The Kilimanjaro Girl

 We learnt to cycle around the same time. She, a few weeks earlier. And by the time I managed to comfortably get to the seat and pedal, she could double carry her sister. I remember the evening I met her, at her neighbour’s. The first thing she told me was, “oh I have the same skirt; maybe we should wear it on the same day someday.” It was yellow polka dotted skirt with a matching top that had a little bow.

We went to school together, she was my best friend through grades 3, 4 and 5. We got our barbies married and then graduated to paper dolls. Those three years were pretty packed. Under a shaky mulberry tree, we would discuss menus for the aforementioned weddings and what we wanted to be when we grew up. While I would settle for anything ranging from an airhostess to a forensic expert; she was set on being an army doctor, because she would say, her father was in the army and mother a doctor, and hence, wouldn’t like either of them feeling shortchanged. At age 9, it totally made sense.

Endless hours of house-house later we would be mostly quiet. Pretend accents and impromptu adult dialogues can be very exhausting. The town we lived in hadn’t seen a coke or its variant yet. Newspapers were a weekly feature. Every Sunday, we would get the last 7 days newspapers. [If you are curious about the town, it’s Tezu in Arunachal Pradesh, though I doubt its googlability. During the rainy months [9 months a year], it would be cut off from rest of the state and the world.] Yeah so we made do with chilled glasses of kissan orange squash. Deep orange in colour and deeply satisfying. 

She was my first introduction to the cool. Cool in the form of luncheon meat. It was lunchtime. We decided to not go too far into the playground with our lunchboxes. We sat on the edge, where we could discuss grades, the importance of good handwriting and how unimportant boys were; and then she opened her lunch box. I am yet to taste a better sausage. That with some sticky rice, and salad. The perfect lunchbox that I often think about.

We were hardly adventurers but there's this absolutely random thing we did once. On a Diwali night, we overdozed on a certain sweet made with cashews, pistachios and sugar. We just couldn’t stop. Finally, after we could no longer move from our chairs, she looked at me all wide eyed and asked me to stay still, said she was sure the sweets had drugs and our parents would soon find out what we had done and it would all be over for us. The tale of two girls who had ODed on suspicious diwali sweets, disowned by families and friends roamed cities in search of the very sweets that took them down. Noooo, we shook our heads that can’t be our story. I am happy to report, it wasn’t.
   

I remember that moment when we started whispering our borrowed knowledge of periods, breasts and boys. She had an older sister who made us paper dolls and would sometimes would offer sage advice. Wide-eyed, hushed voices, followed by nervous giggle; that was our first real adult conversation. Nine seemed the right age to have that kind of a conversation, especially when done wearing faux-sarees and sitting crossed leg.

And then we moved to different cities. And because it was way before Facebook, we wrote letters. We spent a few birthdays together, eating too much cake, talking too much, listening too little and watching Steffi Graf play Monica Seles. She was a Steffi fan. I was not.

Soon after we got busy with our new lives, newer friends, entrance exams and then jobs. Then I found her on Facebook, spoke a little at first, almost shy, without any idea what to say to each other. And then we spoke about lives, paper dolls, jobs, men and that mulberry tree. She grew up to be a beautiful elegant woman living a very wholesome full life that we often see on pinterest. An experience-rich life. We never got around discussing pinterest. We should have.

She supported Amnesty, baked strawberry sour cream cake, traveled far and wide and climbed the Kilimanjaro, living a very full life. And then she left.

Soon after her climb, which she did as a part of amnesty challenge, I remember telling her how while she was busy doing something as life changing as this, I was busy living a very pedestrian life, chasing the unremarkable and being bothered by things that are trivial. She said we should be more. I told her I want to work towards my very own Mt. Kilimanjaro.

She lived. And she lived it really well.  

I often think of her, picture her in my mind. Not like how she looked on her Facebook albums or atop Mt. Kilimanjaro. I try to think of her in that yellow polka dotted skirt, smiling with her eyes.

a second chance? yes, please.

via pinterest

so, the world didn't end on the 21st. phew! while i certainly wasn't one of those who believed it would, i am believer of signs. so what could be a bigger sign than this? a sign that says go live a little. a sign that says, this is your second, third, and final chance to be the person you wanted to be. i will take that sign thank you. so yeah, post 21st of december 2012, i have been onto some un-me kind of things. things that i would have forever kept on  a back burner.

few examples -
1 being brasher. i usually have a comeback, but my politeness, dumbness, lack of courage, call it whatever you may, often stops me from mouthing the smart alec rejoinders.
2 dressing out of my comfort zone. tread into a world where less is less. a world where changing the color of your jeans doesn't count as adventurous. a world with ugg boots and long dresses. and orange lips.
3 getting out of my comfort zone. i tend to hover around what's easy to do/get. enough of that. point is to get what i haven't got i ought to do what i have never done.being fitter, or being better writer - requires serious work. back-breaking work.
4 make today count. because how we spend our days is of course how we spend our lives. ain't it. willdoittomorrow is not happening, today is what i got.
5 not be shy. i am not 'shy' shy. but i am a little awkward when the group is big. i forget to hold my own.
6 don't look for approval. not doing so will be very uncharacteristic of me. so un-me that it scares me. but then that was the whole point.
#6 will take care of everything else. it is the most liberating thing ever. just the thought makes me dizzy. :D so, yeah i will take the earth surviving the doomsday as a sign. a sign to be better, have more fun and be what i always wanted to be. and i want to be fierce.

It’s never over.

This post has taken me the longest to write. And yet I can’t find the best way to begin. So, I will paraphrase Meredith Grey from Grey’s Anatomy, “And we are adults. When did that happen?”
Really? Who quotes from Grey’s Anatomy? 
Inappropriate quotes apart, the past few weeks have been kind of rough, in a non-tangible kind of way (non-tangible rough is obviously any day better than tangible rough); I have been burdened by the demands of this ideal grown-up world. It’s been feeling a lot hard being a grown-up, a little too overwhelming even. The adult check-list has been too much for me to keep up with; the absence of a coffee table isn’t helping either.
My stream of consciousness goes pretty much – what have I done with my life – what is there to love – is this how it’s going to end – is this the end – don’t I deserve more – don’t I deserve better – why didn’t I know better – what have I gotten myself into? – is that it? – it’s over isn’t it? 
Dark thoughts clouded my mind. Nothing made much sense anymore – late nights – simple yet big ideas – hundred percent at work – 5 servings of fruits and greens – loyalty – being low maintenance - early dinners – crossfit – being good – playing fair – being the good daughter/wife/friend/colleague - none of it made sense. I looked and relooked at my life and questioned my ideas of the good and the bad. I drew a blank, mostly.

And then after a bleak morning and a bleaker afternoon, just like that I came across a documentary on Ian Wright, a Jamaican footballer who played for Arsenal. Now, I am usually not the one to watch documentaries made on footballers, let alone of footballers I’ve never heard of. In the film, Wright talks about his harsh life and how he went on to join Arsenal very late in his life, because that was the only thing he wanted to do. He talked about how he wouldn’t let anyone tell him otherwise. He didn’t let anyone tell him it’s over. Because it’s never over, unless you want it to be. There those worlds – it’s never over. When I heard it for the first time, those words sounded magical. So is that a sign? The sign to stop whining and start shaking things up? The sign that says ‘No matter what’s happened before, you can decide at any moment to become the person you want to be, to do whatever you want to do. Starting now.’

Perhaps, I still have a shot at being the adult I want to be and not try and fail at living everybody else’s idea of an adult-life. I decide the grown-up life I want to lead, I choose the kind of coffee table I want to have.

“The secret to happiness is short-term, stupid self-interest!”

i am in a phase, a reflective, introspection phase, can you tell? and after much thinking, i am certain, i’ve found what it takes to be happy, or let’s just say, to be less miserable. to be in control of one thing that you can always be in control of - oneself. trying not to take control or be affected by situations that depend on anyone else. short-term or long-term, stupid or smart self-interest is what we should aim for.
Calvin: I don’t understand it, Hobbes. The kids teased me when I wouldn’t play baseball. Then they yelled at me when I did play. Then the teacher called me a “quitter” when I stopped playing. Unless you’re a star you can’t please anyone.
Hobbes: In that case, why not just please yourself?

yes, why not just please ourselves?

nb - heavy words befitting a leap year? :)

A lovely word and life lessons

Nonchalance.
I adore this word. The way it sounds and its meaning. It makes the tongue work a little, but not much. No rolling nothing, ends with a little whisper. The word lets you be a little lazy, easy and tad snob, all at once. Wonderful no?

Nonchalance is the trait of remaining calm and seeming not to care; a casual lack of concern... wow, oh my god, isn't that lovely?
The word is arrogant but not rude, it's indifferent but never selfish. It cares, but not much. Yes, it cares, but not much. Just perfect. It's such a balanced word.

I have figured, the key to happiness is to be somewhat oblivious. To things, people and developments around us, things that don't exactly/directly concern us. It's mostly about minding your own business. I have discovered, being slightly indifferent, for the want of a less dramatic word, is liberating.

So, this is what I want to be. Nonchalant. I want to care, but not much.

The importance of a sucker punch and why comfort is a bad, bad word.

You are in your sweet little cornucopia... hours, days and months go by, every bit the way you had imagined. You have more than just a vague idea of how the future will look like. Life is predictable, in a good way. And if you are a little lucky, you might just have a few surprises too on the way. Of course there are ups and downs. The ups and downs you have learnt to tread. It's your world after all. 'Lucky me', you gush, follow it with a knock on the wood, or sometimes you just give these rituals a miss. Saving them for those not-so-often celebratory moments of life. Your everyday life isn't nothing special. It's just normal. This is how it's meant to be. This is how it should be. You don't know any other way. You take your life and the people around you for granted, the way you think they have. You don't know better, or worse?... and then something hits you hard. A sucker punch. It'll take you a while to understand what just happened. And when you finally do, you realize, the world that you thought would thrive on its own, has in a way, ended. You look at yourself, closely. You put your every action, every habit, every moment under scrutiny. You start doubting the life you have lived, the choices you've made. You are left with questions, so many of them. You are begging for answers.
And then with time, you emerge from the wreck, not stronger, not wiser, not any less sadder but with a realization, that you've perhaps been a little too comfortable. Too oblivious to the world, that was changing. Comfort pushes you into an unreal world. It's the first step of being in denial. It also numbs you. Comfort makes you forget why you are here. It makes you confuse priorities and fight battles that are of no importance at all. Comfort is a bad word. Don't wish for comfort. It's not going to be pretty.
And as I write this, I realize, I'm dressed rather comfortably.
Tell me stilettos don't hurt.

My 'stop to smell the roses' edition.

My apartment isn't anywhere near spectacular, in fact I have multiple issues with it – the closets don't close, one of the basins acts funny every time it's used, water isn't ample though leakages and damp spots are, there isn't enough light and the lights are too bright. Okay, now that I am done with my clever wordplay, I will tell you one adorable thing about where I live.

During the fall-winter season (That's so yves saint laurent no?), the trees lining the apartment buildings bloom. And bloom they do. The flowers are a lovely pinkish-purple. Google tells me it could be Southern Crabapple. I am not sure. The trees are covered with these flowers, and when I say, a single leaf isn't visible, I am not taking any poetic license. But the best part isn't the pink-purple spread. It's those tiny little things that would come visiting every morning. Humming birds. The prettiest humming birds resting on pinkness laden branches. It was beautiful. I wish I had seen more of it. But the fact that I use a getty image here, tells you I was too busy tiding up my bed, while gulping down the cold morning tea. Because I always thought I could catch the humming birds sitting pretty on the branches the next morning or the morning after that. But then the next morning and the one after came with its yellow to dos and messy closets. And then one morning just like that the flowers were gone so were the birds (yes, it was that dramatic). I stared at the bare brown branches and wished I had called in sick, on one of the mornings.

How will you measure your life?

The graduating class of 2010 at Harvard Business School, was given an assignment. The assignment required the students to answer three questions.
First, how can I be sure that I’ll be happy in my career? Second, how can I be sure that my relationships with my spouse and my family become an enduring source of happiness? Third, how can I be sure I’ll stay out of jail? Seemed funny, but not so. Apparently 2 in a class of 32 had done time in jail. On the first read, the assignment sounded incomplete and lame. But on reading the questions again, I found that yeah, that's all you need to figure out about your life, to measure your life.

Happy in career would mean, you would go on to be successful and make money. Successful gets you power. Power to get back at that sassy showoff from college. Or buy out your ex-flame's dwindling business. Making money would mean, you would have all the pretty things and the comforts that the swanky malls and delicate mannequins have to over. Sometimes peace of mind too [there's nothing a spa in the Himalayas can't fix.]

Happiness from your spouse and family, well, well, well. Basically, you really can't do much about this. Being a good woman/man brings you a good husband/wifey, if you believe in that, then perhaps you also believe in good karma. Ergo, you are also into the past-life-this-life thing. Doesn't quite work that way does it? So, be good, do not cheat, and what? Keep your mouth shut?. I guess. Family, if you are born into one that's loving, caring, sharing and all things sweet, then knock on the wood. That's it. Else, it's sad and let's not go there. Alright, that was about being born into the family, what happens when you have to raise one? It's then all up to you, the aforesaid spouse and genes.

Staying out of jail. Okay sitting in our cubicles, doing extremely mundane and harmless work, looking out of the window, to a view that's as boring as the last meeting, and then walking up to the vending machine for coffee that's insipid, it's tempting to pass the last question as lame. Crazy or comic even. But in our cubicle, there's so much more we could be doing. Thinking for instance. Thinking up plans. Evil plans that involve people who are part of our everyday, every night. Or that guy who takes up the parking area every morning. Or just a momentary lapse of judgment could do us in. Thing is crap happens [Jailed abroad on Nat Geo is scary, after every episode you have to look heavenwards and say thanks. Thanks to be just getting to sit in your dilapidated sofa in your living room and watch some primetime television]. You can just not take anything for granted. But what you can do is be cautious. Cautious not paranoid. Spontaneous caution anyone?
And never forget to pray.

Kia soo

First, my sincere respects to a civilization that actually thought of having an expression as profound as this. Kia soo.

Kia soo is a Chinese expression that means the “Fear of missing out.” Fear of missing out on what someone else might have. Fear of missing out on what we have now. Fear of missing out on what others might get. So, one could safely say, Kia soo is what drives us to do what we do.



Does it make Kia soo a good thing? Not necessarily.
But we could make Kia Soo work for us. Finding out the things that we would want to miss out on and the ones that we would like to hold on to.

I’ll call it the Straightened Hair Theory

I have what you will call unruly hair; I’ll skip the part that tells you in detail about what I mean when I say unruly. Let’s just say, I have bad hair day, 6 days a week.
Okay, so last week I had this little party to go to, for which I neither had the right dress nor the attitude, so I decided to at least have the right hair. I went to the nearest saloon. 35 minutes of hot ironing and loads of Chinese chatter later, I emerged with poker straight hair, hair that shines, hair that you’d love to touch, hair that sways when you say a Yes or a No. Yeah with that hair I went to the party where my reply to every compliment was,”thanks but only till the next wash.” And then as I headed home it struck me maybe, just maybe I should get my hair permanently straightened.

The next morning, I woke up with hair that needed no brushing and a strong resolve to get a permanent fix. Yeah I had found my salvation. My world was about to change.

So I went about my day, writing and checking copy. Then sometime little after noon, out of nowhere, for reasons far too dull to go into, I started hating my hair. The straightness, the silkiness, the shine, I hated everything. It all of a sudden felt limp, scanty and phony. I wanted to get home, wash my hair and greet the unruliness back.

Just so you know, this post is not part of Dove’s real celebrities campaign, or some you are beautiful the way you are initiative. This hair episode is here because it had a little lesson for me. A life lesson if I may call it so. So, here goes – there could be many things that you would want to change in your life, important and trivial. And quite often the change that we had sought and worked so hard for turns out to be a huge downer. Unfortunately unlike straightened hair, which wears off in 6-8 months, this alteration could be a little more damaging. Well, so what’s the deal you ask, would one never do new things, would one never try to change? Of course one would. And this is where my Straightened Hair Theory comes to play. What this theory tells you to do is sample the change. Before you go for a complete overhaul. Say for instance, if you want to switch cities. Instead of going all lock, stock and barrel, take off and be in that city for a fortnight. Stay away from all touristy things, do the regular stuff. Ideally take a cab to and fro to your possible place of work, once daily for 5 days. Preferably during the peak hours. And on your way back try doing the groceries too. And while you are at it, collect the laundry from the presswala across the street. By the end of your trial stay, does the city still hold its charm?

And, this, ladies and gentlemen, is my STRAIGHTENED HAIR THEORY.