All Hail The Headphone

Gaming? That new song? Annoying room mate? Hello Headphones.

Headphones these days provide a convenient means to exempt yourself from worldly obligations. You don't have to respond to or pay absolutely any heed to a person sitting in the same room as you, probably even facing you. The headphones covering your ears serve as a clear sign for the other person to take; "I am going to ignore you now, and I expect the same of you". Well, it doesn't seem like such a bad idea considering the volumes of distractions we are sentenced to for living in this chaotic present. It's a good way to escape into your own world, with some meaningful music or maybe just a random permutation of tones loud enough to drown you.

But it isn't just about the music anymore; it is more about what the headphones signify. They are symbols of individual privacy and noise cancellation in an interestingly literal as well as figurative manifestation. The better the noise cancelling ability, the better the headphone.

Have we bothered to think what this pair of plugs have brought onto us?

They have brought down impromptu conversations to a disturbingly low frequency and length. It is rare to see a bunch of roommates being disturbed by each other anymore. Just throw your headphones on, and everyone will probably follow suit. Even if they don't, you at least won't have to hear anymore.

While the technological pros are many, they fail to compensate for what they're making us give up. In the beginning of my graduate study, we weren't allowed to keep laptops. In a few months, when the rule's tenure ended, each person was more excited than the other. There was a whole wave of students sitting back in their chairs or beds, bent in behind their laptop screens, most probably with their ears covered by sound which ironically sound-proofed them of their surroundings. Now, when we look back at the early days of college, it seems like a distant time where people sat together for long hours, having nothing to do but talk.

Talking is underestimated now. As more and more people fall for the shiny new privacy, they tend to avoid conversations; not compulsively, but subtly yet significantly.

Not only is it detrimental for your ears, it is also bad for your relations with your surroundings, including people. Escapism is fascinating, and even a need at times, but not realizing when you've been calling for it way too much, is dangerous.

Let's all toast for the good old speakers, offering for one and all, rather than just one.

Back and Forth

The surface looked pale. With a pen in her right hand, she tried to make sense of the thousands of letters in front of her while her restless eyes kept going back to the surface of the desk. She was feeling an inexorable urge to put the tip of the pen on the desk; write down, sketch a little something; add strokes, highlights, more letters. She held her hand back, stopping herself from going back to her fourteen year old self; scribbling her heart out on whatever came in the way of her pen.

It was winter. The teacher stood, talking about Tsar Nicholas. She hated history. “Just one more year,” she thought, “one more year, and no more history textbooks.” She sat quietly, scribbling, while the teacher went on with his lecture, surrounded by the milky green walls of class IX-B. The bell rang, to her relief, and she looked up; it had been forty minutes since she last did. With drowsy eyes, she looked at Sarah. For more than three months now, Sarah had been a great person to share a seat with. Sarah smiled back, nodding in understanding. She looked beyond Sarah, to the neighbouring seats. Girls and boys, in groups, talking in a constant incomprehensible cacophony. She felt sick. She didn't like recesses anymore. Ever since she had that fight with Reina, she felt crippled and alone without her best friend. Recess time was tough because there was enough idleness for awkward glances to creep in. The other day, Reina had come to her returning the friendship belt that she had given her, the last friendship day, a few months ago. She felt empty. She decided to stay back and have lunch in the class. She hated recesses.

Smiling at the memory, she wrote her initials down on the desk and admired it, adding serifs and bolder borders, satisfying the overdue urge. She glanced up, around at the library populace. People sat hunched in their seats, over desks, reading, or writing, or probably imagining, just like her. The watch showed 5:30. “Am I hungry?” She looked at the door. “Though it has been four hours since I had that lunch.” She couldn't quite place a feeling she could call hunger, but she sure found a little of boredom. She closed her book with a tiny thud. That thud gave her a weird sense of achievement. Smirking, she strode out of the gloomy room. When she stepped out on the street, the air seemed to caress her cheeks, in a welcoming way. She loved that feeling. Taking a right, she walked to her favourite café. Subconsciously, she looked around for familiar faces. Sitting down, she thought about the human tendency of seeking familiarity; a known face to smile at, a word or two shared. It seemed so important, now that she had it tough, having moved out of her comfort, to a new city. She wanted to be free and adventurous. Even though she enjoyed her study, there was a lingering mist of uncertainty all the time. As the days had passed, she had decided on her favourite café, her favourite park, her favourite reading spot, her favourite shopping mart, but she was yet to find some favourites. The warm milk she had ordered, wasn't to her taste. “What is it?” She wasn't sure what she didn't like about the milk.

“More?” Mother looked at her with an expression that could be interpreted in a million ways. “Extra sugar is never good, love, you’ll end up being fat.” “I don’t want to be fat,” she thought, and looked at mother silently, with persuasive eyes. Mother smiled, emptying half of the spoon she had filled, into the cup of milk, as if to convince herself that she tried. “That’s it, okay?” She grinned and drank the cup away within seconds. She was late for school. She was late on almost all days since father bought her her own ride to school. The bus used to honk down the window and she had to run, no matter how much she hated it. Now, she had her own rules with her own ride. It was the last year of school and she felt grown up. She had always wanted to finish school soon and be on her own, away from home. That thought gave her absolute power, to storm through the last few months.

The waitress brought the check to the table and put it down, smiling. She noticed an extraordinary glow on the waitress’ face in the few split seconds that she looked at her. The purse dangled at the head of the chair as she pulled out money. There was this thing she had about paying with her own money. She loved the implication of self-dependence it held, yet it made her a teeny bit scared. With father paying for every little thing, all her life, she almost always thought about father while paying now. She stood up, making plans for the rest of the day, in her head. Despite the app stores on mobile phones now being full of a plethora of apps trying to help one manage one’s life, she preferred writing things down in her little notepad. It was a small book with thick unruled pages inside, and an embroidered green jacket. She had bought it on a college trip to a hill station. The trip had been wondrous.

In cities, the sky near the horizon is always rendered out of vision by the countless buildings. The hills did that part here. Yet, somewhere between two mountaintops, you could get a lucky glimpse of the white eternity, bordered by some greenery. The sun gave nothing but short impromptu trips through the sky, whenever the clouds let it. The weather had been just perfect; a warm kind of cold. She descended the steep stairs, leading to a garden beside their lodging. She called out to her friend who couldn’t walk more than three feet without stopping to breathe. The cold made it harder for her. At eighteen, they were full of a natural excitement for everything. She stopped and looked at the green expanse in front of her. The hills in the distance, shying away in the fog. She held her jacket closer as a gust of wind said hi. The scenery made her uncomfortably peaceful. She wanted to pull her mobile phone out and capture the view. Deciding otherwise, she sat down on the dewy grass. This was one of the rare times she didn’t care about her clothes getting messy. Beautiful places brought out a side of hers, that she didn’t quite understand, yet really liked.  

She was enchanted by how the smallest of things could take one back to the best of times. Taking a cab, she started for the only place which almost qualified as ‘home’ in this city. On the way, she looked out, fascinated, as always, by the enormity of humankind and its creations, simply moving past her window, like a movie. As the cab took up speed, the vivid images turned into trails of colours, changing in width and depth, constantly, in an alien animation of sorts. She started falling down, through time, again.

“I really like red velvet. We can always ask them to add that flower to this one.” She brooded. This was the best cake store in the neighbourhood, it ought to have the ideal cake. It was her best friend’s birthday, after all. Everything had to go right. Leigh pulled at her cuff, throwing a confused glance at her. She had to decide. “So, red velvet it is, then?” She asked, waiting for a yes. Leigh always accompanied her, ending up agreeing with everything. An hour later, they gathered to decorate the room. “Where’s the yellow ribbon?” “Here! Also, I already did the blue and green one. Look, so pretty, isn’t it?” said the excited Sal. “Yes, good.” She was glad everything was working out well. “Bern is going to love everything.”  Three hours later, as the energy in the party fell down to a dim, the girls lay sprawled on the furniture around the room. Bern turned to her. “Thank you. It was all really, really incredible.” She gloated inside, smiling in content. “We’re getting old.” It suddenly sounded like a bad thing to have turned twenty one. They sat back, exhaling in unison and then laughing. “I’ll miss this,” someone said, it didn’t matter who; they all agreed.

Paying the cab, she took the elevator to her apartment. The neighbour rushed inside, just when the door was about to shut close. Sharing obligatory smiles, they kept silent for the minute in the elevator. She reflected on the comfort found in the agreed discomfort within the four metal walls. Pulling out her phone, she checked for notifications. It was a common practice among the youth; checking the phone in awkward moments. She stepped out as the door opened following a loud bell; pulling the key out, one centimeter above from inside the bag, for every inch that her foot moved. The lock clicked open, with a warm, damp air rushing out. As she turned the lights on, the phone roared in the bag. I’ve got a pocket full, a pocket full o’sunshine. It was mother, calling right on time. She talked home once, every day. It was the few minutes that restored sanity in her. New places can be daunting at times.

The glaring horn irritated her nerves. She made a sluggish expression, not knowing whom to complain. Emotional complaints made no sense, she realised. “This place is so loud.” “I hate that girl, why doesn’t she die?” There was little anyone could do about them. Yet, she always murmured to herself. She was the only one who would care, you know. She pressed her head at the back of the seat, trying to stop the tears. College had been a lovely life. She hated to see everything change. She tried recalling herself of her goals; of the adventures she wanted to have; of starting a new life, in a new city. As the cab stopped at the respective terminal, she closed her eyes, as if to stop time.

It was just about a month ago, and yet seemed so far back in time. She was nostalgic, yet happy. Tying her hair up, she put on her comfies and sat to resume the work she had started in the library, hours ago. With a pen in her right hand, she made sense of the thousands of letters in front of her, peeking at the surface of the desk at times. The surface looked pale.

The wrong kind of music

Isn’t it amazing how powerful technology has made us today? If you hate an idea, or a person, you are free to let the whole world know, just a click away. That’s exactly what this girl, Rene Sharanya Verma, did. One look at her popularised video, “An Open Letter to Honey Singh”, will tell you how strong an opinion she has about this Yo Yo revolution, and just how confident she is of it.

Our problems with Yo Yo Honey Singh start with his name and get glaringly stuck at the lyrics. Hearing little five-year-olds sing “I swear chhoti dress mein, bomb lagdi mainu”, is disturbing. They barely understand what it all means. They just sing because YYHS songs are way too catchy to not sing along. No matter how much you despise his songs, you somehow end up grooving at those beats. The point of contention is, are the reasons this shallow for the adults to be happily supporting the songs, too? Definitely not. At least I hope so.

It is not just the feminists who’ve had a problem with the objectifying lyrics of Honey Singh’s songs. There also have been court petitions and cases filed. One of his songs even got banned in the aftermath of the Delhi rape case. Can you imagine? A song so offensive as to be disrespectful to a woman who got raped. Yet, inspite of all the opposition, Honey Singh continues to enjoy an unwavering fan following, with constant additions and subtractions.

Rene probably would never have thought her poetry slam would actually be viewed more than a million times. She starts with a rap in Yo Yo style, using various sarcastic modifications.

“hey girl tu lagti badi khoob, teri aankhon mein main jaata doob doob.

36 26 36 be my mehboob. I just made this stanza up so i could rhyme it with boob”

..and later culminates into a strong, motivating recitation.

“baby it’s not Maybeline, it’s you. You’re not just a masterpiece, you’re the painter too”

Just look at the video and see for yourselves!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Soazvqpr53U

The reactions to videos essentially reflect what the Youtube populace supports, and otherwise. In this case, there were many in support, who gave away demeaning comments for Yo Yo and some also applauded the girl for bringing out what has been there but hardly questioned deeply. On the other hand, as is expected, there were people who blamed the girl (in their own words) for being ‘insecure’ and thereby ‘trying to gain attention by mocking an amazing celebrity’. One of the Yo Yo supporters came out with a whole new rap of his own, in defense of Honey Singh, which reads:

“... honey singh dedicates lines for beautiful girls in his rap not for u the fat crap ..tu kya blue eyes dikhayegi chasma hata moti tabhi teri aankh najar aayegi !! tere wargi bandi kha bomb ban payegi ghar baith moti 10.30 baje door pe tere cheese burst pizza ki delivery aayegi !! Shakespeare virre di line copy kar di tujhe desi kha smajh aayegi <<<<<you tube waikh kudiye honey singh kaa stardom smajh jayegi !!!!! tu to eminem ki ass like that te hi views badhayegi  tujhe bapu di gal kha smajh aayegi dope shope te muh naa faer kudiye ye reality jo tu badal nhi payegi !! love dose tujhe mil nhi payegi hater rhegi hater hi reh jayegi !!! in the end tu b EK DIN YO ! YOO ! CHILAYEGI”

This is precisely the kind of people that make the Indian rapper an unbeaten star. “We love Honey Singh! He rocks! Let’s just insult those who try to give us a rational angle to it. Yo yo!”  

There was a time when India was host to a brilliant youth music culture. There were upcoming bands and pop artistes, rappers even. But with time, we’ve seen the decline of the Indian music industry with its entire focus moving towards Bollywood mainstream. Now, when Honey Singh comes out with his independent-cum-Bollywood-albums package, laced with a lot of autotuning, pretence, western music video rip-offs, and a Punjabi swag, it is hard for the average Indian youth to oppose. Very few of us, who end up taking the lyrics seriously, bother talking against it.

We can always say that it’s just music, we must learn to enjoy it and not be critical about it. That’s where we’re wrong. It is not just music. It’s music, with a capability of injecting thousands of ideas in your mind, without your noticing it. These ideas eventually shape you and your entire intellect system. However far-fetched this may sound, it is a fact. We become what we think, don't we?

A lot of people might call it a publicity stunt. So be it. That, in no way, changes the kind of thoughts that have been put out through this video. With the never-ending Youtube wave causing chaos in unity, as well as diversity of thoughts, technology in our lives has been making sharp leaps. Let’s go with the flow, then?

Beyond the Internship

The month of December is a busy one for students in the second year of the B.Tech. program in our college. As part of the curriculum, the students are sent off in groups for a rural internship, under an NGO assigned by an appointed committee. This internship includes working with the NGO on one of its projects in a rural area in India, trying to incorporate the ICT education we've received so far.

The "compulsory" Rural Internship is supposed to be an enlightening experience for the highly excited sophomores, fresh out of the oppressive terrors of third semester. The post traumatic rehabilitation starts manifesting itself in forms of excessive excitement, planning, shopping and peaks of high five sessions with friends being sent together to intern. It is the official four weeks away from your normal life, with the kind of people you might never have met/seen and might never meet/see ever again in the future, all on your own, trying to help those people supposedly using your technical expertise.

For the internship, I got an opportunity to work with ‘Abhiyan’, an NGO centered in Bhuj-Kutch, Gujarat. It was the first time travelling to Bhuj for me, as well as the two friends that were grouped with me. I was sort of prying, looking for something peculiar right from the moment we reached Bhuj. This place had a major earthquake, man! Why does it look so normal? The irrelevance of the question dawned on me when I realized it had been almost 14 years since that time. Oh, well.

We were sent by the NGO to their field office at Khavda, a village 70 km north of Bhuj. On our way to Khavda, the driver told us that the road we were on led straight to Pakistan. I was so in awe with that mere idea of being so close to a country I've only looked at on a map, and heard of in the news. Little did I know, there were one too many moments of awe in store for me in the rest of the 4 weeks.

The NGO had us engaged in a project which we found to be perfectly suited to us. At Abhiyan, we joined an ongoing project which was in collaboration with a London-based organisation, Reach to Teach. This project mainly focuses on improving the quality and functioning of the education system in the villages of Kutch.

Our main role was to meet the highly irregular students at the schools and their families, realize the reasons, suggest solutions and bring as many students to school as possible. Secondly, as the condition of the female members of the respective School Management Committees of various villages is expected, and very truthfully so, to be weak in terms of awareness, let alone participation, we were to meet them and provide information about their roles and try to activate their participation.

I visited different villages almost every day, met different children and their families, had a new lesson learnt each day. On our very first day's visit to a village school, I saw a bunch of little kids gathering outside the office gate staring at the new women (yes, us) that had entered their territory. They were equally amazed to see us as we were to see them, I reckon. If they had camera phones like us, they'd also have probably taken a picture of us to show their friends, don't you think?

One of the weirdest things was that all the people in a village dressed in the same kind of clothes. By all, I mean all. Be it little eight month olds who couldn't even walk by themselves, or be it 80 year olds, they would all have the same kind of dresses. The males wore Pathani kurta and pyjama, both the same color. All the females wore this thing over their heads that, I found, was called dedho in Kutchi. While reading or writing at school, they'd have to put it behind their shoulders again and again, while it kept falling in front of their eyes by virtue of its dimensions and their angle. It felt like this euphemism to their everyday lives where they have this constant obstruction to moving forward in life.

All the villages that I was in-charge of, had Muslim communities. They had these peculiar kind of names like Sufaiya, Halima, Abadrim, Shahpad, Alma, etc. To them, my name was hard to get. There were very few times when someone asked me my name and didn't ask for it again. To them, the fact that I wasn't married at 19, was a big deal. To them, I was 'that madam from Gandhinagar who wants to bring my child to school'. To me, they were a new world.

My commute to all the villages would primarily be by motor bikes. The journeys were absolutely out of the world. The roads were in incredibly amazing condition. On almost all days, we were the only ones on the roads, there being negligible number of vehicles in the villages. Now, another interesting fact that I came to know of, was that the women in the villages waited to fall sick, just so they could get to travel to Khavda to the hospital! Never in their lives have they left their native villages. And here I was, 700 kilometer away from home.

One thing that holds enormous warmth in the memories of my internship is the sky. It was there that I realized, more consciously, that skies are different at different places. The kind of cloud formations, sunrises and sunsets, shades and hues, that I witnessed in Kutch, were such that I had never seen before.

One day I woke up early and got to see the sunrise. I stayed there for a long time, simply looking, and taking pictures of course, until the sun started hurting my eyes.

The kids were so pretty and nice there. Despite the major language barrier, I managed to communicate with them and their families even, with the broken Kutchi that I learnt over the weeks. It was extremely satisfying to have them understand what I tried to say and to understand what they were saying. Here in our daily lives, we hardly realize how huge an advantage having a common language is. When you don't know the other person's language, there's this big part of that person you will never get to know. That's one thing I regret. I was immensely interested in the people that I met there and I'm sure I could've learnt a lot of things if only I could speak better Kutchi.

Another wonderful memory is that of our visit to the fame of Kutch. One fine Sunday, we went to visit the Safed Rann (Literally, White Desert). Despite having heard quite a deal about how beautiful it is, what I felt after being there, right in the middle of a lot of whiteness, cannot be described. Majority of the feelings I had in the four weeks, cannot be articulated. Precisely why I have so many pictures here!

I was kinda pissed off with all the people stomping their shoes on the beautiful whiteness. It made the White Rann less white with all the brown mud surfacing from inside. But, well, what could we do.

Also, the Rann ('desert' in Gujarati), didn't actually have white 'sand'. It was more like salt. I learnt that the entire thing was actually river deposit. I filled the salt/sand in a tiny box and brought it back as a souvenir.

All of the four weeks, in retrospect, were entirely different from the life that I've lead so far; quite literally. My eating habits (no breakfasts, irregular lunches, self-made dinners), sleeping habits (way too early), bathing habits (once in four days, or so), speaking habits (an addition to my linguistic hall of fame); everything, every aspect of my life took a stunningly different direction.

Quoting one of my friends, it was "A December I'll never forget."

I am not selfish

The purpose of reading any book is always either to add to one’s knowledge, or mere leisure. I believe, if a book makes you think, its actual purpose is met then and there. Philosophy as a genre in books, is an incredible way of triggering critical thinking. One such book is “The Fountainhead”, by the famous novelist, philosopher, playwright,  Ayn Rand. It took some time for the words on its pages to sink in and make sense in my head. When they did, it became a rather interesting thing to think about.

The book basically journeys the lives of a number of different people, who in some way or the other represented deeply, the ideas of the author. The book comes from an author who has introduced the idea of “Objectivism” as a philosophy. According to the Ayn Rand Institute, the essentials of objectivism include :

1. The existence of an “objective reality”, which means there’s an absolute reality which exists irrespective of how it is perceived.

2. “Reason”, that is logically and consciously making sense of things.

3. “Self-interest” as an integral living philosophy, wherein one focuses on the needs and decisions of self, over others.

4. “Capitalism” that roughly reads as : privately controlled and aimed at personal profit.

The protagonist of the book embodies all of the ideals of Objectivism in general. Apart from that, he has been portrayed based on the idea of the author of the ideal human. Howard Roark is an architect, who doesn’t bow down to popularly accepted notions of Modern architecture. Despite facing severe failures in the face of populism, he, at no point, compromises with his ideals. Roark initially comes across as stubborn, but through the course of the plot, builds up to a commendably strong person of principle. His engagements with other characters in the book are brilliantly described and seem very unreal. In the sense, these are not the kind of conversations, or scenarios we generally come across or engage in. That’s the whole point of the book. It broadly depicts an amplified version of an ideal, individualistic human being, in contrast to the “second-handers”. Which brings us to another interesting term coined by the author, “second-handers”. This term defines the people who have no individuality as such. All their ideas and beliefs are drawn from others. Instead of analysing reality by themselves, they look for it to be defined by others. They live to impress others and can go so far as to compromise their own beliefs, to do so. The character of Peter Keating has been represented as one of this type. His relationship with Roark blatantly shows the polarity between the two kinds. Other characters namely Gail Wynand, Ellsworth Toohey, Dominique Francon, are all very strong characters and leave an impact in a strange manner. It’s the kind of impact that you can only understand when you read through those hundreds of pages full of words put in beautifully.

Being a purely philosophical read, it made me introspect over a lot of simple words that are part of our everyday lives, but whose meaning we never critically think over. One such concept is altruism. Literally, it means ‘sacrificing something for others than for self’. The book introduces ideas which quash the fundamental meaning of altruism in practice. What  is true altruism? If you do something for the good of others, you may receive some reward. Which, in this case, is personal gratification. That goes to oppose the very essence of altruism. While pondering over this idea, I recalled one of the episodes of the popular TV series, Friends. In one of the episodes, two of the characters have an argument over the idea that “There is no selfless good deed”. Here’s the link to the relevant video.

Altruism is generally contrasted to Egoism. The ideology that one should always choose to do things in one’s self-interest is the basis of egoism. It seems like a simple, rational thing to say, that we just ought to make decisions for our own welfare.  “Egoism” is naively understood to be a vice. Critics suggest that given every person in society follows this philosophy, the society may fall to anarchy. That is simply a very far-fetched assertion to make. The naked truth is that society already is living this philosophy to a great extent, and it is working just fine!

A debate can go on and on, and a philosophical one? It has no bounds.

I leave it here for you to think.

My Twofold Summer Memoirs

I generally consider myself a very adaptable person. Always happy to be anywhere, enjoying the good bits, being optimistic. I ignore the issues that loyally stick to me whenever I am at a different place than yesterday.

When I’m at college, I have these occasional pangs of nostalgia that leave after-effects connoted by me missing home uncontrollably. I think of things and feelings that the warm notion of “home” brings with it. When I get home, I’m good for a couple of days and then I realise how good college life is. I miss the sweet freedom of sleep timings, food choices, and most importantly, the precious company. And then I’m left yearning for college. Anyway, tickets have been booked, decisions been made. You can’t go back for at least a month. Calling that period of 30 days ‘very important’, would be an understatement.

I found myself helpless, left with infinite online bucket lists and verbal bucket lists from experienced people talking about what I might tend to do and what I must do for summer. Apparently, all those words did not sink in. They simply reflected off of me. I’m a shiny plain surface, I reckon.

Ten days into the vacation, I sat down to introspect over my activities. I could get nothing save the book I was reading. Rest of the time was spent eating more than needed, sleeping more than needed, indifferently delaying plans of going out and meeting old friends, watching Game Of Thrones, bullying my younger brother to get me things I was too lazy to get myself. I’m inherently lazy, but I felt even more intense a feeling of sluggishness this time. I looked at a piece of paper. The paper I had so enthusiastically filled, making plans, scribbling away all the things I wanted to do for summer. The heat of foreseen events was as good as the summer’s. Sadly, it had all sort of died out now.

The next 10 days were to be spent in the comfort of my maternal grandparents’ home. The clichéd scenario depicting a kid coming back fatter and richer from grandparents’ visit stood absolutely true for me.

Part 1

Train journeys in Rajasthan become boring for people like me, who have no charms of train commute besides distraitly gazing out the window. Generally, I get to see changing landscapes, farms, houses, rivers, people. In Rajasthan, it seems as if we’re stuck with a photo on the window and we’re looking at the same damn photo all the time. No changes in view. A photo of a vast ochre yellow landscape sparsely filled with trees having dull green leaves, planted distant enough from each other to have each one's shadow complete on the sand. No evidence of life.

Almost every summer vacation of my life so far has been spent in the dunes (not literally). The state of Rajasthan is known for its extreme, scorching summer heat. The kind that burns you, literally. I started feeling the peculiar heat of my native state as soon as I got off the train. We had an hour long journey from the railway station to my grandparents' home. En route, I had the same picture stuck on the car's window pane, again, with occasional encounters with camels and cars for a change. Then I took a wise decision, choosing to stare outside the windshield rather than the window I had by my side of the seat. When I saw a mirage, I stared with amazement and as soon as it disappeared, I waited for the next. I love that part of road travel where vehicles start disappearing in the horizon. This part is an attribute of hilly roads. When I was little, I used to pretend I'm on a rollercoaster. Driving high up, only to scream our guts out when gravity hugs us back down again. Imagination is a saviour when your surroundings conspire to kill you of boredom.

Sardarshahar is named after Prince Sardar Singh of Bikaner, Rajasthan. It has nothing to do with sardars anymore. But I'm almost always questioned about this whenever I name my native town, to which my response is a powerless, exasperated smile. When I reached Sardarshahar, I started reliving all those vacations I had spent there. Now that I had developed a more keen sense of vision, I observed all the houses, the shops and the people, with better attention. I thought, I have seen this town growing. I've seen how it has evolved. But I like the fact that certain things, like the shops of the halwai and use of donkey carts, have not been blown in the urbanisation cyclone.

My grandparents received us with the same hugs, not a degree less warm than they were last time. It's amazing how they're the same every time I meet them, even though it's always after a year. I realised that the house now looked smaller to me and the people I met, older.

There's no electricity most of the time, which gave me an opportunity that I never asked for, but as I understood later, I needed. No TV, no laptop, very minimal use of mobile phone was all I needed. Younger cousins of mine fed cows, buffaloes, oxen and dogs, everyday. It was such a fun activity for them. They used to wait for something to come in front of the house, asking for food. It could be anything with legs and an appetite, and they'd take a bunch of rotis and go feed it. They'd also keep a long wooden stick with them, just in case. I found it amusing. But I was glad they were busy doing these things instead of playing video games. We also made castles in the sand with the cousins. We had mutually divided the works. One would gather sand, another would dampen it so it could be moulded. And two of us worked on making the castle. After an hour of building, rebuilding and final touches, we were proud creators of a clumsy little sand castle that could barely be seen from a distance, given that it had the same colour as its surroundings.

Early mornings were the best. The sun was up just right. Enough to make the sky blue from black, but not enough to heat the ground. There'd be birds chirping, with a soft breeze blowing. I absolutely loved the mornings there. That was incentive enough to wake up early. The noons were terribly hot with the sun at its prime. And the nights so cold, I woke up with a cold every other day. Such is the hypocrisy of deserts.

When I visited relatives there, I made it a point to talk a lot to them about their lives. Some of them, who've spent all their lives in Sardarshahar itself, told me how they used to live in the same houses earlier. With no electricity, no water supply, and a very small number of rooms inhabited by a number of people too large for the rooms. They used to gather on the terraces and chat with neighbours for hours. They talked more back then. Urbanisation has made the world smaller, but has distanced people from one another.

Part 2

I had 5 days to spend in the capital, where my maternal uncle resides. It is an overnight bus journey from Sardarshahr to Delhi. I naturally didn't have a sound sleep and my eyes opened now and then. As dawn broke, and we reached Delhi, I couldn't keep my eyes shut any longer. It was stunning outside.The underground metro site was fenced on both sides with metal boards. At the upper edge of the fences, there was a narrow rubber tube which glowed. As the bus increased its pace, I could see brilliant parallel light trails. I loved the sight. This continued for a few kilometres. I reached home, hungover.

I found that Delhi hasn't changed in all these years as much as Sardarshahar has.

The very day I reached, the place was hit by a thunderstorm. I was out on the street at that time. Standing below a shelter with a few strangers, I witnessed lightning striking out of the sky. The sky, filled with thick, dark clouds. It was sheer stupefaction seeing a bright, sunny sky change into a gloomy, absolutely dark one. My senses found repose in the sky and its wonders.

That incident will bide in my memory for a very long time.

Visits to Delhi include monuments, malls and tempting, absolutely amazing street food. Long drives on the sexy roads. Billboards, flyovers and the energy. Delhi is fabulous.

We travelled on foot within Sardarshahar, hardly set foot on Delhi roads.

Delhi was as hot as Sardarshahar. But air-conditioning was like the cruel witch and we were delicate Rapunzels. Malls, cars, home. Air-conditioning followed us everywhere. And we were too afraid to let go. Even our return journey from Delhi was air-conditioned. And then I wondered how I had spent those days in Sardarshahar, without air-conditioning.

We are trapped, by choice.

Originally, advancements in technology were meant to add comfort to our lives, and free us from working manually. Experiencing the rural-urban divide, I cognized that real freedom lies not in artifical and material provisions, rather in the little, ignored aspects like warm relations with people and places.

This reminds me of something I recently read in The Fountainhead: "The basic trouble with the modern world, is the intellectual fallacy that freedom and compulsion are opposites."..."In essence, freedom and compulsion are one. For example, traffic lights restrain your freedom to cross a street whenever you wish. But this restraint gives you the freedom from being run over by a truck."

Two places, two eyes, two ears and a curious outlook, integrate to give wonderful memories!

Even though I did not do big things I could show for, I had a worthwhile experience. I saw the places I saw every year, but this time with a different perspective.

I hope I write about my hundredfold travel memoirs someday!

[The pictures have been clicked from my good ol' phone camera.]

Musings in Solitude

Disclaimer: The material in the article that follows is purely out of an emotional mind. No scientific or factual yardsticks to be held while reading.

Why can't we just let things go sometimes? Why can't we just sit back, look at the sky and get lost in it?

These questions hit me after a brief encounter I had with the night sky one day. Under the wide, wide sky, alone, silent. It was the night after full moon's night. A plethora of thoughts emerged in me after I came back. And I penned it all down.

The sky is beauty. We, lying down here, have no clue of what mysteries the sky holds for us. Spending time observing the sky, I realised that there the stars all different from each other. It is not possible to differentiate them as such but somehow, lying down, looking at them, I knew they were all different. Each one brighter than some other. Apparently different in sizes too. I sat there, looking with a hopeful gaze towards the sky. Stars, so many stars! I could make out one star from the other so well. It was enthralling to look at each one and feel connected to it somehow. I could see a star fidget around. It was a tiny bright little thing, moving to and fro, making me wonder if there were child-like human qualities in stars too!

Among all these tiny beautiful flecks of light, there stood - calm, silent, static - the moon. When I looked at the moon, I knew I hadn't seen anything more beautiful than that. I looked at it with a satisfying gaze. I wished for it to stay that way forever. Even though it wasn't an astronomically special day per se, I couldn't have found the moon more special. It was pure beauty. Peace in its real sense. Looking at the wondrous beauty of the sky, I did not want to say anything. Nothing at all.
Solitude is bliss. And when sitting under such a beautiful sky, I wouldn't mind being alone. I was calm, silent and full of thoughts at the same time.

Very few persons came to my mind. And of course they were the ones I loved the most. One of those, loved the sky, the stars and the moon just as much as I do. I called her and we together looked at the sky. The way she reacted, it was genuine happiness. I felt the same way, I reckon. But the difference was that she was much more expressive than I could be. Together, we noticed eyes and expressions on the moon's face! She saw the moon exactly the way I did. That moment was elating. The expressions of the moon were as if it was looking down at us with love. That moment where I could actually see those expressions look so realistic, I couldn't help but fall in love with it all over again. After my friend left, I was back in my solitude. I was emotionless, expressionless for a few seconds there. I did not feel anything. I was just there, looking at the sky, aimlessly.

I was spellbound. In love. Lost, and there, at the same time.

Woes of a Grammar Nazi

I’ve always had a tendency to correct people. A tendency to make them do things the way I believe is right.  

I have a soft corner for language. More precisely, grammar, punctuation and pronunciation.

I am a captive of a habit of correcting people’s pronunciations and grammar while conversing. Well, I don’t always do it out loud. But I do it. Every time I am in a conversation, regardless of the age or profession of the other person.

I have also been said to suffer from an “OCD for correct grammar and pronunciation” by friends. If internet trends are to be believed, what I am is best defined by the term “Grammar Nazi”.

I cannot bring myself to recall the inception of this concern. This very intense concern about how human beings use their tongue and teeth, their ink, to instigate words. The concern about whether the words are coming out in the right order or not. The fervent concern pertaining to the beauty of language being harmed. In totality, my mind has been occupied far too much while reading, talking, listening. Occupied with observing carefully, sometimes too much to actually focus on the matter.

I’ve never despised this need of mine. In fact, I enjoy this a lot. A lot. A <space> lot. Yes there’s a space. It saddens me to the core to see people type “alot”. No space.

I cry inside. And then there’s the you’re/your dilemma. Each time I see such blunders, my heart weeps. My heart weeps for the future of humanity. The dark, dark future that is coming onto us.

The internet is witness to the ignorance of certain humans in terms of grammar and punctuation. Also, there are books by budding Indian authors that have too many grammatical errors to have actually got published. It’s a shame. What does all this boil down to? Why aren’t we updated with the modern rules of basic grammar? Grammar is such an integral part of language that you cannot afford to lose its essence while conversing or writing. Does it come from bad schooling?

There are so many factors. But if you read enough, you gain this intuitive sense of grammar. Just by reading something, even without thinking hard, you can sense there’s some mistake. That’s what a lot of us are missing. Let’s not blame our teachers.

I did not have that good an English teacher at my high school. While solving grammar exercises, he used to give wrong answers to the class, and I used to have an argument with him every now and then. At times, he would be offended. But, well, there’s no age bar for learning, right?

Growing up, I’ve learned how to not point people’s mistakes out. I’ve understood that it might be hurtful or rude at times and might make me look like a total show-off. I just wish they comprehended my intentions more positively. I’m glad my friends have become comfortable with this habit. I make fun of their pronunciation habits without the fear of them being offended. There’s this friend of mine who  pronounces “here” the same way he pronounces “hair”. And I enjoy this bit by asking him to say “here”, “hear” and “hair” and then compare them. One day I saw this post on a popular Grammar page on a social networking site.

                               

From this I made up a lame little joke. The background being, the friend is an ardent debater.

“When you are in favour of an argument, you say “here, hear, hair” out loud!”

I laughed, and laughed. A sadistic, satiating laughter.

My grammar madness is built by such random little acts.

I do not mean to offend. It is just a small part of my personality that derives pleasure from being able to criticise others’ activities. From posts on social networking sites to phone messages, from e-mails to daily conversations, I am here to check.

PS : Just something close to my heart that I wanted to share. I don’t intend to come to a conclusion about this deliberation or to give remedies to anything.