellam rice water and occasionally tendercoconut water in. we dont use it for much else it lays abandoned in an unwieldy corner of the kitchen until somebody falls sick. and then all of a sudden it is everywhere you look. kanjivellam has been claimed by malayali achans and ammas and ammummas and appoopans to have high nutritious quality. some go as far as assigning analgesic antiseptic and antibiotic properties to the magical drink. since the arrival of june the steel tumbler for kanjivellam with the plastic handle has taken over my home. nbsp evenings are for tea. mornings are also for tea but morning chayawould be amma s monopoly. i like to be generous with tea both for myself and others. it helps that im bad at discerning proportions unlike my mother. there is not too much difference in our processes only in our products. ammas chaya served in glasses 1. pour enough water in the vessel for 4 5 6 people 2. when it boils add enough kannan devantea powder akachayappodi 3. add enough boiled milk followed by enough sugar define enough quite ambiguous yet not exactly uncertain rather open to interpretation. are we doing modern art enough is enough my chaya served in glasses and a tumbler 1. pour water in the vessel. take some out if i think its waay too much but otherwise i do not meddle. like i said im generous. alittle too much water a little too much tea. and that never hurt anybody. no 2. add tea powder when the water boils enough chayappodito color all the liquid doesnt matter what shade as long as it appears brown. if not you probably shoved in the wrong condiment. throw out the water discreetly and start over. 3. add milk how much ever is left in the paal paathram also did i mention im generous. 4. time for more tea powder because you knew that was waay too much milk before i even added it. yes indeed waay too much is amma s daughter s catchword. definewaaytoo much that s cute you ll know. 5. sugar usually followed by some more tea powder. more sugar. what be generous. and there you have it. the path to attaining high bp. but that never killed anybody. no nbsp  from upsc prelims paper 2017 when you read statement no. 3 and wonder was that sarcasm or maybe it s upsc s way of presenting to students a light hearted moment in the middle of a stressful test waaaait is this a tactic to screen for anti nationalist tendencies if so screen in or out omg has the day come answer is option a good to know that was uncalled for. or maybe it s a screening out process d for those who want to know how my test went maybe i ll write about it in another post. one exam joke is quite enough for a day. here s the full paper civil services preliminary paper 1 general studies 2017  it s most untrue that ihave no chill. in fact i m probably the most fun person you ever met when provided with fair warning. well in advance would be great. i lived a major part of my life thinking were a poor family. it started when i was really young like 5 or 6 was confirmed by the time i was 7 or 8 and stayed until i was done with my 10th 15 years. by poor i dont mean unable to afford meals but more like we have the bare minimum and nothing more. of course we werent anywhere close to rich but i was young and i didnt know there existed such a thing called middle class. yes we were middle class before being middle class was cool. although i thought we were just poor. i mean wed lived in staff quarters since i was born engineering quarters till i was 4 and then medical college quarters i never owned more than 5 presentable to non relatives clothes at a time 4 cousins shared one double bed during summer vacations. that might be enough for a regular child but me being the self centred kid i was it was the more personal stuff that convinced me we were poor. my parents were of the opinion that manichechi my aunt already spoiled me by buying everything i wanted so they were under no obligation to make matters worse. for starters i never got any dolls from my parents barbie or otherwise the fact that i never wanted any doesnt matter. all little girls need dolls okay buy your own daughter some dolls for my sake. and when they paint monsters on the faces and detach all the limbs like i did is when you stop knowing that she doesnt deserve any. i also innocently checked under the frock for underwear there wasnt one probably wouldve highlighted them as well. in the evenings maami our maid cooked us snacks. on maggi days she boiled a single packet of maggi and apportioned the noodles onto three plates. one packet for three okay these were only subtle hints my parents were throwing at me. there were more cruel ones. i dont think anybody could relate to swamy from malgudi days of course more than i could. well maybe achu annan could. when swamy prepared the shopping list for swamy and had to think hard to make sure those few things he jotted down were the only ones he needed and reflected at how his needs were so little i must tell you i already knew he was stretching it a bit too far. of course only to have the list brutally dismissed by his fathers take whatever you want from my drawer i dont have money to spend on all this. i was relieved to know there existed other households like mine if only in books. the first time i asked my father explicitly for pencils i dont know why i remember it this way but it was really explicit he cheerfully replied oh why didnt you tell me you wanted them and bought me a whole packet of apsara hb. the next time i decided to cheerfully ask since i had such a considerate father he asked me what id done with the bunch he bought me the last time. you needed to reason for everything. buying groceries at the margin free market hed stand in billing queue with the full basket and say now go grab whatever else you want quick. pleasantly surprised it was my first time how would i know i picked up no less than what my tiny arms couldnt carry. my father cross checked the items and only what i really needed went in plus 3 kitkats. next time on i had to pick things up before he stood in the queue so he could filter out parus excesses. trips to margin free ended that way me attempting a critical examination of my own choices really i was only trying to decide what i could hope to coax him into buying. we always bought new clothes for onam and christmas and deepavali but it was usually my uncles and aunt who took us shopping so i assumed we probably didnt have much money to spend on that or whatever grownup reason they had. and we never owned anything fancy at home or to wear. at british library we could pick 5 books among the 3 of us from wonderland kids section alright 2 since achu annan hardly cared about it and i was under so much pressure to finish reading as many books as possible while we were there so i could take home other books. and i would negotiate with kannenan how many do you want to take 3 why are you picking that it doesnt even look nice if youre taking 3 today itll be my turn to take 3 the next time. scrunches up face you hate books why d you do that to me mr. kannan why british library taught me i should always space my kids properly. also our medical college quarters was so stuffed with all the furniture. during powercut nights you could hear lagaan songs playing from achu annans walkman and i would be choreographing my way through all the clutter dancing wondrously until my toe hit against a stupid tea pow. ive learned over the years that no matter how big small the living room or even the house my father will find a way to fill it with furniture. so the time that i was very young i dont know if i thought we were poor as in poor poor tight but i knew that our lives had a lot of constraints. also read you cant always get what you want you may almost never get what you want unless your parents are in a good mood especially if it involves spending money. and i took it upon me to correct them if any friends had the notion that college professors and doctors earn reaally well. i dont anymore since they revised the pay scales. i only realized when i was 15 that i d vaguely thought of us to be people without money. some things you dont realize theyre solemnly understood or something like that. what happened when i was 15 my second brother went to college somewhere poor families probably dont send their kids no it wasnt somewhere superposh but you dont know how unresourceful i thought we were. you shouldve seen my face when i asked amma if we could afford it and she replied with a suddenly formal both your parents have been working since before you were born we should be able to afford education. i was furious with her for almost a month after for letting me believe we were poor its still true we didnt have a lot of money but of course i was happy we werent anymore. not that we lived any different post realization. from time to time i complain to amma about how i had to compress all my shopping lists for paru just like swamy did and how having 3 kids was a bad idea and they shouldve had just me. well you turned out fine define fine d she says now get a good job and you can have kids and raise them the way you want. she only says that cos i already told her if i ever have kids ill leave it upto her to raise them. also 2 kids maybe fun but 3 is the best d no we didn t really have projects we had assignments. but they were project work according to the icse institution or was it just my institution so yeah we wrote them up in outlined a4 sheets no you weren t allowed to get them printed and attached a front page titled lt insert subject gt project. in 10th class 2009 10 our geography project was on global warming. kavya was the only one i knew who wasn t relying on the internet for material. our geography teacher had a piece of well meaning advice herself for the class please pick up content from sources besides wikipedia i don t want 45 projects with the same copy pasted matter on my table. also read as ignore first couple of google search results take pains to go beyond the first page if need be. after several clicks on gt next i found myself in that eddyhole of the world wide web with urls that read handmadeprojectessaysforyourhighschool. com and myawesomespeechthatwonthepulitzer. com that s right. i was one click away from unlocking the dark net. luckily i m the queen of abstention so i just carried on innocently with my reading without employing parseltongue. i was on a decent essay even a good one considering the dubious title of the site. but then i came across this one subheading under effects of global warming eradicated diseases will reappear as permafrost and frozen soil in the arctic regions thaw human bodies and animal carcasses will resurface. hence diseases that may have been wiped off the earth may soon find their way to infect us again. i thought it was a joke just the author probably another teen like myself i thought on a lighter note. of course i didnt go after research backing it i mean i just wanted some unsame copy paste okay. so i copied the lines in my sheet all the while wondering if id be summoned to the staff room to explain what my unsolicited imagination was doing in the project work. i saved the link just in case. i also mentioned it to my friends and we had a good laugh so funny right yes so weird. . . funny sure. if only i d been held up for it i couldve forwarded the current news to the teacher with a dramatic caption i told you so. but maybe it already was a hardfact then or maybe teachers don t really read the 45 copy pasted technically it wasn t even copy paste per se it was our sweat and cello pinpoint ink assignments. makes you wonder why you took the effort to click next so many times after all. life is cruel to us nice people. i was 15 was i supposed to know that by then anyway if you dont read the newspaper like me from 10 months ago its been happening what sounds like a spooky supernatural plot the rise of the dead. anthrax triggered by reindeer carcasses exposed from frost thaw being among the latest incidents. i don t know if it was really happening back in 2010 but i m pretty stunned. full story from august 2016 here anthrax outbreak triggered by climate change kills boy the guardian nbsp  yesterday we slept with the ac on almost all through the night. it s hot because our room is on the 4th floor right below the terrace. i turned the ac on a few minutes ago and it smells weird. it s probably pigeon shit or it s pigeon semen says my roommate. the couple does indulge in copulation while occupying the top of our window ac. i mean i don t really know if that s it the two pigeons flutter around and on top of each other quite frantically and my roommate and i take turns to say dude why can t they find another ac once in a while. my only means to confirm is to youtube pigeon sex but i d rather just go with it. either way it smells weird. winter s cool because you just have to add on layers of clothes until you think you are okay to deal with the cold outside. and though you can t get out after a hot bath with no clothes on because you ll freeze in the 2 seconds you take to run for life and turn on your tiny heater and you can t stop itching your wet skin in hot water because it s too satisfying it will leave marks at least you can go 3 3. 5 months without a wax shave because all you wear are sweaters and stuff. you can sleep in bed all day everyday wrapped up in quilts or attend all those littfests happening. but what good are summers also no mango trees in my pg. disclaimer this is a grossly misleading account of how i a non existent guy made it to a non existent service. kindly do not take it to heart or mind or soul. more importantly do not hunt me down. this article is a standalone piece on my path to ias aka indian acronyms service a new pseudo all india service created and tailored to suit the needs of the present government. if you came here looking for the indian administrative service as im sure most of you did i have to tell you this here is the new bomb right now. did you really think the catchy acronymic names of government schemes with no nonsense fullforms grew on trees got it is a result of our pact persistent and unprecedented creative talent and stuff sunny times under football amp fun and shit shit has no ixpansion though and not putting together random words as many think it to be. so here goes. getting into ias is a 3 step process a lot like the all india services but not really. stage 1 the preliminary test although the competition isnt as high as for the civil service test im sure once this article is out the number of job applicants will increase by tenfold if not more. the syllabus is pretty much the same which is everything under the sun. this is to ensure that even if somebody more often than not mistakes us to be an officer from the administrative service which we usually tend to not rectify we should be a convincing one at the least. the exam itself is 50 luck 50 hardwork and 50 qualifying math which im naturally good at. id say another 25 part is played by political correctness. for eg what is scam a save country from amit shah and modi b sp congress akhilesh and mayawati c both a amp b d i support jayalalithaa like i mentioned this is not really an all india service to be apolitical. i owe a lot of my success to luck look up online in case of konanders. for those that dont know its an app allowed in the exam hall accessible only to those who voted yes when mygov asked do you support demonetisation stage 2 the mains exam written pro tip squeeze in at least one acronym in every sentence possible the more it annoys the reader the better. flaunt your creativity even if you have none. this is where they test your skills in balanced articulation neutered criticism etc exemplary tailwagging to central policies. diplomacy here is key kickass excellence in your test. okay ill stop that shit. stage 3 the personal interview this has to be the toughest stage what with the mental pressure et al every two minutes at the loo. present in my interview board was who i will call mpd or mere pyare deshvasiyon not in the least cos naming him might get me in trouble s hologram. i fainted out of sheer awe at the mere sight of it him. would you like some nariyal juice a behind the scenes guy ran to me and asked. you mean nariyal paani yes please i croaked. i knew the panel was impressed. your degree of political correctness has to be breath taking even when your own breath has taken off. so tell us since you fainted et al why do you admire mpd because he is a man with a big heart sir. oh you have seen his mri scans well what do you think the 56 inch chest houses then aloo gobi its his big heart. im sorry to say sos but you sound anti national anal. the rest of the panel turned to him fuming. i thought my job was done. heres my adhar and heres my screensaver it was a cow gomaatha i have a jio sim and i only use paytm. tch tch sorry we misunderstood. well. back to you. what do you think of indias demographic dividend and our rising population sir when the army officers and bsf jawans are working day and night at siachen so that the country sleeps peacefully at night i do believe people should just sleep peacefully at night instead of contributing their share to the population. it is the least we could do. actually the hr member cut in. shit i knew there had been a technical glitch. wasnt indias population actually stabilizing id fallen into their pit. you do know that babies can be made during the daytime dad well thank god. sir perhaps if we could make a policy to empower moral policing groups in the context of pvtda as it already is legalized in case of pda thats when india would really shine and that is how india will become digital. i knew i was almost there. the cherry on top coming up. or we could play the national anthem in loudspeakers in every locality every few hours thatll terrify them out of their wits and beds. at this the 56 inch torsoed hologram got up on his legs and said you. you will join my kitchen cabinet on monday. but sir i dont have a degree in political science i can hardly cook. im sure we can do something about that said the hr guy. he was already on the phone yes its me again well need another couple of certificates. like i said the interview is a little unconventional but if you get through youre a quasi public servant ias officer. you also get a jio subscription for lifetime complementary. i soon got married to a rich businessmans daughter on account of my job title wink. she almost kicked me out when she found what the a stood for. her mother was about to hurl at me my beloved miniature figurine of un adjudged the most charming pm in the world kuch bhi when i remembered and yelled the car i still get the car with the red beacon oh well why didnt you say so in the first place son come on in my mother in law beckoned. indian parents. nbsp ps this was written after i learnt what prasad stands for. i mean seriously. do evenings still make you miss home they ask. pfft no not any more that was almost a year ago when id just left trivandrum. it was new year and we were supposed to celebrate. i knew we were supposed to cos the reading room had remained shut. so the 60 odd souls some unbespectacled like me from the good ol days mostly with specs and clothes worn straight for a week were made to dig up their roots growing from beneath their seats where they sit eating up wifi all day and night getting up only to attend calls and natures calls. the reading room basically shoves its occupants out once in a while viz. holi christmas etc and thats how we know that its been a month or two or a year even. well two in some cases. since we were supposed to celebrate i stayed in my room ordered food and chomp chomped watching julia roberts eating well something between that and sucking in but isnt that how many of us slurp it spaghetti off her italian plate katut sermons in tropical and sweaty bali when you say nothing at all in the middle of a park and singing forever and ever at rehearsal dinner table at the best friends wedding. i slept off somewhere in the middle. when i woke up it was dark and raining. outside the window there were lights and honking from rain induced traffic below. the tall curtains were only half drawn and there was an army of headlights at the signal. orange streetlamps bathed the building in front of mine from under a pigeon was perched on its roof against the deep maroon sky or was it slanting slivers of rain hugged at my panes and more kept beating against drowning everything else with them. and i had that really strange lonely confused clueless feeling when you wake up after an evening nap and the first question when you open your eyes and scan the darkness around is always am i in hogwarts gryffindor living room we must be on our hogsmeade trip i probably slept off. and finally to find out what gingerbeer tastes like. where are the others though then you come to your senses that it isnt hogwarts. you never caught the train never got the letter you missed the feasts and the sorting hat and the quidditch and fred n george and everything else jk rowling had promised. this is when it s worst when you feel like you missed the last 10 years of your life in ignorant sleep when you are reminded that hogwarts was a big big joke on you and even if it wasnt a joke youre 22 now. so again jokes on you. in these deep situations i usually decide i ll make do with chaya if not gingerbeer. so i call for amma. except this time there was no chaya either. so i was just sitting on my bed staring at the window not least because it was an inconsequential jan 1 it always is but because it was evening. alone. achan amma were probably watching the 7pm news in our living room now an old habit that stuck on from the days of doordarshan. he would have attended the janamaitri meeting in the evening and she would now have lit the lamp and he would have shut all the windows to keep out mosquitoes and they wouldve settled in front of the tv after tea. usually it used to be achan amma and me on weekends. usually we would eat the stew i had cooked after extracting the three thengapaal s coconut milk watching om shanthi oshana at 5 pm asianet played that a lot. oh look who else wears shorts at home like paru she says. at least she doesnt look homeless says he every time. oh pinne s yeah right s would surface. it happened so often itis almost a ritual. do evenings still remind me of home some days especially new year s i think. but what s life without a little missing  okay long time no post. life update 1 youtuuuuuuuuube today im a 13 year old girl that wants to marry ryan higa. i always believed the best bloggers are the ones who tell you a lot about their lives without telling you much about themselves. youd know if you know. im not so sure if i believe in that theory anymore also ive been out of touch with wordpress for a while life update no. 2. also i deleted whatsapp and have been off of facebook and instagram life update no. 3. i recently realized i have friends check my blog when jobless or something because apparently its more hassle free than texting calling i can maybe understand but texting seriously. also when have i put up life updates on my blog yeah okay. somebody said i should be happy since i get more views. see thing is im not at that point in life where id rather have views than messages. some day ill edit out and post the 21 drafts from my pc and the 19 from my phones evernote. some day id prefer blog visits over personal messages. that day dear readers is not today. maybe if i were getting paid but im not. so like i said not at that point. yet. also why im not responding to the sunshine blogger award shwetanominated me for. i dont really get awards but then again i dont get them either. but thankyou shodha d will reply and nominate soon enough. i find the award nominate stuff lingo interesting for want of a better word. update sunshine blogger award also i cannot work on the lap for long since i got specs last month life update no. 4 and it hurts i shouldve seen that coming since the movie marathon that began as a part of my personal new year celebration got diversified and extended to over 2 months. from notting hill to youtube to my path to slow but sure blindness. i deleted all superfluous apps from my phone right after i got diagnosed with myopia okay it s just shortsightedness but its not just shortsightedness its the onset of you know what. in my case that is i just know it. with specs on i look like the annoyingly prodding kid that goes whats this whats that why is this like this why is that like that i hate them too. life update no. 5 youtube to whomsoever it may concern just to be clear im not getting paid for this or for anything else i do as a matter of fact if youre from trivandrum and especially if away from home you should watch uppum mulakum d lilly singh funn and relatable if youre from india. oh look at me all fancy pretending to have non indian readers. slowly realize its for high school kids so move on to. . brandon rogers offensive. savage more often than not. cusses a lot. scary shit at times. not for the faint hearted i skip some of it truly madly deeply. or the easily offended. or the nice people. but genuinely cleverly creative makes you go i could never have thought of that if youre me but then youre not me so i guess theres no point but youd know if you know. ryan higa clean neat smash. puns and sarcasm creativity and i might as well add good looks. i m a bad advertiser and an even worse seller but it is more than fart jokes trust me. i dont mean to sound racist or anything but i didnt know you could crush on chinese japanese korean guys. something about that sounds racist especially those chinky hashes i think. i had a couple of friends whod go all k popish lockish someish and i distinctly remember watching a couple of their videos in school after sreya mentioned it they look great but again they all look alike. now i know i just never tried. did i mention im a troubled 13 year old girl today. if youre racist like i used to be youd find ryan higa similar to all the other chinese japanese korean guys. except jackie chan and psy and the pen pineapple apple pen guy. oh god that sounds like the most racist thing ive ever read. but then he s american so not even. and hes funny. also he dances. dies just between us um the best ps life updates are cool but i hope you know they aren t what they claim to be. nothing on the internet is. thanks. i had decided when i was pretty young i knew what to ask him for when i got my wishes if ever. id ask for a cupboard full of apsara extra dark pencils pearl white faber castell erasers and a thick coloring book and paints id ask for a nice badminton racket for myself that i wouldnt share and dirtier bruise ier knees a testimony to my outdoor affair. multicolored hairbuns and satin ribbons straight long hair my parents couldnt bob again and a new pair of white socks for school everyday. then id ask why he didnt let some of his kids sleep sound at night. why i was young but never blind why only some ever woke up with swollen eyes so maybe a lesson or two on naivety complementary for the not so lucky never so nave. nbsp nbsp  this author is not a blogger or an seo driven pseudowriter. he is a poet do go through his page if you like this one it s a lifetime of imagery brought to life. self explanatory featured images titles ruin blogs. i was at easyday today the store i visit only when i cannot find stuff on bigbasket zopnow at the corner shop that sells parachute oil and jimjam cream biscuits because the queue at their counter kills the last bit of shopping glee. i am not a shopaholic every time i come across something i tend to check my bag s compartment into which i ve shoved all my notes and coins my maestro amp metro cards my apollo pharmacy card and pious achan s visiting card subtracting and summing prices in my tiny brain that slowly shuts down as it plays toils with numbers. i sift through every shelf spending a significant amount of time on the bathing bars rack to read and compare the prices making economic decisions and reveling in the grownup ness of it. i ve been doing this since i was in class 12 and i m not yet sure if there s anything grownupy about it or maybe i just like reading labels. especially creative one liners like enjoy the biscuity flavor of this biscuit. i whiff at every offer every save rs. 5 buy 1 get 1 free before picking my laundry freshener and shower gel and toothpaste and real tropicana and sugar because you can t compromise on other stuff in the grocery list. so i was near the toothbrush rack when i noticed that a couple next to me had been fiddling withsome thing for sometime considerable whisper exchanges and giggles included. i glanced to see it was condoms. perhaps they were uncomfortable in a stranger s presence who was most certainly only concerned about the 14 rupees she d be saving by picking a colgate toothbrush instead of sensodyne and not with the flavor of the condom they were choosing but how d they know that being the considerate co shopper i slowly shifted to the shampoo and conditioners rack and spent quality time with the tubes and bottles i m a very engrossed kinda person don t ask me to do things for fun or to wait until a condom picking couple leaves i ll end up doing it seriously making my way through new year bonanza offers. which is when the girl shuffled and into her jeans tight front pocket the struggle is real she squeezed what looked like tiny condom sachets and brisked out of the shop the guy following closely after. after mindboggling questions of why would anybody steal condoms which come at like rs. 5 i m told of course and the more surprising realization ofoh you can actually steal stuff here i went back to my modest economics. guilty of not reporting the crime i d witnessed. or maybe it was foreplay. i ll never know. the kid s in the pic isn t me it s noyna jeriya or miriam i had bobbed hair until at least 5th standard first line my name is parvathy sarat roll no. 28 i read out from my english composition notes myself page laid out open under my desk. youll have to write your name i added in a hushed tone. be soft sunitha teacher is making her rounds noyna roll no. 26 hissed almost giggling. seated between the two of us the ever compliant and innocent parvathy roll no. 27 was hunched on our request almost lying on top of her answer sheet now scribbling myself away with formidable acumen. noyna and i exchanged messages literally behind her back. how does she know myself she studied for the unit test like we were supposed to we nervously giggled some more. ayyo paru teacher okay next line i am 6 years old. edo shhhhhh shes looking. being equally weak at english or being new to class i c at holy angels isc or more probably because we came by the same blue ananthapuri travels noyna and i were best friends. hers was the first stop in the morning mine the second. we took turns to sit by the window. unless wed had a fight then the person in the mood to edo sorry first would sacrifice their seat as a token of reignited bestfriendship. we ate noynas jamcakes in the evenings that her ammachi bought her blush pink and white with a coating of snowy coconut sprinkles. wed watch sunlight sifting through gaps in clouds and declare god was peeking down at us i was a staunch believer of god when i was with her. for no particular reason another bestfriend duo like ourselves was our enemy we decided we were smarter and cooler and made fun of everything they did and not very unloudly between ourselves. we were innocent and cruel like kids are. life crisis no. 1 english composition no. 2 copy down my family from the blackboard. teacher reads it out for us i have a small family. there are dash members in my family. fill in the dash with number of members in your family how many of you have a brother or a sister goooood you write 4 okay how many of you are an only child goooood you write 3. i waited for the goooood for the 5 member family specimen i represented it never came. was it still a small family if there were 5 members could i write 5 mine had never struck me as particularly small anyway. as the other kids proceeded to copy down the lines i looked from left to right and front and behind to see if there was anyone clueless as me making a mental note to confront my parents and my brothers. jeriya had only one sister. so did roshni parvathy meera pretty much everyone i knew. then i found amina with two sisters d we skipped to the teacher she laughed and said yes as we waited with abated breaths. phew. class ii my family haunted me again. this time i knew i had a small family. class iii gowris adventures with the 10m long python on the road. really yes you can ask my sister she was there too of course we believed her thats what we did share our own stories and believe each others. kids don t lie kids are just creative. she brought to class the whole kitchen machinery toy set gas stove cylinder vessel and the tiny sachin sehwag figure you got with horlicks. under our desk the whole story played out as noyna jeriya and i filled the steel vessel with water gowri delivered the narration she was the best. it s getting late for sehwag s bath. lets put water on the stove see like i said it doesnt sound as good when i say it p. laughter riot and a shouting riot from deepa teacher ensued. class iv group song for school day. a flock of frilled frocks. you girls look like angels i looked like shit. but surely angels with ungrimed and polished black bata buckle shoes and new white socks pulled up right upto where the fat calves wouldnt let them climb up. class v caroline teacher taught us little women in her crisply pressed sarees with stiff pleats. i knew her finger rings and earrings and what sarees she wore them with. on days she didnt i wondered if shed misplaced them the last time and couldnt find them in the morning rush as her own father called behind her paalu kudichitt pooo like mine did in the mornings. you just had to sit and look into your books while she read in her great reading voice. it was a story with christmas presents and bedtime prayers and pudding and drawing pensuls. my life was he man on doordarshan and cricket with neighbours and monsoon mangoes so the new world charm was way too much. in the afternoon english ii class we sat in our blue checked pinafores and ties and shirts as the sun threw light onto the open red corridor outside bent over our tiny texts some shared others on their own. and little women by louisa may alcott would play out. it was about 4 girls whose father was away at some war and her mother kept reminding them over dinner and over prayer how they had to be good girls and how they were looking forward to playing out the pilgrims progress when their father returned. i thought of myself as amy because of my stupid nose though i knew id be jo when i grew up everyone adored jo. though iknew jo was actually caroline teacher especially when jo cut her beautiful long hair towards the end to save money for her family im sorry for the spoiler caroline teacher was brimming with pride giving away her little secret. but jo was the best so i wasnt going to out her. at the year end roshni akhila and i were class toppers and we were asked to pick any book we liked from the school library. we returned to class they had class vi texts with them headstart or whatever makes sense to 10 year olds. my logic was parents would buy us those anyway so i picked what looked like a puzzle games book for kids. as our class teacher skimmed through it and closed it with a grin i noticed it said class zero. yes i think that confirms i had a disturbing childhood. sorry for the abrupt ending though this should ve been posted long ago. and a happy new year  i was trying to click a picture from behind then the uncle braked his scooter and said lelo we are posing viral kar dena it s a happy new year from mr. riding pug d  i shove hair out of my face to see where im going along the road. the black face muffler that reaches up almost to my eyes poking at the lower lashes is fumbling my sight. the fickle hairs theyve never allowed me a thing as a good hair day add to the horse vision. in my efforts to return the unruly waves back in place the tiny transparent cover dangling from my fingers with the packed 10rs boiling hot masala chai presses against my mufflered face an instant burn. almost. across the road next to chinese corner the vadapav poha breadbajji counter and the indulgent after class 10am crowd call to me. my breakfast would be waiting at the hostel. it s probably sticky oily poori today. well the heart wants what it wants. of course my indian hearts been trained well with the co ordinates of the lakshmanarekha of wants lying at 2 inches from safe vadapav. the first time i went to the counter i had to muster up all my mental strength to walk to the outside counter chettan and say bhaiyya ek vadapav playing out in my head all the horrors that awaited my healthyforaweekafterbeingtaxedalmosttodeathbyinfectionsinflictedbyyourstruly stomach. in hindsight a series of poor choices had by then taught me not every infection ends in hospitalization death unlike i my super anxious amma had led me to believe. after the brazenly overpriced and blatantly bland dosa at sagar ratna rs. 167 including taxes but you can probably still sue if something happens to you the 20rupay vadapav was savior of the stomach and soul and precious notes. i stop on my tracks to cross. something brushes against my jeans at the back of my knees i turn right and i turn left to find a black dog with his white patched tail watching the traffic to our right with quiet poise unmindful of the homo sapien next to him. i smile. my eyes the only visible part of my face smile along. an old uncle appooppan on his scooter next to chinese corner smiles. the traffic clears in 5 seconds i turn to see if my fellow crosser approves he takes a step forward and we walk to the other side together. another human exchange of smiles and twinkling eyes later my road companion the object of our joint fascination still oblivious of it all walks away. its a good morning. after doling out yellow rice like poha to 5 customers at once the busy outside counter chettan with his back to the crowd attends to me aur aapko ek vadapao bhaiyya i say letting the pav become a pao. thats how himanshi says it her full lips housing beautiful teeth within curling up to converge to a close. almost. making you me anticipate a boiled egg. or a boiled egg with fillings. pao. he grabs hold of a pao a squarish mini bread bun with baked brown sides i m loling at my definition from its cover on the counter looking freshly baked and warm its not from experience. he carves a side and halves it leaving one end still attached revealing the white bread inside. he stains the white with a tiny circle of red the fiery seeds and flakes awaiting you on their chilli bed. itll probably be a little hot but liquid fire extinguisher in my purple milton bottle awaits too. another chettan behind the counter is chaya adikkaling because i dont think beating tea in long unbroken brown streams is quite the right expression. and no air of pleasantly overpowering spicy richness hits my nose of thick fibrous ginger strands and crushed cardamom and hocuspocus and of course a bucket of water added to a vessel of boiling milk the story of a tiny adorable cover dangling from my fingers. he picks up avada filled with potato goodness places it between the bun halves hands it over to me on the tiny round silver plate after pouring on its side some green chutney with white paneer shavings the chutney i hated when i first had it asking instead for the sweet red. silly old me. making my way out of the immediate crowd i squish the two buns together so it flattens so my mouth can accommodate it. dip and bite. dip and bite. its over in 5. the chain interrupted by calls for more green chutney. how times changed silly old me. the heat hits. i pay the 20 as inside chettan hands over to outside chettan a tray of newly deep fried vadas filled with potato goodness. like golden brown muffins from overworked aninas oven. like tessas nikita chechis love amp butter cinnabuns. or not. but oh what i wouldnt give to live a life full of those. but its time to chill the burn from the hearts wants. i grin as i hear amma in my head avidunnum ividunnum oronnu kazhichitt infection. past the push carts dotting the sides. guavas. apples. oranges. greenish purplish thingies. kithna bhaiyya how much satthar rupay kilo. hiding my inadequate hindi that s ignorant of what satthar means never reveal that you dont know hindi or theyll cheat we like to think they cheat us anyway. bees ke dedo another dude says. for 20rs. arre bees ke do hi milega. 2 for 20 sheri va povam. i leave with my packed and adored tea and my satiated tummy. the overly priced everything except hearts wants dont bother today though cos it s a good morning nor persistent queues at random places directing to hitherto neglected banks that nobody noticed until modi demonetised currency as love you zindagi plays in my head. and i m walking the thronging roads and glancing past photocopy and bookshops arranged back to back and stepping from pavement to road to pavement but really i could be hugging the hard to spot and probably chori laden trees playingkabbadi on the non existent beach or flying a kite thoughiknownothow along the shore because incongruous bits make up your mine though probably yours too whole. but incongruous bits of happy is still happy. there s a girl eating chaat on aggarwal sweets high table outside and i set a mental reminder to return for their pani puri in the evening. kya khoob ye jodi hai teri meri what a lovely pair we make you and me pani puri. the gastric juice in my stomach blushes at the prospects. i can almost hear pazham pori accusing i rhymed with the lyrics too you know. what anice morning. random people smile back at smiling eyes on foot. theres a driverless swift dezire parked next to an empty rickshaw opposite the dry latrine. look at the fairness of the world on this fair morning the muffler lets no smells in swift dezires and rickshaws relieving their ways to ease together. the cute punjabi guy outside the reading room smiles at you no not you me at smiling eyes. the neat gridded roads the electric post thats a brilliantly entangled mess of thick wired loops in all sides at the top the well swept concrete the clothes hanging in balconies swaying in the cool early winter breeze the still on diwali lights the orange streetlamps lit since last night family gardens on scanty ground behind walls of homes shooting flowering trees into the sky. and the nonchalant dog on a parked car sitting up with half of his pink tongue out from a shut mouth eyes closed and fully savoring in the sun cocooning in the warmth of it raising his head to the chorus love you zindagiiiiiii. the last turn to my narrow hostel street with cars parked on either sides. an indica from the opposite direction and a scooter following it i move to the side behind the siderow of parked cars. i can see smiling eyes reflecting on its rear glass i puff my cheeks and raise my brows in the reflection the eyes swell but the muffler hiding the puffed cheeks dont. i receive a sudden jerky bump against my lower half the car right infront wasnt parked after all bollywood music stops playing. a reflex of ayyo escapes through the muffler the car on the left swipes past the scooter uncle chuckles out loud. i get out of the way to the middle of the road. a leash goes off. oh wow no indicators no lights no horns. orperhaps i hadnt noticed. perhaps yet thats no way to reverse your car. when an elated soul is making faces at your rear no wonder they say people are stupid. they who they whoever since when do you backanswer chuckling at a poor soul hit mercilessly by a car. bumped into same thing. cynicism takes over like an obedient hawk repositioning on its briefly empty spot. what if it ran me over of course hed still chuckle at it. and then theyll watch as i bleed to death. i wasnt silly i was right the old red chutney loving cynical me. with a defiant look that shows only in non smiling eyes still i walk. amidst the cruel cruel world of reverse takers and chuckling scooters and smile destroyers its muffler wielding blood boiling victim of terminal bumps and vanquisher of premature death. the vanquisher of premature death soon enters my hostel makes the entry and sees my breakfast loyal to me and to me alone in this cruel cruel world waiting. sticky oily poori i m sure. a cylindrical package wrapped in aluminium foil and a dark brown curry to accompany. oh. ohhh. something vacates a recently occupied seat. i should really watch where i m walking the world isn t all that bad you know the car had hardly touched me. mountains out of molehills. with a smile i take off the muffler grab hold of my breakfast and proceed to my room. putt kadala gets too much credit in my stories i know. im the stuff of dreams. a recurring setting from an old memory brought to the anterior only in sleep. a fantastical land you created to accommodate all that didn t in the tangible world. as years passed you brought with you certain others friends and family from school and college and work. youd jump across rooftops and meld into rainbows youd watch shooting stars flash past as coldplay played in the background. youd come to me in the best of times and the worst of times. and id stir up concoctions customized to the cause swaying the rains and waves while the winds gently chimed. and so on some days there would be fireworks against starry skies on others you would walk the meadows while the sun shined. as a child you d bring along all the lullabies your parents sang to you the humming tunes of young days and younger nights that still resonate within. and then one day you asked if youd sing to your own kids someday. i stayed silent not knowing what to say it can never sound as good anyway. i smiled. time was unkind not that i hadnt tried. they had claimed you after all. until we meet again as you will under pretext of an adult asleep. i know with a knowing for ive weaved all your dreams. some people we meet know exactly what they want and where to find it. like my roommate umadri whos lucky enough to know she loves good music and yummy afghani chicken. her only roommate on the other hand hops from place to place tasting samosas deep fried in god knows how many weeks old oil at the first joint and quickly conjured chowmein at the next consequently contracting infections one after the other. while i am thoroughly exhausted of this exercise in my two months in this city i have found that while writing is liberating blogging which is essentially publishing within constraints brings me happiness. i remember the day miriam asked me to start blogging and i did. i remember the day miriam suggested i come to delhi. two weeks later id landed in this place. while that woman so to speak is to blame for all that im suffering today it also suggests shes responsible for my ongoing slow process of correcting the 22 years of wrong info my system has unapologetically gathered including my coming to terms with the realization that after all veerappan wasnt the ltte leader id mistakenly believed to be from the days of my childhood until umm two weeks ago. shes also responsible for the little dance i do and my shrieks of delight when i find that the entire back page of the hindu has been administered to accommodate modi jis thala and modi jis full figure. chalo ek page kum padhni hai so venturing out in the morning these days involves thanking the gods for the relatively clean air in the early hours and taking a deep breath only to chokingly realize the unwelcome stench from the dry latrine on the other side of the road just made its way in too. and ive almost christened a blessing on that good samaritan feeding the famished stray not before he rakes up his entire energy to passionately discharge spittle onto the pavement sending half of it on a trajectory to land on my shoe. if you can watch delhis starless skies on brilliant nights that tell a story of steady cacophony below and nonchalant splendor above and somewhere far away that speaks of corporate neon lights from a concert hidden from your view that you dont have tickets to and that you arent sure you want to. if you can look past the cramped dirty streets and the dirtier profanity that iphone wielders to your surprise indulge in if you can catch hold of the multitude of roofs around occupied by bhayyas and didis lost in thought and fathom its all in good faith in the future and never desperation. if you can look past the pasted and painted faces on the metro standing on their five inch heels and insecure glances of self reassurance past the daily number of little kids buying icecream golgappe from other kids who d have been called classmates had the rte really trickled down maybe you could love delhi. because surely this city is like many others claim to be an emotion. whether the emotion of flying kites on rooftops eating dahi chaat on a rainy day or of an entire city that let a man bleed to his death on its roads in its wake i know not. sadly though i love my iddali with an a in between yes i instinctly look for thenga coconut before remembering it isnt thoran but sabzi. i am baffled by the sweet sambar before im reminded it isnt our sambar. and i miss listening to velikku veluppan kaalam and aareyum bhava gayakanakkum on akashavani. jk that was around 18 years ago. but i do. and if streets with all sorts of rubbish and a dust spangled surrounding dont repulse you if the daily menu of paratha and thin long grained basmati rice doesnt exasperate you if being charged 30 rupees for a plate of measly vada doesnt leave you feeling violated. if hearing a thankyeww soo muchhh delivered in authentic kerala english doesnt evoke your grinning response of malayali ayrnnalle d so you were a malayali. and mostly if a couple of weeks residence in most other parts of the country doesnt elicit a special sense of pride about your own and of course a rant like this one here you probably werent fortunate enough to be born in my favourite part of the world. ps do not ask me why this feature pic. between banana leaf sadyas and coconut tree silhouettes coastlines and backwaters cities and towns and villages and sunsets and greenery and the arts finally i settled on this i guess. its 6. 30pm and its baking outside. better than it was at say 10 or even 3. but still hot. the sky is a tasteless greyish blue and you spot the tiny orange ball so elusively far from you it makes you feel lonelier than you were before. evenings are the worst time to be when away from home. especially if kerala is home. unlike delhi where its evening till 7. 30 and then its night youre used to evenings that metamorphose into dusk before they turn into nights. in kerala we have a proper slow evening whereafter as twilight sets in mothers hastily wake up lazy tots and grown up kids saying sandhya ayi who then go back to sleep again. its the time reserved for evening prayers and on text study. its the holy hour and it really does extend for an hour. celebrated by the scents of incense and the sight of oiled wicks and brass lamps that you so endearingly associate with your mothers perennial velaku kathicho did you light the lamp. on other days an exasperated amma does it on her own. but you always went there so you could cheat on an extra agarbati and carry it to your room. as the thin wafts of smoke rose while you held the stick you danced it so that the grey grew patterns you watched them against the dark. you also fancied it to be a cigarette when you were young and held it between your teeth before the biting sweet burnt your tongue. evenings at home are chaya always prepared latest by 6 by amma. but i do make it better im good at cooking only one thing but at that im the self declared best. i brew it strong which can raise bp and induce a whole lot of other disorders according to elders. your mother would keep asking to check if youve had your tea youd reply ill have it amma till with a loud sigh shed bring it to you. youd unabashedly grin and drink without complaints. she never complains either. evenings at home are the huge indeed they re bigger back home orange ball slowly traversing the sky in an arc till it disappears in the horizon or amidst a thick green of coconut trees as dusk approaches. traffic peaks too after office hours. many would be rushing home in terrifyingly cramped ksrtc buses and overcrowded pavements some unlucky others would be making their way to night shifts. amidst all of this the trees would be gently swaying relishing the retreating evening sun and the slow cooling air. now that i think of it everything back home is against the backdrop of a cheerfully brilliant and imposing green. because concrete roofs do not define us coconut trees do. sunsets mean a lot to us too perhaps youd like to call it consequential to having a beach. and perhaps you could never expect a city without one to resonate that. what pacifies you in these passive evenings is knowing that someplace else somewhere a little far for you and 4 hours away for an air passenger the same sun is setting amidst undifferentiated green and a beautifully painted sky somewhere not too far from there are kids frolicking in the wet sand and families watching the playful waves as the sun touches the horizon. and a bus ride from there is your home a vessel of still warm tea waiting for you as amma lights the evening lamp. 22. 06. 2016 12. 03 am today this friend rather innocuously enquires if my blog isnt written the way id keep a journal. no hes never actually read any of it somebody told him. maybe somebody gauges his words while making entries in his personal note. maybe somebody has never owned one. what do these mosquitoes have against me again maybe somebody can tell me when where and how he skimmed through mine. maybe i should corner somebody and probe if he keeps drafts and edits them too. as if. enthoru over i am. people like it when you mention them in posts did you know me neither its supernice really they remember. even if you dont. its raining. melancholy miriams favourite writing poems reminds me why i dont write poems. must destroy concrete tales tales of concrete before somebody finds it o btw i posted the incomplete write up about rain people actually liked it. gautham says serious suits my sarcasm. i hardly do sarcasm serious. i was probably attending my kg morning classes when raghuram rajan got married else i couldve married him myself. my handwritings gone bad since i got the lap. shit still busy with ezhil. once meghas were stealing my people now its these tamil ezhils. to do list start driving asap learn a language begin asap youtube channel err learn to say no accomplished below not in your diary complete that resume paru please i beg you in achu annans voice i really need to punctuate more punctuate more now do productive things. life is short the right moment is now life is short the right moment is now wheres the comma unspecified so self motivational i am that should go in my resume buy new phone charger in achu annans voice now do i whip up to do lists just so i can no. that s right i just said no way too many mosquitoes just a sec. back. should visit padmanabhapuram palace someday or maybe just gayathris place it looks almost like it in pics you know a miniature version. byoootiful. ok thats it that ass kothuk can die now its killing me. sons of valak im sure. does valak actually have kids though only humans procreate whyd demons bother they probably manufacture them like those uruk hai thingies in lotr. no disrespect okay wait what i believe in god. ok. ok bye. this is how my diary reads on a particularly fair day. i dont fret about repetitive actuallys or repetitive anything actually. its unapologetically exclamated glaringly chaotic and now that i see it hopelessly disoriented. its most definitely not how i do blogposts. no  a certain south indian childhood part i http wp. me pwwo8 5z this is so beautiful. if you haven t read it already. my favourite season is here. to sit on the window seat of a ksrtc bus watching the looming clouds and romanticizing the things theyve seen on the way. to sip steaming chaya and munch on piping hot ethakkappam from the overcrowded tiny tiffin shack that everyone scurries into as the downpour thickens. to sit on the verandah reading your favourite book and drinking hot kappi. to watch the shadowed buildings and the shady skies with your companion to decide if itll pour. to dotingly complain about not having picked the umbrella amma handed on your way out then carelessly remark maybe the dams will fill this time or hope the rains dont destroy our crops. to sleep in blissfully unaware of the position of the sun. the best weather in gods own country. they said on the news a day ago that monsoons finally arrived. of course i knew its been raining heavily out the window directly facing my bed and indeed in other parts of the state for some days now. ive also been conveniently using it to explain my laziness to get out. before i abused sleeping late and before that it was the summer heat. so i no longer have to spend time listening to neeraduvan wondering rather poignantly what waterbody wouldve replaced nila had my future husband written the lyrics and of course how lucky onvs wife is. after squeezing myself in amidst all the other stuff that occupies it i can now lie on my bed and watch as the sky murky with the heavy clouds tosses light breezes down below tugging at our frames. soon to throw long heavy showers that send forth the cool of moist air and the comfort of familiar odours into half lit rooms invading the stagnant warmth and introducing the new season. and i pretend to be a blogger seeking inspiration before sleep lures me in rather unprofessionally. lets wax our arms and bleach our face thread those brows and pluck those strays. let s curl what s straight and iron what s not indulge in lasers and whatever else is hot. let s paint the lips and double stroke the eyes see us in the mirror and shriek in delight. its why most settle for the trick beauty doesn t come so easy pretty could be anybody. nbsp   i must start by mentioning this is an awfully personal version and a limited one at that as bail for any future complaints. and i swear its completely harmless. because if i told you about the time when vc and the rest of us were walking to gp s place and she naively went up to a guy and said cheta aa mund onn mattuvo athinte adeenn rocket onneduthotte it would be blasphemy. so i shall not do it. did i mention she was playing with a paper rocket but sshh. and if i told you about buharis newly founded self declaredly super efficient onstage technique by which he focuses cough biogas cough into instant energy id be revealing too much. also he might kill me hence i wont be doing that either im not sure how much effort he put into it but i know we were all thankfully shielded from some pretty major shit again sssh. this isnt a goodbye post though because farewells make sense everywhere except in our dance team where its pretty much a farce. not because if theres such a thing in the team as the official farewell gets postponed until it never happens like last year but because youd think youre bidding seniors goodbye and thatll be the end of them but they never really leave p. sure you wont see them in college anymore but theyll always be around with their choreo enthayi or hows practice going and just as you thought you were beginning to miss sreekanth etans upbeat chalis hell show up in college one day with his njan oru chali adikkate reminding you there was never anything upbeat about them and youre still stuck with his annoying jokes even after he got shipped off to bosch d and just as you think youre missing the pillar arjunetan hell appear unannounced at a fest with his flippant quips and make you laugh until your stomach hurts. a little more than two years ago though i wasnt acquainted with room no. a322 if you arent either its our dance room i didnt know any of those i just mentioned i didnt know what lay ahead and i was an entirely different person. lh was where id eat as guest for 20rs from the mess sans the fish because its reserved for inmates. today its where id go with the rest of the team for lunch after 2 its free because mess duty wouldve left by then or for tea in the evening before fests and to 64 during practice breaks to soak sreelekshmis bed in my sweat. she never complained. college was a place to be left no later than 6. 30pm and definitely not where you broke into spells of crazy dancing to london thumakda or mangalyam at a322 at 8 in the night. triples were wild and fun and once in a while today its squeezing three of our asses onto the tiny two wheeler seat every second day to go home or to sirs place. haris enfield and akshays duke from the end of the season dont count traitors getting rich just as we are getting despatched. arjun etans the best dio then dio now dio forever d a full split was a rift between groups in class now its what aswins trying to accomplish in the left corner of the picture below in the mirror. at sirs studio standing in our infamous battlecry photo pose that we never got a photo of. kj and akshay missing. they were busy with er each other. jk it doesnt happen during practice. talks being held at cetaa hall dont mean ieee or iste or edc or any other club anymore they mean chaya vada before practice from outside as long as we pretend we belong to the fraternity inside though its past me how we ever pull it off in our chic practice attire d. and college from two years back was where you went to study though none of it happened not where you sat through and waited for 4 in the evening so you can go to the dance room and meet a bunch of crazy people. wholl teach you the 14 districts of kerala in order and that your phone gets on roaming when you leave the state and not tvm. or maybe its just me who needed the lesson. my parents believe i should do ias geographys my only weak spot you know. who when you weep and complain that a friend didnt let you cheat off their test it was series okay will first console you and then ruthlessly laugh at you for not having legitly failed a test. of course im bragging. the reason why this place is crazy though is cos you spend the first few months in the team wondering if you really belong here and the rest of your college life feeling like this the one place you really do. nbsp i remember when s6 began i couldnt wait to go to a322 every day. days of practice from 9am to 9pm when post 6. 30 evenings turned into major dancing stints outside the choreo prospectus of contemporary and hiphop. of days when ginu almost killed muth on the eve of cultaway 15 of days when the team was deluged with new asus phones of mind boggling quantum of selfies uploaded in the group every evening of celebrating birthdays and dhwani and pulling namis leg and jithus ladio of days when college practically shrunk to that room atop main block. it wasnt unadulterated fun it was euphoria through an entire season of 13 stages. when the most fun moments were after losing sarang and before performing at ragam. with undertones of pazhagikalam and ethu kari ravilum and vinnod nee irundhaaaaaaaal wink. a322 from last season. we missed those evenings this year as dr. david courteously asked us to practise off campus and we dutifully obeyed. cant blame him university youth festivalil event allathathu kondu cup onnum adichittillalo. im sorry he got kicked out of college later though. could have been sooner. but if it werent for him we wouldnt have had all those hilarious days when 9 of us girls cramped ourselves into nanys car to go to sirs place for practice while he on the drivers seat tried to hide his face with someones shawl as a mechanical professor passed us by at the junction. and an odd semester where we jumped from the studio to temple hall to emmaus church meeting hall to indoor stadium and finally back to a322. where the guys miserably struggle to keep up with the girls while we do push ups counting away and muth stands on her head. im not winking or coughing. where discussions loom over mj5 to maroon 5 to mini militia. where stories are weaved and costumes designed from scratch pieces choreographed and portions intertwined. where you miss a step on stage and get off in despair youll laugh about it with the rest of them for the rest of the season and the next. the team is probably also what your parents advise you to think twice and twice again before joining youll listen to them consistently complain about the hectic days no not theirs but theyll proudly watch you on stage and exclaim so thats what the six months practice was about. or theyll say they dont approve of it come watch you at nuals and when asked how it went like anaswaras mom theyll critique you didnt point your toe during the lift. parents d the stage itself is a culmination of sorts of timeless full stretches punctuated by the smell of hair spray and face paint and smoke and the clamour of an audience in anticipation. youd think that the rush of adrenalin before a performance would grow fainter as the stages go by but it doesnt. and the jubilant cheer that bears the team name as you get on or off the floor only grows on you the initial boos that invariably turn into indiscriminate cheers as the dance proceeds only get you addicted. there are unending on stage tales thatll crack you up. like that of ginus knee drop that was done an entire half minute early she spent the rest of the minute doing a whole 360 degree rotation to see what steps the rest of us on stage were upto and then calmly waited for us to catch up with her. the real tales of ours though lie offstage. not just those of the hiphop choreo days when boys had practice all through the night until morning after which they brushed their teeth and proceeded to classrooms only to be asked to leave after being caught sleeping. every person here has their own stories to speak of some of them more personal than others and some more painful perhaps. of how they lost count of stitches done or of how they stayed put at the expense of sacrifices made. chances are youll have one to say for yourself if you belong to a performing clan. like a kdp whos in bed with fits of a 104 fever at 12 and goes on stage at 2. or a kevin chetan whos resting with a plastered leg thats practically warped and is yet the first one to jump up with lets go when he hears theres a stage to perform. or an anu whos exhausted her physique to the point of collapse and yet turns up at a322 every evening. or a nipun who when the rest of us are down on the sac floor in tears after nanys accident wondering if wed ever have the courage to don dancing shoes again let alone perform minutes later when the rest of us are too shaken to even think clear and when he has every reason himself to break down delivers a goddamn soliloquy and steers way for the team for nany whod wanted it the most. or even a nany injured in his costume after getting ready for the stage and hospitalised with a skull fracture and two clots to his brain the first thing he utters on gaining consciousness and hearing his team went on to win saarang is you couldve waited for me i wouldve performed i just had to get a ct. these are the stories that make up our team these and a hundred more. of days of going home to the hostel exhausted after practice falling on the bed and not getting up until next day. of waking up feeling like you never slept and then proceeding to drag your ass to class for attendance. of stretching your arm to pick up that book to prepare for a test then deciding against it because it hurts too much. of missing calls and weddings and reunions and parties and hangouts and deadlines you didnt even know existed because college doesnt revolve around class department or anywhere close to it anymore. of a day when it hurts because of a splintered arm or a wounded inside or of a day when your minds a mess. yet you pull yourself together and hug them all go on stage and surprise yourself and you wonder how you did it. ours arent tales of wonder or awe but tales that reek of ache and compromise and are drenched in tears and sweat. and if you remember those once sore joints and overworked muscles that became a part of you youd know it isnt surprising if miscomings do not deter the squad. and if you remember those relentless cramps and used up cans of volini and almost empty bottles of murivenna and the thirumals youd know how the show goes on no matter what. because nobody said itd be easy. they just said itd be worth it. the best part about the team seniors. at the iit irctc canteen. clicking this was followed by tons of food and 6 hours of craziness. including a shebin chetan and gp wholl make you laugh when you tearfully lose your first sarang then go on to play anthakshari at the irctc canteen from 12 to 6 in the morning. and a sreekanth arjun and aswathy chechi without whom we wouldnt have won the next time. kickass seniors we have yes d i still remember our last snit fest from last year. until then i didnt know there were engineering colleges with swimming pools atop beautiful hills going where feels like a bloody awesome excursion trip. we were accompanied by sreekanthetans thor tee that came with us for every fest in its never been washed self with the excuse of being lucky. i remember how we loitered by the poolside and watched the familiar teams arrive ran through the rain and took a million selfies in finally my awesome new lenovo phone. and thats the day arjun got locked out of his house because he returned with his friends car past 12 midnight when hed promised to return by 4 in the evening. hes passed on the baton to sangeeth now. i remember returning home in arjuns car the cool after showers night air swept in as devika chechi said cant believe this is the end for us final years from the window seat. i can recall every little nuance from that trip. and i could recount every single detail from that day like it happened yesterday perhaps cos its one of the best days of my life. no i do not throw superlatives around like shit. thats why its sad to know that its our turn now that therell be no more routinely arranging and rearranging those desks and benches of a322. no more of sitting on the courtyard steps of lh with the rest of the girls sipping tea while a familiar face asks innu fest ondo no more standing on the surreal side of the stage while listening to the chorus of cet or watch the freakz. thats why its heart breaking because this was what we loved the most about college and for some of us the only thing we loved. anus erangiyooo that transcends corridors and lh walls. nami regularly not sleeping on trains. kdps push cart and his forever cool. all the times when anjaly got undopingly stoned d burping after eating too much of nipuns biriyani oh wait theres always another ragam. pratheekshas slapstick remarks and aaaaayyyy. akshay s adventures with meen. ill try my best to not miss nany or nikita though they can do the missing themselves as long as no curtains are destroyed. whenever i chance upon if i lose myself ill remember the rainy days at the studio dancing with jithu and the others and the unfinished story of our group duet. ill miss waking up half dazed in the morning trying hard to remember if we sweated too much during previous days practice because otherwise never mind ill miss stuffing freshly washed practice dress into my college bag every morning p ill miss ringing up arjun before practice on weekends and nagging juniors to drop me home and listening to hari and sangeeth and arjuns stories haris the nicest kid around btw did i mention. ill miss the workout chit chats and the ladies hostel my version of it anyway. ill miss 64 during practice breaks and sreelekshmi and lekshmi. i ll miss aswathy and her tales of her brother. ill miss seeing nanditha around the dept ill miss her ransacking my bag for shit in the evenings ill miss sharing upper berths in general compartments and talking until the apoopan below politely asks if wed like to shut up and sleep. ill miss ginu from class from 48 from a322 from her home and her beautiful family in aluva wrapping ourselves up in early morning buses to offset shivering to death but mostly the one who plays with paper rockets and engages in mindless monologues. all the triples while being squashed in between or holding on for dear life at the edge of jingling coins in pockets and asking around for loose change to add up to 10 for one lime at chechikada for a team of 21 of surprisingly never missing a 4am alarm to beat and cook 20 eggs before morning trains of journeys dotted with umpteen stories told and retold of seniors unexpected visits and juniors pestering for treats. and somewhere in between laughing our asses off at each others hilarious military poses and our old age acting workshops between tying nany arjun etans hair to create pretty girls and practise at 10 every saturday between hari dubiously handling someones schoolbag at his tuition and an 8th standard kdp crushing on his teachers daughter between sitting down with vivek etan or sreejith sir listening to their stories and anjalys updates about goldfather between those train rides to madras and cycling through forest lined campus roads at 4 am i guess we all fell in love with this team a bit more than we knew. thats why i love this place because it gave me people who could turn my days around. it gave me a bunch of faces who made mine light up with a beaming smile every time i saw them because theyre a piece of that part of my life where i found happiness of a sort i didnt yet know existed. nbsp there are certain things thatll come across your way in life youd just know its one of those once in a lifetime gambles thatll change the shades of your day. maybe itll repaint your black and white hues with a tinted rainbow or maybe itll turn the sepia pages into an orchestra of brilliant strokes. you wont know if itll be for the better or for worse you wont know what exactly would come out of it a lot like when you fall in love. itd look unfamiliar maybe even a little daunting yet intangibly amazing at the same time. and once youve tasted it theres no going back to the way you were before because nothing less real will do. years down the lane ill perhaps bump into an old costume or a random picture of the team or a can of brown hair spray or an unlikely orange stocking hung out or a wedding playing bellas lullaby thatll send forth a deluge of memories. and id pause and ponder for a minute or two about how we spent days and nights of college days within a class room coloured in our sweat atop the main block how we fought for that last bite of lh sandwich or the last sip from bottles of water how we watched the rain from the shady corridors and dozed off on our dance rooms cool floor after practice how we travelled from college to college ticketless in trains and wrapped together in buses how we shed tears together and laughed a hell of a lot more. and how within the boundless walls of our team seniors and juniors dissolved into family. i dont know if ill tear up then. i dont know if pratheeksha and nipun would have kids by then. but i know ill smile as i remember this was the best thing that happened to me. to us. team watch the freakz in 3. 2. 1. go nbsp nbsp  note specific references may not get across unless you are acquainted with some of the people mentioned. im listening to thiruvaavani raav and for some reason the only thing that comes to mind is the pretty bespectacled sister from the movie and rohit going enthu nalla kuttya alle as we leave the theatre of course thats not really how he put it p the others nodding and sheriyaing in approval. next on my playlist is probably some other track with some other strings attached. its all fine when youre still in college and have that sudden rush of memories the subjects in question are always in sight even when you might want them to momentarily disappear once in a while. in a few weeks though the scene would disperse and all thats left would be cords and contacts. apparently facebook thinks its time for deep questions now since college is almost done. pretty sure i didnt learn concentration at cet. badjoke level bharath. dont judge me. and now to answer this audacious query. i remember the first day of college like it was yesterday. it was raining in the morning i wore my navy blue kurta and black jeans sceptical if i was shabbily dressed for college. i remember how i walked up the steps of golden walkway under the umbrella amma had handed me in the morning with her customary kondu kalayalle paru. i remember smiling at the drenched and dripping trees on either sides of the walkway that swayed happily in the breeze as if ushering me in. i had one used 200page notebook from school in my bag there still were many blank pages left. they wont actually teach on the first day no yes they will note that facebook. i wondered if thered be seniors waiting in class to rag us. i wondered what the subjects would be like what the teachers would be like but mostly what the students would be like. and i wondered what sandhra and bharath would be like they were the only ones i had become friends with on fb after orientation day. i got answers to all the speculation from my first day in class never mind if they were right or wrong. i rushed home that evening to tell amma i wouldnt survive four years in this place. 4 years potte i wont survive a month there ok nithya and gopika are in the other class amma are the kids in your class not nice the ones i talked to seemed fine. but theyre not kids not like the ones from school anyway. well youre not in school anymore. onnu kekkuo there was this girl athira from kozhikode shes the first person haneena and i talked to haneena is nice shes from palakkad and she was just talking to us but we thought she was ragging us okay so rude and shes in my class see you already made friends from two other districts amma laughed. onnu povuo then theres physics chemistry and maths. those things were supposed to be over with entrance no rest are all basic this basic that bme bce bsc and abcd this was a status i put up during first year university. even design is better than this shit lol. okay lets join all saints next year appo paru can study arts mathiyo blah. i wish i were in some other department. any other dept i went on to complain about my class that there were way too few people from trivandrum and all the nice by which i really meant familiar people seemed to be from here. four years past that conversation turns bogus and the nicest of all people you meet in the 4years here have to be from kozhikode. and the nicest people i met here list would go something like athira from the first day yes divya anapi roshni niranjana nidhin renjini navas sreelekshmi lekshmi thasni ginu arjun only because its my list d i should probably mention its an incomplete one just in case anybody from my batch is accusingly glaring at my post. and i can never thank god enough that i didnt end up in any other department anything to do with circuits would have killed me. where else would i be expected to dig pits on the ground and have 12th std chemitry labs and mix concrete using shovels with picture perfect lab groups that comprise another parvathy as thin as me for moral support in times of nervous breakdowns an oormila for the timely completed rough record and a pramod to discuss episodes of chandanamazha with d nbsp nbsp the first one and a half years of college nithya and i were busy deriving cough inspiration from seniors cough she might actually do civil services given the quantum of all the inspiration d and tagging poor gopika along everywhere we went. so if anybody had a crush on anybody and it was public knowledge i never came to know of it until third year. if two from my class became a couple in that time i never heard of it until third year either. there was drishti and dhwani and ici and lots of running around everyone was eager to get to know everyone. all occasions from birthdays to buying new chappals were celebrated together in class by all well obviously not all until stuff settled down. by the end of it nithya gopika and i were arguing as to whose class was better lol. come to think of it we still do. confession the first time i cried in my entire life for somebody from class being rude to me was in second year. yes that happened and shemeena the pacifier wanted to know if i planned to weep every time somebody decided to shout at me its up to you to ignore the shit people throw at you especially when you know its shit. no she never used those many shits but its pretty much the gist of what she said. the day i truly realized college wasnt isnt school. everyone is different here. somebodys idea of awesome is somebody elses lame. somebodys fun is somebodys boring outrageous. somebodys rude is somebodys normal and everybodys going to unapologetically be themselves as they should. and if somebody throws shit your way you could ignore them altogether or you could just ignore the shit and be cool even if you dont think they deserve it. its not called being fake its called growing up cos you realize everyones wired a little differently. but idk what its called if youre smiling at them and solemnly hoping theyd get hit by a truck im not that evil so i wouldnt know p that was the first and probably the best piece of advice i received in college. 4 years past a lot has changed. no more shallow small talk and pointless socializing and definitely no more celebrating the new pair of chappals. but ive reached the point where the captions from first year newplace newfriends newlife have turned to amazingpeople lastfewdays and memories made that will remain. so holi will always be a reminder of this day d and tum saath ho will forever be the vocal team comprising vinaya oormila niranjana roshni divya revathy and malu seated on the last bench of s8c1 and almost resolutely singing the song in chorus. i dont think malu sincerely put in her efforts though cos it actually sounded good. d uptown funk will be rintu chanting along with karthiks stereo just as passionately as she dances. i would post the iski uski clip here but shed kill me. right round will be an entire year of putting up with nithyas bass voice in s3 s4 and later realizing in s7 that she s faaaaar better than athira d ive also learnt that the trivandrum is rude isnt all garbage. but for every seemingly rude athinippa njan yentho venam trivandrumite you meet here therell also be an innocent ever helpful ever clueless malu asking in her unintentionally rough tone enthu patti paaru thaan inn despa njanoru paattu paadi tharanoo you see for every sankaran with a heavenly voice youll also meet a lot of terrible singers and malu would serve their cumulative effect that can cheer up anyone s bad day. d for every adarsh who is in love with cet therell be a raj govind who wants to burn the place down. i might have contributed at one point of time. for every divya who wont copy during series tests therell be a puru who cross references more than two individuals answer sheets before settling for the better one. for every befuddled looking allan therell be an anapi who never stops smiling. for every quiet navajoth therell be a ginu who never shuts up. and for every smitha mam therell be a jiji sir. for every all cool aishu on the project presentation day she was practically stoned with the avomine shed gulped the previous night d therell be the rest of the super tensed project team that goes engottelum erangi odiyalo for every structural project group that finishes their work weeks ahead of the presentation therell be gopikas team whose project equipment arrives on the evening of the eve. and for every ajay jasin oormila who spent four years at cet learning engineering and quantity surveying and structural analysis there are those of us that studied that tables should be titled at the top and figures at the bottom d the best stories i heard in 4 years were almost always a part of the reserved ones the ones who wouldnt get on the dance floor until the lights are off. and the best speech was delivered by the guy who occupied the corner seat in class quietly and calmly tolerated and laughed at the hilarious shit we did in environmental lab. so i guess therell be no more cursing the ug professor and putting up submissionsandshit updates on fb customizing the privacy setting to hide from smitha mam. no more begging teachers to postpone assignments and queuing in front of latha mam hod vijayan sirs room. no more large groups huddled around the first bench eating renjini and shilpas lunch and no more deciding between thalassery lh food. no more going to 48 in the evening and listening to sreelekshmis stories before practice. and when everythings done and everyone has packed their bags and vacated their rooms and hugged and said the final goodbyes to catch trains from trivandrum one last time i ll have the songs in my playlist to remind me of 4 years spent together in a place that offered fun as much as freedom and made everyone laugh and cry and hate and love and sing and dance. nbsp nbsp i remember the first day of college like it was yesterday. i remember wondering if after 4 years when i step down the golden walkway one last time as a student there id be a different person than the kid climbing those treads. if id be taller than the stunted figure i was then. if id make enough memories and meet the lovely people im supposed to meet in these four years. i wondered if the trees would dance in the rain to bid me goodbye as they did when i met them the first time. but mostly i wondered if id be sad to leave if 4 years would be enough in this place. i have the answers now all of it i know that the time we get here isnt enough to take enough selfies for a lifetime. 4 years of sitting next to athira rintu in the third bench of c1 listening to their stories or stealing minutes between classes to eat vadas at civil canteen or hearing divyas oru announcement und ellarum keep quiet none of it is enough in the end. and as we re asked to collect our no dues i wish we could ask when do next sem classes begin just one more time. nbsp nbsp cet civil 2012 2016 batch. you see your first love isnt the first person you give your heart toits the first one who breaks it. lang leav writer  silence isn t always awkward silence is often golden. it is the exhaustive and pointless small talk that ruins it. before college and high school before crushes and heartbreaks before science got split into three different subjects and social studies into two even before we were taught integers and fractions. back when we wanted to grow up. back when we were kids. if you ever followed the road opposite to the ganapathi temple in medical college back then youd reach the medical college quarters. its where more than half my childhood lies its also where i decided i didnt want to marry kunjacko boban after all. i was the annoying little sister who cried on cue and made sure my elder brothers were scolded and punished by my parents for mischief that id worked up thats what my brothers would tell you anyway. served them right too they called me fat all the time. but either way i was still the little sister with a tiny potbelly i ll admit and could always be seen seated on achu annans shoulders or carried by kannenan on his back d biju chetan and aju chetan were the neighbours kannan and i spent most of our time with. yes theyre brothers. we were undeclared best buddies with a share of harmless details of our exploits to be kept secret from both our parents. we were always present at each others birthdays. in those days it meant birthday cake with icing from jayaram bakery the quintessential puffs and cutlets and samosas homemade chicken curry parotta juice and icecream etc. we usually waited for our parents to leave before kicking off with cricket in their compound. we bowled with the 8rs pink white rubber balls or the more expensive optic yellow tennis ball for 30 rupees that was handled with more care. i was always the underdog kannan never took me on his team. achu annan occasionally joined us he was nicer and always picked me. im sure the rejection scarred me for life. though it made more sense when we played football cos i always ran away with the ball err in my hands that is. football was too boring for me anyway. i owned like one doll or two whose faces i had disfigured in an attempt to beautify you dont sit inside playing with those when everyone else is outdoors. at times when i got bored id sell fish on the back steps of our house. different shaped and sized leaves painstakingly stacked and arranged neatly id diligently make sure no flies sat on them and that my customers got the best and the freshest picks. no none of the boys ever visited even my parents never visited though i always invited them very nicely. i dont think they were all that impressed. when corporation people unloaded sand in front of biju chetans garage the others would jump from the low sunshade onto it while i would nonchalantly prepare mudcakes using cherattas coconut shells and coax anybody whod care to taste them. yeah nobody ever did. when it got too hot to play outside we played video games cartridges and joysticks people at their place. the four of us would huddle in front of the tv. countless runs of mario and duck hunt and i dont even remember the names of the rest of the games we played. afternoons meant more cricket video games followed by cycling badminton at our place in the evening. we usually went back home only for lunch and in the evening when it got too dark and the games were over. sometimes wed fall asleep on their beds nobody was ever home in the day even otherwise it was okay i think. anita aunty was always so sweet still is she gave us the best birthday gifts and even had me cutting her sons birthday cake once. during vacations when everyone else left for holidays wed be in empty quarters abandoned by their residents plundering the guava and mango trees there checking intermittently and listening intently for any sign of intruders other than us of course. at times wed bring back home the fruits of our labour the parents never noticed. we made tons of envelopes using newspapers and cooked rice it was our mini project wondered what to do with it and eventually sold it to the lady fishmonger who routinely visited our homes she gave us 2rupee coins each d any spare change we ever got was spent in buying and stocking pink rubber balls once we started playing they got lost so often and eating the round pedas at the milma shop in the main road. when we werent playing or searching for the umpteen lost cricket balls on the other side of the road kannan and i were busy fighting physical mental material psychological every kind of possible damage included. following which i obligingly cried to let my parents know. they knew i think. all our plots had mango trees and during summer seasons wed eat fat and ripe orange and yellow mangoes raw and pulpy in the morning noon evening and at night. we were forever sweaty and covered in dirt always running around and shouting to each other loudly sometimes across goalposts always a distinguishable rock or from opposite sides of the wicket 3 aluminium rods each or the court net that we had a proper one though or even across compounds. we always got home after dusk exhausted and happy. wed shower eat watch doordarshan and fall asleep somewhere in between. unless we decided to fight which was twice a day followed by my drama. those were the days when happiness meant wearing your favorite dress on your birthday and the prettiest and nicest strangers were the ones that smiled at you. when soiling your clothes was the way to be and nobody minded except the elders. when summer didnt mean heat as much as it meant cricket and cousins and mangoes. and spending all the time under the sun were 4 and at times 5 tiny people forever playing and fighting and laughing. and i m mighty glad we were loud enough for a lifetime  late post. wrote this on convocation day of batch of 2015. convocations are fun. not only cos there are hats and cloaks and of course graduation involved. they bring back seniors youve waited months to see again they probably bring together classmates who passed out planned a reunion whose date was extended over and over again until finally they just settled to meet for their convocation. i can imagine that happening with our batch once we pass out of college. they might even be when some dearest couples meet after okwhoamitojudge. im sure convocations have other functional facets too more on that coming up next year cos next in line is yours truly. convocation at cet last year was not a very emotional affair for me save for meeting a handful of passouts. back then we were still third years read careless juniors following the paths of seniors im not even going to elaborate on that and no im not winking we were yet to be acquainted with project work and hectic final year schedules no mini project for civil baby. life was good. you had to rush to civil canteen at 4 if you wanted to sit by its verandah cos usually seniors would already have seated themselves there. most evenings thered be student groups comprising all batches in the civil grounds discussing some intra department event or program. and in my class everyone was either co ordinating something or partaking in some other thing or they were swamped with other stuff to be doing any of those things. cea and ici would juggle with dates and time slots to make sure their activities didnt clash and even so there would still be overlaps cos there was always so much going on big or small whether it be hanging gardens or some techie engagements. then we got to s7 and before the place had livened up rather fateful things happened. in stead of the tons of heads that filled college front after 4 and the after college hours punctuated by crowds and buzz at chechi kadas sanika cores front bus stops and pretty much everywhere there permeated empty and quiet. all through s7 we waited for things to go back to normal and for college to go back to what it used to be. it never did. today convocation happened. and frankly todays the first day of this year that college felt like cet again. people were shouting and laughing and their uproars rang noisily in the classrooms and the corridors and all around the place. college hasnt been this loud since last year. so many familiar faces there were seniors whose names i didnt know and still dont but the mere freshness of familiarity brought happiness. even that scary chechi who always glares at you or that creepy chetan who makes awkward eye contact. the favorite seniors were hugged and kissed the not so favorite ones smiled as if in solemn awareness. in the beginning of final year it was as though wed get used to the numbness felt around college but today we realized we really need a batch of loving doting annoying infuriating seniors to make it the cet we knew. they were back and i guess thats when we realized wed actually missed these people. sure some in particular but generally just all of them being present here. probably because they were a part of the carefree years when college was relatively lively. when we didnt have career discussions looming over our heads 24x7 because that wasnt our burden to bear p. because basically they were in charge and they were everywhere. today was like a day from those days. so when you hear that the dragonfly you once had a crush on has flown back it thrills for a while then dies out. when you exchange with seniors pleasantries and whats going on in your lives its only casual talk. its like they were here only yesterday theyre here today and theyll be back tomorrow. well guess what they wont and tomorrow will be like the past 7 months have been because i m so bloody optimistic. but today was good tomorrow we ll be back to being final years the day after we shall part ways and be gone. and the next year itll be our turn to get dewy eyed about all that we d missed or maybe that ll be just me heartily complain about our too loose too tight cloaks drown in hugs pose for pictures cheer in jubilation throw our hats up in the sky and finally wonder why we never realized life here was quite brilliant. i hope. nbsp nbsp  whenever i can i visit the indian coffee house at medical college for veg beetroot and potato filled cutlets and coffee and on hot days their soothing refrigerated fruit salad my cousin and i found last year. i only discovered the mc branch towards the end of my second year. before i would frequent the ich near statue after visiting public library or sauntering through palayam. the place was mostly filled with middle aged intellectuals some working youngsters a few college goers and a couple of odd families now and then. ive sat next to tables of wise looking uncles whod be engrossed in discussions of economics and politics at other times next to long curly haired artsy people in kurtas vehemently discussing films and media. id wondered if some day when i grew up id sit there discussing serious shit with my grown up friends. probably not cos they shut the place down a couple of months later for violating food quality standards or smth or are they open again every time i passed the watchman by hed give me a weird what are you doing here kid look. id come home and inquire amma do i really look like a kid and shed say pinnallathe 10th standard max. id sigh secretly smug that i look so young but go on to complain gleefully about my parents genes theyre both short ammas even shorter than me. i love complaining. after the news spread about the unkempt kitchen thats what amma told me it was i discovered the one at medical college. of course it had always been there and id overlooked it after the clothes on the corner chair in my room and my many messy tables and the newspapers that loyally arrive home everyday. it was more convenient for me too considering i stay at ulloor. so now i dont have to wait until my public library due date to visit ich. in s5 s6 my visits were few and far between as dance practice engaged us on all evenings and most weekends. s7 started bad stuff happened princi kicked the dance team out of the dance room and paru ate more ich cutlets. visiting the ich is a delightful thing. its like an hour devoted entirely to solemn sacred indulgence so oft repeated yet always gratifying. no im not going overboard in describing them cutlets man just read on. i usually go after 5 earlier if im craving ich cutlets or in the mood to get out in the hot afternoon sun. its a 4 minute walk from my place to the bus stop at medium pace. i walk all the way to ich if theres an hour to sun set takes hardly 20 minutes else i take the bus on a 7 rupee ticket. theres a constant smile playing on my face on days i take the bus because it means ill be getting the sunset scenes complementary. actually i always take the bus the free stuff is pretty much star of the show d i get down at mc bus stop and cross the chalakuzhy road. the place is overflowing with lower middle class men and women relatives of patients staying at medical college hospital all from different parts of the state flasks and tiffins held or hanging from one hand buying hot tea tender coconut for the inmates or getting bites for themselves from the array of tiny chaya kadas and bakeries there. there is a guy with his pushcart selling chaya kadi other street vendors seated by their platter of home made assortments theres even home made tea i know right must be good why else would they be permanently seated here vada and idiyappams idli and sambar etc. the roadside they sit on is wet and always smelly coupled with the stench from bleaching powder carelessly sprinkled over the narrow open drain adjoining the footpath. the medical shops general stores all attending to customers. throngs of people crossing the main road during stop signals. the multitude of faces on foot the unending lines of cars and autos and ambulances to and from the wide mc entrance arch. vehicles parked in front of shops in no orderly way. nothings different today. the play begins. from where i stand now the sun is a brilliant orange behind the dental college block on the left. the world slows down here. i could stand for hours watching it just as i could when its behind palayam palli or at cet but the memories they evoke differ. the setting sun here reminds me of all the evenings when we stayed at rmo quarters behind the dental block they were demolished some years back to construct the op blocks from when i was 6 until 10. the veiled medical college ground seated somewhere deep behind the many hospital buildings and the bifurcated roads and all the trees. i have a single vague memory from when i was 9 or so of walking to the ground for a cricket football game one evening with my brothers the sun was the same brilliant orange then. the summer vacations we spent stealing mangoes and guavas from yards of empty quarters and hiding from kozhikkallans chicken thief. evenings spent playing cricket and football i sucked at it and badminton and cycling until sun went down with achu annan kannenan and biju and aju chetan and listening to the prayer calls from a mysterious mosque somewhere far away. ive been coming and standing in the same spot watching the same sun remembering the same stuff here for so long but the novelty never wears off. i always wondered how nice it must be to go there every day. probably not for the ones that do though im sure they dont stand out here on the smelly road watching the sun on the other side reminiscing stuff. at night with the orange streetlamps and all the mch is way sexier than cet that too is subjective im sure. ok amma enne kollanda. aarum enne kollanda. just to clarify things here when i say mch im referring to its whereabouts and the places and people without referring to the medical college hospital itself. this is a convo i had with amma back in first year she works at sath inside mch. amma theres so many medical shops at medical college and ulloor alle. appo aarku marunnu venengilum ingot varande its so easy for us since we live here. thats because its medical college. im also talking about medical college only. im talking about the hospital paru. ethu hospital oh oh. oooooh. thats the day i remembered soon to forget tho theres a hospital in there. i mean i always knew its a hospital its just been in the background all of my life so i never really thought about it. ok so its not just a place with students and goodlooking pg chetans and friendly chechis and some strict and some fun professors and tonnes and tonnes of people. i keep forgetting it from time to time though. i know theres a lot of suffering you have to overlook to see the beauty here and maybe only when you own the memories i do too. then i think of the front blocks where my brothers had been admitted more recently a little bit of guilt sets in and the odour catches up with me. walking to ich from here takes around one minute. its a tiny footpath dotted on its sides with old men and women selling cigarettes paan masala lottery tickets toothpicks mirrors and combs. everyones walking past briskly or pausing in front of shops to read signs or making their way in and more crowds take their place on the footpath as pedestrians dissolve into shops. the time spent in ich itself is pretty uneventful. i almost always order veg cutlets with coffee tea. if my parents are home i get them packed too after tasting the beetroot sauce theyre often too soggy or too watery or bitter. but almost every time the taste differs. the ich at shangumugham always gave cutlets that tasted the same perhaps cos they were consumed after being crusted with the salty breeze from the beach or cos i was too young to notice. even they shut down after a while. once in a twenty batches or so that old taste from the beachside ich is delivered. i cant describe the taste but my father says its all potatoes and beetroots topped with more beetroot sauce and doesnt do much good for the tummy. the last bit isnt true but rest of his description is spot on. well he suggested the famous ich mutton omelette as good for the tummy once when i was a kid and that was the day i thought i was going to die of a stomach explosion i got gastritis and get it every time i smell mutton from afar ever since. so no thankyou. beetroot cutlets with beetroot sauce please. otherwise filled with relatives of people from the hospital and the working class if you visit during 11 1 you may catch some pgs with stethoscopes hanging around their necks walk into the partitioned doctors tables section. a few uncles aunties always give me weird looks here its are you here all by yourself. i re read the wall hung menu board every single time im here just the malayali me complacently making sure nothings new. they keep updating the prices thats one thing they do. and the person at the counter never asks me for change. do you know how rare that is in todays world the slow stroll back home is only the second best part of ich visits. there are less people crossing my path now wider roads. the medical college blocks to the left some ive never visited others i identify from having often curiously observed from home during nights. the orange sphere can be spotted where the buildings part and to the right side in the spaces between the proximate apartments i catch glimpses of distant houses and coconut trees and mobile towers rising up from the bottom green patch against the blue skies. somewhere there my distant future awaits and im smiling again. its also for some really weird reason where my past resides. ive no clue why i think somewhere along i associated distant past and distant future with literal distances the pt chacko nagar roads have been in a pathetic condition for too long all opened up and left on their own. i walk a bit more watching my future lying so far away where im working in a bustling metropolis all by myself and shit. jk more often the image is me sleeping on the floor of a living room with hard copies of draft articles strewn all over. i reach ulloor cross and reach akkulam road. its a downhill slope now on the sun directly infront moving down the horizon beckoning me back. from here the journey is effortless i just have to follow the straight and make way for biharis now and again and usually takes longer than 900 seconds since the frame is reluctant to let go of the evening. nbsp ps written after last visiting ich yday evening nbsp nbsp nbsp  these have been a couple of long days long weeks long months. the much awaited weekends coming. the plan is to snuggle into that nice cosy couch and lie there all day as the warmth of home wraps you in and lulls you to sleep. but you know what they say. life is a jerk. and before you know it life has busted it all even that little plan to sleep all day. youre on fast sinking ground shrouded in darkness. lying amidst broken fragments of something fragile yet wild threatening to drown you. its a while before you reach calm and make out shapes in the black. and when you do you gasp its you. its all you shattered to pieces. youre in the graveyard of your own life and they weigh you further down to darker hollows. is this a joke retribution what for you sit on your knees and cry. its not like you were actually going to sleep all day. this so called life is stupid okay the ground seems to appear steady now. maybe it was punishment for some wrongdoing either way its over now you think. everythings going to go back to normal. so if its all over why does it hurt so bad its shearing you apart so why arent you dead yet then the pain sets in. its too real to ignore now. somebody make it stop you grope around in the dark for an opening a door an escape it should be there. every feel of a shard opens up a new gash on your skin. like an idiot you hug at the infinite walls that surround you and yell for help. scoop out handfuls of damp earth from the ground in a desperate attempt to escape. all the while crying like the little lost child you are. you tell yourself hopelessly that a time turner is going appear any moment now and youll be back in your living room again. everythings going to go back to normal. but nothing happens your calls for help are the only company you got. with that knowledge you collapse onto the floor. you lie there for a while with your eyes still wet thinking about the warm couch in your living room. its all gone. the dark damp and debris are all that remain. you look around denial isnt going to help this will be your new home now. as if on cue the cold ground kisses you and somehow it doesnt scare anymore. you acquiesce to what is perhaps the only show of affection the place has to offer. you slowly stop crying. you learn to see in the dark. the broken everything doesnt cut you anymore and the persistent prickling pain grows to be a part of you. its tricky but youll learn when its your turn. though your head blasts with a hundred nay a million questions all the likes of why me you learn to embrace it. life goes on. people pass you by from another world smiling. everyone has battles probably answering that question in your head. of course everyone does you smile weakly. the ground kisses you again. the dark doesnt make you feel lonely anymore the damp is as warm as itll be now on and debris that perhaps if pieced together can paint a fraction if not the whole picture that you once hoped to create. you remember some quote about black and white keys in a piano. you just never thought they could get so black. but you know what they say life is a jealous ass. jealous of comfort in agony even. and just like that life kicks you out into the regular world once again blinding you. though this time its the sun isnt it it has to be. what else could be so warm and bright it takes a moment to take it all in. the world is back. the world is back you smile at first. its a weird little feeling smiling like that after such a long time. then it becomes a beaming grin. in no time youre jumping to catch the brilliant rays. you roll on the warm earth and laugh like a crazy old man. you lie on the soft grass and kick your arms and legs about like an ecstatic toddler. and everyones staring everyones watching and maybe they all think youve lost it and you know it doesnt matter. because they didnt see it when you were broken to pieces and plunged into a hole in the ground. they didnt hear you scream and plead at lifeless walls that only echoed your cries for help. they didnt see you curl up on the wet floor and hug yourself for warmth. they dont know about the sleepless nights you spent begging life to go back in time to make everything okay. its not the world thats come back. its you. some stories need a prelude to make sense. and some still wont. you slowly walk into your apartment. everything is same in the world yet you know nothing is from now on. maybe the same things wont bring joy to you anymore. maybe the same people wont mean company anymore. you have changed you have grown and thats okay. that is life. you find the couch in its peaceful corner still. blissfully unaware that youve been on a tumultuous journey thats now a part of your past that youre spent and exhausted but mostly just happy to be back home. as much as youd love to cry your heart out into it and recount in excruciating detail how you had to crawl your way slowly back up all that can wait. right now is time for the much awaited lullaby and sleep. and life is beautiful right there. not a threat p happy new year edit somebody told me this article sounded like rap lyric when read in haste. it is in fact about a time in when i was depressed and low. and perhaps a lot of it sounds cliche now that i read it after some time i can look at it objectively but every line was penned with emotion to my own days. nbsp  so i was initially writing about math and me but was rather cruelly reminded that im still unemployed read un placed. and i hate math written all over my blog or all over an article isnt going to look good to potential employers coming to campus. yeah okay theyre not going to painstakingly search for parvathy sarats blog with keywords to see if shes a good candidate but what if they do okay. the decision to not write anything that tarnishes my imaginary goodemployeecandidateimage came after a conversation with my mother. my eldest brothers been staying in delhi for the past 6 years and the two of them have talked over the phone almost every single day during this time thats 365x6 times kindly do the calculation yourself cos i hate um never mind. the second brother left home 4 years back and the way he talks to my parents more talking takes place among them over their phones on a single day than i do at home over a week. so today theres meen curry on the stove im sitting on a plastic stool next to it doing shit on my phone no puns please and ammas on the phone with my brother. amma njan porath povumbo ingane daily onnum vilikulla ok paranjilaannu venda i tell her. amma on the phone dey kanna paru parayua paru veetilnnu maari nikumbo kannane pole daily vilikkathillannu turns to me dramatic mode on atleast yearly vilikuo paru me ah monthly vilikum realize thats too long or maybe weekly. daily vilikkulla anyway. puccham on my face amma athentha me ha athu pinne porath avumbo eniku vere pani kanum rather than talking to you guys all day long joli cheyanam etc etc etc amma kanna parunu joli cheyanamnu turns to me alla paru ethu jolide karyama parayunne joli onnum ayillalo laughter and im guessing the person at the other end also joined in ps i should have written something warm and nice for christmas but no santa turned up at my place this year folks. nbsp  final year semester of b. tech you realize you dont want to work an it job or a core job or any jobby job for that matter. babies arent really your thing they cry too much would somebody pay you to take care of puppies you realize you are now 21 you will be 22 in a couple of months and youve been spending the last 4 years almost like a fifth of your life in a subject that you dont want anything to do with after graduation. you have no clue as to what to do after the 4 months of college thats left. you realize youve practically wasted years of academics that couldve been effectively spent studying something you actually like. you realize you dont even know what that something you actually like is. you have no idea what to do with your life. you panic. no the last para isnt about you its all me. you just sounded better than i. so i had um a couple of mild and severe panic attacks in the past semester but ive come to develop a certain mechanism to handle them which works fairly well. except the two times that i had to be quarantined. step 1 notify all my closest friends that im worried confused close to a cardiac arrest when i think of the future. step 2 listen to what they have to say mostly involves same here if the friend is doing b. tech so are most of the others if not. step 3 calm down. you are not alone is the best therapy ever. sleep wake up forgetting all the exasperating shit go back to my life till the panic sets in another day. now this is how i take my life decisions. oh wait i haven t taken any for myself. either way its a ritual to consult her before tough ones and also after i screw up everything. mostly because i never listen still. this is a pretty emotional moment for me posting a whatsapp screenshot in public. yes the convos been scrolled to a strategic point so that the more embarrassing stuff can t be seen. which is when i remembered about my trustmeyourealive name of my blog thats been dead since it was last alive. okay so ill confess i created this blog back in 2014 when i wrote something new after quite sometime and wanted someplace fancy to post it. i mean like a page just for like an article is like fancy no this time i decided to listen to miriam after all. bloggings free and i could always read it later to myself if nobody else does. special thanks to my brother s who bought me my new lap which is pretty much the only reason im here cos time and again id thought of posting random stuff id written but the idea of sitting in front of the pc in my first floor hall on the molded plywood chair and typing it out made me drop it. wow i really need to start writing shorter sentences. so heres hoping i start writing online regularly d. ok amma whether online or not doesn t matter as long as i m writing ps sorry if the beginning of this post misled you into thinking its about handling panic attacks or life decisions even. pps this was meant to be a teeny weeny post of max 200 characters. sorry for the long intro you may now continue reading nonsense elsewhere. here i present before you the story of x a typical south indian middle class boy. x so that i don t have to keep repeating names like ramesh suresh subramaniam gopalakrishnankutty etc but guess i missed the point already. so x made and sold pickle all day and all night. yes it was the love of his life and he enjoyed every bit of it. how on earth does that fit into the typical definition you point out. yes yes i m coming to that thou disrupted souls. everything will be made right. once x was at a funeral with his parents. seeing this happy guy the alive one i mean every one of his relatives who never had anything to do with him didnt have any idea what his name was who naturally and understandably would be most enthusiastic about his career felt compelled to offer free advice to his extremely irresponsible parents who let their son live jauntily with utmost disregard for his future. a hitherto never before seen relative uncle who would henceforth never be seen again approached his parents. pickle you mean achaar how idiotic is that but maama x loves making pickle. he s super happy. happy who wants to be happy making pickle um. me a disgruntled x muttered confused. you should make him get a b. tech. what s a boy without a b. tech these days what o his parents asked curious. nothing he barked. are they providing food here miserly relatives these days not many do you know no respect for the deceased or what let me go ask if there s chicken. he dashed to the dead mans kitchen. amma i don t have enough marks for b. tech admissions. i m a just pass 41. you need a 50 for b. tech. x couldnt believe this was happening. that rule s coming into action only next year onwards. you lucky guy the uncle beamed emerging from the kitchen victorious tearing off a fried chicken s legs with his teeth. back at home x begged the gods though i doubt they had anything to do with it to know why on earth he couldn t have been born a year later. imagine our x having wasted his entire life with pickles that mans a lifesaver who is he btw he should be worshipped im on it xs mom who never missed a chance to worship anyone opened her facebook and found her homepage deluged with the previous days funeral pictures. and right there he was their saviour posing with the cadaver she frantically clicked the like button and had his photo printed framed and hung next to the rest of her gods in her pooja room. x on the other hand packed his bags and off he went to college. sitting in class he noticed how everyone looked similar to him. he soon realized it was cos they were all guys d. some were there to fulfil their parents obviously unfulfilled dreams to some it was a stepping stone to a ph. d at mit some pursuing the love of their lives which to his horror x soon figured was a reference to mechanical engineering. he had to cram his brain pockets sleeves shoes and any place undetectable to the staff with notes to get through exams. second year saw x entering the labs. as he rotated the wheel of the francis turbine he imagined processed apple pickle pouring out the delivery pipe. this is the strainer at the foot of the pump the instructor explained. there goes the essence of it. well just have to use squashed apples then x replied much to the bewilderment of his labmates. he fantasized all day about constructing a machine that churned out pickle if this were a hyperbolically written unrealistic satirical tale trust me i would totally make him make one. alas soon his hostel mates recognised the treasure that he was and with their support he resumed preparing pickle again. luckily for him his pickles became popular in a jiffy. infact he was surprised at the rising demand for them from men s hostels all around the city. you should try it with rasam tastes awesome he suggested. we have something better the pickle buyer winked at an unsuspecting x. meanwhile the student health club members protested against the exorbitant levels of sugar and salt used in the pickle. grabbing the opportunity the usa sued x for high rates of obesity there followed by surges in sales here to the discontent of shc abbreviated club name but guess i m missing the point again. x s pickles yielded unexpected results all about him. around the college attendance in classes went down as sales of soda and certain other commodities went up. as a discussion was opened in the economics class as to the causes for this someone suggested that law of variable proportions was at play when someone else shouted xinte achaar thanne saar and as reality dawned on x his world he thought came crashing down. was he to be expelled would his parents disown him now what if the uncle that had inceptioned the whole idea in his parents heads adopted him he contemplated suicide. however here s what really happened the dean being a fancier of pickles himself no insinuations intended asked x for samples. thoroughly impressed by them he let x open a counter at the college store imposing restrictions on the supply nonetheless. soon curd rice and x s pickle became a staple at the college canteen and his parents were informed of their son s exploits. two years later proud parents watched as x received the award for the best final year project design a hydraulic machine that chopped crushed and pickled anything you poured into it. i told you that was coming. after successfully completing his b. tech he came across a never before seen aunty who you bet won t ever be seen again either. mone gpa ethra und namukk ini oru mtech oke edukkande what s your gpa son shouldn t we take that m. tech now chakkapazham jackfruit he blurted out. eh. . vechoru achaar undakkunnundu auntykku veno i m making a pickle out of it. would you like some aunty d moral of the story you may like pickle. you may even love pickle. so make a career out of it or not. but more importantly stay the hell away from shit you dont know shit about. .