The ides of March

The soothsayer and Pompei warned Caesar of the ides of March. It's strange how tyrants continue to have people warning them of impending doom. Its ironic how people so steeped in self-love have those others who love them enough to emerge out of the world of the dead to come help them, and save them. And yet, the acumen and shrewdness that guided them to their position of glory, fails to pay any heed to these warnings. Till much worse happens.

The most powerful country in the world decides to mutilate a much smaller country which is only trying to shape its own destiny. The only motive behind this act, being a Caesarian pursuit of power. The anihilating superpower- the destination of the smartest minds of the nations, the leader of the world, and the Organisation of United Nations, the land that the world looks upto for leadership.

what trash is Rome,
What rubbish and what offal, when it serves
For the base matter to illuminate
So vile a thing as Caesar!


The ides of March are yet to come.

Shakespeares idea of the macrocosm being reflected in the microcosm takes yet another form. Not only does one country dominate the other, but there are some, in our little worlds of people who belive that it is their prerogative to dominate the rest, to lead them, in ways that they dont want to be led. Everywhere there exists this dominant class, which believes in its holy right to speak for the rest, and to command the rest.

Marx spoke of a class struggle. It is yet to come.

Famous thinkers of our civilisation said that democracies are 'tyrannies of the majorities'. I'm quite sure it wasnt numerical majorities that they were talking about.

Majority of wealth, or capital, or something, it must have been.

Why I still wear my hair in a pony tail

Coming to college I faced an entirely new world. A new lifestyle, new
people, a new bed to sleep in, different buildings, different traditions,
and everything around me had just changed. I was far away from home,
topics of conversation were different. Everyone was trying very hard to
make their presence felt among others, and yet, at the same time, they
were losing touch with their own individuality- that unique factor that
made them who they were. I was thrust into this flux, unprepared, with
absolutely no idea as to what to do. I didn’t know what to do, where to
go, whom to talk to, and yet, I knew the most important thing - I did not
want to lose my individuality.
One of my favourite concepts of all times is that of dialectics, as
propounded by Hegel, which talks about the existence of a thesis with
interacts with an antithesis to form a synthesis. I may not understand the
concept completely but when I apply this to the transition from school to
college, I think of the life I had back at home, at school as a sort of
thesis and, and the new life that college promised, with its unrestricted
freedom, few rules, fresh new ideas, amazing opportunities, a chance at
learning, and at creativity as a kind of antitheses that were coming
together, to define the life I was going to lead for the next five years –
The Synthesis. How was this synthesis going to happen? Which aspects would
merge with which ones to create what was a huge task I had ahead. As I
already said, I did not want to lose touch with my individuality and all
those core things that I knew made me who I was. There were come very
crucial choices that I had to make. I had to identify who I really was,
what were those aspects that defined me, and then move ahead.
Something I knew from the very first day I entered the college gates was
that the Martinian name had to be upheld on these grounds. I knew I was a
Martinian, and though I was now also a ‘lawschoolite’, a Martinian is what
I really was. 12 years of La Martiniere had nurtured me in a very special
way, and made me a very distinct individual. And I knew, that no matter
what changes would occur, I would always, and forever, remain a Martinian.
Not just in terms of the school certificate I had, but in my deed, and in
the way I conducted myself. Being a Martinian, is a VERY crucial part of
my individuality.
I wanted this aspect of me to remain, as a very crucial part of the
Synthesis I was to create, an so, anyone who sees me walk into my
classroom at exactly 8 50 am, they see a 19 year old college student, with
a backpack, and her hair, pulled back into a bouncy pony-tail.
 I use my pony-tail here as a symbol - A symbol of all that La Martiniere
has inculcated within me. It is the discipline, the pragmatism, the
integrity, the laughter, and the absence of frills – the genuineness. It
is this genuineness which is an attribute which I cannot separate from my
years at La Martiniere. And it is that genuineness which I wish continues
to define me, as I make my way into an all new world.
        College is a world of few rules. And yet, I walk into my classroom every
morning I walk into a classroom with heads of all shades ranging from
blue to red and yellow, sporting extensions and clips of all varieties,
in a bouncy pony tail brought together with a black scrunchie. It is then
that I feel wonderfully comfortable, incredibly ‘me’ and genuinely
Martinian. It is then that I know that I am going to be Martinian for
life.
 
  
 
  

to my best friend...and a lot more..

Life has a strange way of throwing into your path exactly the person you need. not just the person u need but also the person you want, and i got mine when i was going through the toughest time of my life. and htere he was, suddenly dropped from the heavens...there for me. saying those exact words that i needed then to be able to survive, to breathe.. making me be me again.. all the while supporting me.. caring for me.. and being the most wonderful person i knew in my 17 year old life.
and it wasnt just that this best frnd of mine was nice and supporting to me. He was an amazing guy in himself. He was someone who i admired just cz of the person he was. Cz he was so perfect. Cz he was everything so many people would dream of being. And i say this, not today because everyone wants to be in princeton like him, but the guy who shared with me his dreams and desires.. who told me what he wanted to do .... and those dreams were not selfish dreams. they were inclusive dreams and all i could do was feel wonderful about being part of those dreams. He was a person who stood up for ALL that he believed and, surprisingly, i was someone he did believe in. he could laugh, and make people laugh, without hurting them. He was BRILLIANT at proving a point ( only that i was usually the one he proved that point to :P) and he was everything an ideal human being really needs to be.
He was the best friend any girl could ever have. But suddenly I messed up, and he didnt get to know how much i really loved him. How much I miss those manyhourlong pointless conversations that we had. How much i miss the confortable silences, and how much i will miss those few phone conversations that we did have when he was in India, now that he is back to firangland.
But i do. He's gonna remain one of the best guys i know, and will be the one whos given me some of the best memories ever.. Chocolate cars, cemetries, snakes, african coins, 5rupeenotes, flowers, bangbangs, barafgolas, and patrioticsongconcertbrochures to last a lifetime..
and even as i cry like an idiot when i write this, thank you, for everything :)
and cheers to a friendship that always lasts.... a bhan of cha :) (coffee for you)

ok.. so i messed up my contracts project.
The contracts teacher was one teacher who did inspire me to work, and the subject caught my fancy. I really wanted to work at it, and write a good project for him. What happened instead was that i messed it up the worst. In my defence though, i can argue that situations were glaring against me. they had said the extention had been cancelled and i had to hurry to get this piece ready. But what i did submit is not something i am proud of. not at all. i let myself down. and its not a very happy feeling. I really wanted contracts to work out.
its a horrid feeling. Letting yourself down is not a very happy situation.
So, what am i going to do about it. i am upset, no denying that. But mayb i'll just need to deal with it in a positive way. Make sure i dont mess it up again. Work really really hard at my projects next term. Work really hard at the endterm exam. Make sure i do well enough to make up for this. I must. Cz it is something i care about more than most things.
But i still cant get over how badly i did upset myself. Really didn't want to. :(

abstract

In class 5 i was taught by ms. puxty , that abstract nouns were those which could not be touched, seen, smelt or tasted. Yet they existed. The examples we learnt of such words were pain, sorrow, beauty, joy, etc. And in these 7 years, of actually going through a very secure, yet by no means easy life, i can claim to have actually touched, seen smelt and tasted so many of these abstract concepts. Forget the dry n scientific definition for once. Forget about all these reality checks and worldly limitaions. Think of laughter. Surrounding you, every part of you. Dancing out of your eyes, out of your heart. there is nothing else to think of, and indeed nothing else to care about. just u and that odysey of laughter. A childish innocence in your eyes. And u enjoying it from all you senses?

Think of being in love. even if it a childish crush. It is still innocent. And it is pure. You feel it whole heartedly. And till it wears off, u r on an all time high. and when your heart is broken the pain is larger that the beauty of love itself. and then pain is as much a reality, as the fact that the grass is green and roses red. Coz the tears may blur the actual colour and form of what you see, but they shall never hope to blur the pain you are going through!

friendship , happiness, agony, love, glory, honour, and all these other abstract concepts are a much larger than the drab reality around us. Much larger than life anyway! the ‘concrete’ part of it. They are what make life what it is. This whole intangible dream we call life!

The storyteller

The storyteller had beautiful tales to weave. He had delightful things to say and magical moments to capture, and all of us gathered around to let the story teller take us into a flight of happy moments... hours of imagination, where there lived someone else, in a different life, and in a different context from us, who became an important part of us. This other person became a part of us.. her pain making us flinch, and her kisses making us giddy.
This was so, because the story teller was that vivid in what he told us..and because he told us stories that we could relate too. We could feel what the character felt, because all of us had felt that way. We were hearing our own stories and yet, they were so different.
What we loved was to anticipate the beautiful end that was to come. For the good things to happen. For the knight to slay the dragon without the damsel having to nag him into doing so.
And we all believed that we had a golden tale to live. Similar to the one being told to us.
Untill one day, we stopped believing that we could.
but something went wrong.. i went on believing in my own fairy tale.. hoping and wishing it would come true. Mayb i was wrong. i was to have grown out of it sooner and stopped wishing that theyd come, cz this was like wishing fr a carpet to fly. Mayb this would hurt me more than anything else. but i went on believing in my magic tale... i still do..and i dont know why.. it has hurt me enough and spilt a lot of tears...
but...
If you are a dreamer,come in. If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar, a hoper, a prayer, a magic-bean-buyer. If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire, for we have some flax-golden tales to spin. Come in! Come in!”

To the wilderness...and to life...

It’s almost as though someone blew a magic powder over vast rolling lands, whispering ‘let there be life’, and suddenly the huge bustling monstrosity that we call the city came up. Swarming with people, flavours, noises, colours, smoke and rumours, the modern Indian city expresses at best, what we call ‘life’. I recall a friend pointing out to me, that the jungle is where you find life. She echoed what a number of biology books, and wildlife television channels tell me about the forests being the storehouses of life forms of different sizes, habits, colours, patterns and characteristics, and yet, as I look at vast stretches of city around me, I cannot help but believe that what surrounds me, possibly hosts a wider variety lives, characters, colours, and habits than the wilds. It is the city where I see qualities of the living manifest themselves in a myriad ingenious ways, and all these different manifestations, amalgamate is a most brilliant way to conjure up today’s idea of the urban and of the city.

.....Deepa climbed onto a bus at the regular stop. She was going to meet Akhil, at the art gallery, 14 kilometres away. Akhil lived closer to her, than the gallery. In fact, they were neighbours. Yet she was to meet him at that quiet gallery where the most artistic students at the university display their work. The paintings are crude and uncensored and express the primal ideas rebellious students have. Parents don’t go there. They say it is a place for the ‘dopers’. They couldn’t meet nearer home, because there were always the prying eyes of neighbours, ready to carry tales to their parents, and ruin everything. On the bus, Deepa met Ambika, her salwar-kameez clad cousin. They chatted for a while about the newest bollywood hotbod, and of how wrong it was for Sheila didi to have eloped with Azan, and when Ambika asked Deepa where she was going, a confident, “French Class” was what she got for an answer. Deepa had been putting up this facade of learning the language for three months now, and everyone was quite sure, that she could speak the tongue quite fluently. “If only they knew....” she thought to herself.

Deepa wasn’t going to tell her parents about their romance anytime soon. They wouldn’t get it. It wasn’t that her parents didn’t understand love. However, love didn’t exist between teenagers, or between people of different communities. Here again, they weren’t to be misunderstood as communal. Deepa’s father’s best friend from the missionary school that he went to did belong to a completely different community, and they got on perfectly well. Yet, if Deepa told them about Akhil now, they’d inflict tortures similar to honour killing on her, and so, ignorance was bliss. It also wasn’t that Akhil was a fling. She knew she would marry him, in the traditional hindu way, with her parents’ blessing, but that time was just not now. She would tell them, when the time was right. It would cause a few tempers and fights, but they’d handle it. She wouldn’t elope or do anything else that would bring them shame. She loved them. She loved Akhil too. And she often wondered if what he said was really what he thought...

So, here was the city. A simple urban incident – a parley of ideas, thoughts and emotions. The traditional, the conservative, the snide, the rebellious, the intelligent, the intellectual, the adventurous, the honourable, the brave, the doubtful, the candid, the dishonest, the ambitious, the base, the human, the animal, the divine, and the primal, all blended in harmoniously together, to give rise to a simple incident, of little interest or variation. All these qualities of the ‘living’, accentuated and highlighted in a beautiful pattern to give only a small chapter of city life.

Every little activity here is swarming with life. Every little corner, every narrow street, every important road, and every stately building, is swarming with activity. This is life. As varied, and as condensed as it can get.