Category: 2017

Yesterday evening, I marked myself present on an attendance register that is invisible and non-existent to the attendee, but very much a sub-folder in someone’s brain, somewhere. To phrase it another way, I attended a wedding reception.

And in a rarity, I didn’t whine too much about it. Often I see that I search for things to crib about: a lack of good company, the distance I have to travel, being paraded around by my mother, not remembering anybody’s names, having to listen to “OH YOU’RE SO BIG NOW”, and countless other things.

But yesterday was just an all-round good function. Even though I had to travel from Whitefield to West of Chord Road, and bear the full force of horrible BDA planning, and the most ingenious utilization of BBMP funds known to mankind.

I digress, however. This post is not about the misfortunes of living in a country with below-average governance. This post is about the joys of attending a wedding reception.

Let’s begin, shall we?

I had an inkling yesterday would be pretty good when I left from home. As I got stuck in my first traffic jam of the day, I took some time out from staring at my mobile phone to really think hard about who’s wedding reception I was attending. I knew his name, his parents’ names, and how he was related to my father. But I wasn’t quite sure how he knew my mother.

Then, in the cool way that brains function, I found myself navigating through every branch in the family to see a cool dotted line joining my mother’s cousin to this groom’s father. And everything was clear again. My heart-rate considerably relaxed, and the sheer amount of concentration and willpower it took to figure out the familial connection put me into the dreamiest sleep.

I woke up 30 minutes later to a song from Mungaru Male (the best film of all time), the rain, and another traffic jam.

At which point I began to wonder who all I’d get to meet at this one function.

You see, at it’s worst, a wedding and it’s allied ceremonies can be thought of as a week-long proceeding of meeting people only your mother remembers, smiling, learning of their names, and then not meeting them for another 5 years. At it’s best, the function provides the perfect opportunity to catch up with people you met ages ago, but recently enough for there to be a continuous stream of conversation and no awkward silences.

Again familytree.exe opened up in my brain. I plugged in my manually handcrafted formula, which I have conveniently reproduced below:

If Tejas = X, and Amma = Y, Appa = Z, let immediate family = {X,Y,Z}
If immediate family = {X,Y,Z}, then let extended family = {Y}^m * {Z}ⁿ = A, where m = Number of cousins of Y and n = Number of cousins of Z,
Then A = Number of potential relatives Y can introduce you to,
And A-mn = Number of relatives whose name you actually remember.***

Nonetheless, the formula works. And a depressing thought follows: why is it that my generation is not as adept with names/family trees as the previous one?

The answer, as with everything else, is somewhat rooted in Technology and how it’s pulling Millenials farther apart.

In any event, my calculation yesterday resulted in a computation of somewhere around 60, at which point I was extremely optimistic about the company I would get and the fun I would have at the wedding.

Till I checked how brilliantly Pakistan were playing in the final. At which point my mood dipped considerably.

To add to that I got stuck at Yeshwantpur. Hopeless, I tell you.

At that point, when Google Maps turned this horrible shade that is only comparable to clotting blood, I found my messiah in the thought of South Indian food.

There is no word that aptly describes the emotion that rushes through your body at the thought of an eight course meal (extendable to eleven, of course, or even fifteen), and the sound of a crispy dosa leaving the tava.

There is no word within the English dictionary that can explain the taste of the rasam prepared at weddings, or the pineapple gojju that has now become mainstream.

And no English phrase can tell you about the emptiness of your soul and the full-ness of your belly as you consume wedding food off a banana leaf, having given in to the people serving you food and hosting you, egging you on to take that extra serving of rice you knew you should never have been tempted into it.

It is pure joy coupled with salivating mouths.

It was amidst these thoughts that I realized I had arrived at the Mantapa.

Though I expected a Bollywood number to play in the background upon my entry, I was left disappointed. But then again. This isn’t my wedding after all.

After pleasantries were exchanged and I managed to have some mind-blowing conversation with my third(?) or fourth(?) cousins, I noticed a queue forming at the side of the stage. With the bride and groom stationed and positioned perfectly for the camera lens to get their 32s, everyone was in a rush to meet them.

When I noticed another queue heading down toward the dining area.

My Eureka moment!

I present to you, the Reception Theory.***

At every reception, you have a window of 6.42 minutes (the Scientific method has been followed to the tee: my independent variable is me, the dependent variable is the time taken to reach the start of the queue. Hypothesis has been verified with strong positive correlation after 60+ weddings) to make a choice:

Option 1: The Meet and Eat – Where you meet the newlywed to be, get some photos clicked, offer the groom an opportunity to catch up with the Indian batting scorecard, and subsequently rush to eat dinner.

Option 2: The Eat and Meet – An unconventional strategy that bloomed in the early 2000’s, with doting mothers attempting to pacify their children prior to taking them on stage. Where you eat food first, and get photos clicked later.

Neither option is without it’s flaws. With the M&E, you could potentially end up with a crowded line (if you move too late), and a crowded dining hall, where you’re forced to eat pani puri because all banana leaves are occupied. With the E&M, there’s the nasty situation of not being able to climb the stairs to the stage because you ate that laste spoon of mosaranna with too much pickle.

The M&E presents another unconvential challenge: you may miss highlights where the camera is on your face as you eat, because everyone is eating alongside you, including the cameramen. With the E&M, cameramen are evenly split to get photos of people relishing food and people meeting the bride/groom, so you’ll 100% get your Kardashian moment.

It’s a tough choice to make. One I hope my mother continues to make for me for a few more years.

Till then I’ll dream about takeaway food from these weddings and revel in that comfort.

***Denotes that Patent is Pending. Any attempt to plagiarize and utilize the formula and/or the theory in whole or in part for any attribution, commercial or non-commercial purposes whatsoever will attract strict legal action. 

 

 

 

Born with a passport that carried the flag of a cricket-crazy country, I was lucky enough to be introduced to sports at a very young age.

My parents enrolled in me in all sorts of classes as a child, and I had the freedom to watch 50-over cricket matches when they were telecast over the weekends, without restriction to my allocated Television Time. The first pages of the newspaper I read was the Sports section, and nothing interested me more, except being up-to-date with every sport I could possibly lay my hands on.

As with every other aspect of my life, I found ways to make sports nerdy. I held massive passion in my heart, with emotions getting the better of me quite often. This once, in 2006, I watched an India-England series, and was so upset at losing, that I threw a tantrum, threw some pillows around, screamed, and made my grandparents laugh at how expressive I was being. That same year, I watched every single match of the 2006 FIFA World Cup, from my grandparents’ home in Pune. My uncle (a Doctor) used to come home really late every night, and it was only then that I could spend time with him, so I stayed up with my grandmother, and watched every match that was telecast till he went to sleep.

After putting in all that effort, a power cut made me miss the finals. I later read about the headbutt in the newspaper, and watched it the next day. I was extremely angry.

But none of these emotions compare to the thrill I find in knowing numbers and statistics. The entry speed of a particular corner at the Monaco Street Circuit, the number of clubs that have been banned for violating financial fair play rules, the number of times Inzamam ul Haq has been run-out. These things give me a kick like nothing else does.

I latch onto this sentiment nowadays more than anything else because I don’t find numbers playing such a big role in my life anymore. Mathematics was one of my favourite subjects all through school, but doing Law has meant that I’ve been away from all the numbers for 2 years now.

Which brings me to the binary nature of sport.

As a sports fanatic, my memories of identifying my favourite club, my favourite players, and my favourite drivers, are by watching and figuring out which individuals represented the way I would respond to being in their shoes.

Were they honest – like Kumar Sangakkara, or Adam Gilchrist, walking off when they knew they had edged the ball?

Were they risk-takers? Did they leave their hearts out on the field of play?

Within a couple of games, you can figure this out.

Most people would accuse me of a “success-hog”, “fickle-minded” mentality, with the fact that I support Manchester United, Sebastian Vettel, Roger Federer, the Indian Cricket Team, Royal Challengers Bangalore, Bengaluru FC, Vishwanathan Anand, and several others.

But I’m not. The fact that I support the RCB should give you enough indication that I’m not.

Nonetheless.

The problem with figuring out who you support, especially when you’re younger, is that you develop an automatic hatred for your team’s rivals. I began to detest Nadal, and hated him at one stage, when he beat Federer at the Wimbledon Finals in 2008. I hate Liverpool FC. I used to get out of control in 2012 whenever Vettel lost a race to Alonso.

I don’t know what rational basis I had for this hatred. More often than not, it was just fuelled by my desire to see my favourite sportsperson/team win. Part of it was also fuelled by the humiliation of having to listen to the opposition’s supporters making fun of you the next day. No way I was going to put up with that.

I hated them so much that I stopped enjoying the beauty of sports for a while, and of healthy competition and respect. I never realized I could support a sport: call an entire sporting institution more organized and more entertaining than another, rather than focusing on an individual player.

And after all these years, watching Rafael Nadal today in the French Open finals, watching him win the final brought me to my senses a little.

We need to get rid of this binary concept.

 

Ah, topical blogging. How I’ve missed you.

The first time I flirted with co-curricular success, I was given a merit card and a bright yellow badge to pin onto my Uniform, in addition to my House badge (Bronte all the way!), which I treasured so dearly. It was one of my greatest moments, having beaten my classmates in spelling the most complex words, such as, but not limited to, c-a-t, b-a-t, and s-c-h-o-o-l. What, five letter spellings? At three years old? Yes. And Yes. Yours truly had announced himself to the world. I could see it in my little brown eyes, in the distance. People queuing up for my autograph, people waiting for photos, while I wore my sunglasses and smiled.

In my world, I was a rockstar. The parental love affirmed this.

This trend continued. I brought home merit cards for things like poetry recitation, show &tell, singing, drama, and, my favourite, “Student of the Month”. Merit Cards were all I cared for outside of my studies, and the little cardsheet squares are treasured possessions till date. I was the talk of the town in Kindergarten, with the Gold stars my friends & I had collectively accumulated for our row. We won the “Best Row” award for two years in succession.

And that’s when first grade happened.

You see, children don’t understand “success”, and schools capitalize on sporting participation by incentivizing it to levels that are unimaginable. Can we get everyone to do a drill? Of course. Then by all means, let’s make all the parents sit on steps and cheer for their kid who is one beat out of sync with everybody else (that was me). I wore floats while swimming, tripped repeatedly while running, ran out of breath within 10 minutes of starting any sport.

The rules of sport were pretty well-defined, however. You were chubby? Goalkeeper. You were good at Math? Scorekeeper.  You had a bat or football, you got to pick who you wanted on your team. You had a bat or football? You decided how long people played. You had izzat and aukaat. A rare combination.

I was knock-kneed and had flat feet, which meant I tripped everywhere I went. I was also extremely, extremely chubby, and I couldn’t tie my shoelaces. Add all that with the schedule of studying and reading set up for me at home, and I was your quintessential nerd. Not for a lack of trying though. My parents enrolled me for classes or coaching in every single sport that is known to man. I think the only thing I haven’t tried till date is horse-riding, and anything related to it.

Nobody handed out medals for academic/co-curricular success. And thereby begins my tale.

I got certificates and merit cards, and was overjoyed, only to discover the adulation and celebration was reserved for those who were presented with medals and got to stand atop a podium, biting their medals for a photograph.

Those medals. How I longed for them. I wailed after Sports Days, merely because the only thing I got out of it was a ribbon. Or some other piece of memorabilia. As a child, I couldn’t cope with the horror of being bad at sports. And I was severely disillusioned by the fact that nerds didn’t get medals. So much so, that my parents recently informed me that they considered buying me a medal and a trophy. Just so I could feel like a part of the crowd.

That was until I got a Cricket Trophy. Just for participation. But still. A Trophy to keep at home, one that was all mine. My father was there for the entire duration of that match, and watched me wicket-keep, miss a stumping, but go on to play 20 balls of pace bowling and remain not out. He was proud. I was just happy and excited. There’s a photograph of this moment somewhere – I need to dig it out.

I still had 0 medals though. And it ached, and ached, because I kept trying to get my hands on one, but it never came.

Till I met Prem sir. Prem sir is my Basketball coach. He took me inn when I was in the 6th Grade, when my friends made fun of me for missing baskets from underneath the board, and over the course of 4 years, nurtured me into exploiting one side of the Court, enough to ensure that my friends didn’t make fun of me anymore.

I’m not an excellent basketball player, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it took a lot of work from him, every weekend, to ensure I had the confidence in my ability, and trusted my body enough – to coordinate with my brain, to run without thinking, and ensure I didn’t fall.

It worked wonders. I was happier, finally found a sport I was reasonably good at, and I began to enjoy playing – something I had only experienced with Hockey and Cricket before.

But I still didn’t have a medal.

It took me 14 years to get a medal of my own. Prem sir did this amazing thing where he brought together every community he coached at and hosted a tournament for every age group. Nobody went home feeling sad – it was mostly a celebration of how much we had learnt under him.

He didn’t have favourites, we were all his kids. And he took care of us on that day. Everyone went home with a medal of some kind, and a trophy to boot.

Nobody cares about the nerds in school. Nobody gives them medals.

Except Prem sir.

That small piece of metal changed the way I looked at myself for years to come. And I’m immensely grateful for him. All it took was the desire to recognize sportsmanship, and reward a bit of mediocrity. In times where meritocracy is failing, I think it’s alright to do that. Help people believe in themselves a little more.

On that note, I think #MedalsforNerds should trend soon. Maybe on Twitter or something. #NerdPride

“This whole glasses/spectacles shebang is a conspiracy”: An ageing Donald Trump not knowing where to place his signature for a renegotiated Paris Agreement (everyone should use his poor vision to make him re-sign the same instrument, whatay fun.)

I distinctly remember when I was first informed by my friendly UniCare eye doctor (saying ophthalmologist hurts my tongue) that I would require these spectacle things. Innocent boys of 5 years of age used to run around the sandpit in our apartment complex playing “catch & cook”, a glorified, NRI version of “cops & robbers”, when someone decided it was a good idea to make the chubby kid the denner, and then throw sand around when he came to close.

I was the denner.

The sand went into my eyes.

Egads, tears! Egads, loss of all social reputation with lassies!

So I ran up home, and the parents’ conclusion was that it would be useful to ensure no permanent damage had resulted from the fast one my fast friends played on their very, very slow and non-athletic friend.

Verdict: Glasses. -0.25 power on both eyes.

First pair of spectacles: Round, plastic, Harry Potter frames. With those horrible neck slings.

First nickname: Nerd

Current nickname: Nerd

When I was informed by the ophthalmologist (see, what is this word), my memory is of my mother breaking down into tears. She feared her young one would be excluded and called names by his friends (he was), and also feared he’d look ugly (he doesn’t).

But society attaches a peculiar stereotype to those who are accompanied by these magical glasses. Aside from the names: “Four eyes”, “Bug”, “Nerd”, “Loser” – all, common occurrences, everyone now believes you read a lot. Or, that you used the computer for too long and therefore got glasses.

Or that carrot will help you get rid of your glasses and cure your genes. What logic, I say.

To minimise the effect of this stereotype, picking out the set of spectacles suited to your face shape and size is crucial. Especially with your first pair. Think of it like a wizard’s wand.

“The glasses choose the nerd, Mr. Rao”, said NRI Master Sridharan

“I didn’t choose the nerd life, the nerd life chose me”, replied 6-year old Tejas, instantly making it into meme folklore and the thesis submission “Meme-History: Thug Life”, by SocialMediaAsocialRecluse at LensesUniversity

That first pair of spectacles will define your identity for the rest of your life. Merely because you will grow so comfortable with that particular shape on your face, that picking your next set of spectacles is an exercise your mother dreads – you’ll shoo away anything that looks remotely “stylish” or “cool”, because you had these beautiful round glasses first up.

I’m still teased for my first pair.

Nonetheless. My power increased rapidly, which meant that we kept paying to change the lenses on my frames. Eventually, after browsing through racks and racks of spectacle frames, and looking at how responsible their young one was behaving, my parents rewarded me with the luxury of buying rimless, light spectacles.

I hated those. Worst decision I made in my life. These rimless things were usually made of metal, so the nose-pads and the nose-bridge had limited cushioning/no protection of any kind. When a ball hit me in my face in 7th, I came home with a massive scar across my nose, right where the cartilage begins.

Tough times.

What sucked more was the effect it had on the swarms of girls who were chasing after this ladies magnet. The number went from 1902348045698432082 to 0 in an instant. While a lot of individuals have a thing for guys who looked older (and yes, rimless frames do, apparently give off that effect), 7th Grade girls really aren’t the crowd for that.

The name-calling goes from “Nerd” to “Bigger Nerd” i.e., “Academician”

As I grew older, I begged that my parents provide me an opportunity to wear contact lenses. My mother used to wear them prior to her LASIK operation, and urged them to allow me to experience the same feeling. Of not being frightened and doing permutations of “how to explain new spectacles to mom” when the basketball is flying toward your face.

They obliged in the 9th Grade. I’ll never forget it.

I went from Tejas Rao, serial nerd, to Tejas Rao, resident rockstar.

I kid, I kid.

But what social status these lenses gave me. I could experience vision without wearing glasses. And people could see my full face. Finally, an opportunity to flaunt the eyelashes I’ve inherited from mom instead of dad.

The only downside to this was that I couldn’t take naps on the bus. I was always scared the lenses would dry up supremely quickly and lead to some disaster. I eventually came to my sense, prioritized appropriately, and diligently slept on the bus daily.

As I relocated to University, I decided to return to wearing glasses, mostly because I was worried with how unhygienic and dusty hostels are. Didn’t want more foreign substances on my eyes. As such I would have been wearing silicon because of Bausch&Lomb.

Soon, my glasses became a huge portion of my identity. People stopped recognizing me for the swagger of my walk, but began to recognize me because of the bright blue colour of the temples on my spectacles (don’t be ignorant, learn the parts of your eyeglasses here).

So, this month, when my mother placed an ultimatum and forced me back to my lenses (by informing me I look better in lenses), I found it tough to let go of the spectacles.

Then I was on the basketball court early in the morning one day, and my glasses slid down my nose and fell onto the court. I had to bend to pick them up. I thought about how many times I would have to repeat this exercise over the course of my life.

Lenses it was.

Although I subsequently bought amazing spectacles on Lenskart. But more on that sometime else.

 

As Indians, we see roads wherever we want to see them. Can a construction site have a road? Yes. Is a footpath a road? Yes. Are pedestrians meant to be run over? Of course.

Now I understand that pedestrians can be rather stupid in this country, and attempt to cross at a bend, or cross where a high speeding vehicle is coming in their way (I have been guilty of both, as a child), but I think it’s high time we recognize how pathetic driving standards in this country are.

I take issue with this because this evening I saw a series of bikes crossing over on the footpath I was walking on at speeds in excess of 40 kmph. Which isn’t that much, but is a lot when the bike is heading straight for you.

A large part of this is because of the concept of IST. Indian Stretchable Time.

None of this applies to Indians abroad, or NRI’s. We are the best versions of ourselves in countries apart from our own. It’s what hinders India’s progress the most.

I’ll explain this IST phenomenon now.

We are always late. Though everybody wears a watch in this country, even if it is an imitation Rolex from Chor Bazaar, everybody knows what time it is. But nobody cares. Nobody leaves on time, or makes an attempt to turn up to places on time.

And once they fail to leave a time that comfortably allows for buffers owing to traffic and other such things, all hell breaks loose, because it is imperative that they aren’t crossing over from “fashionably late” to “oh-shit-I-am-now-unemployed late”. Which means they need a solution.

What better solution than creating new roads?

If your destination was success, creating a new pathway would make me label you a genius. But your destination is a place you travel to regularly, and the advancement of technology is such that you can access estimated travel times easily.

So leave for trips early. It’s that simple.

I also take issue with the fact that Indians don’t enjoy driving. A majority of middle/upper-middle class individuals in this country don’t drive their own vehicles, though they own fancy ones. Which creates employment for drivers, but, nobody drives the car they purchased.

Alternatively, they drive their car, and grumble about the traffic daily.

I understand a lot of these problems, including traffic are rectifiable by paving better roads. That isn’t a solution I see being put into effect in the next 5 years.

So try enjoying your driving. Turn on the radio, try carpooling so you have someone to talk to everyday, listen to an audiobook, or a podcast.

Do something.

Don’t waste traffic time.

Alternatively, use public transport. Less pollution.

I’ve missed the feeling of watching cricket, or television, in general, in the comfort of my home, after playing a game of basketball with my friends. This used to be my usual day after school on most evenings, and it’s nice to be able to continue that – even if it is for the brief stint of one month. I’ve enjoyed it largely because it helps me see how much we’ve grown in the two short years since a lot of us left this community, but how easy it is to reconnect, even though months of silence have passed.

With general Bangalore weather doing general Bangalore things, the electricity supply in our house has fluctuated drastically over the past few days – moving rapidly between BESCOM supply and a Diesel Generator. Which throws me into a bubble of nostalgia, when I used to whine about how my grandparents’ generator system could power the television for 2 hours and no more. Power cuts were disastrous. They ruined my day of sitting in front of the television and accomplishing absolutely nothing. It was horrible.

But it got me to read, in the small outdoor space they had in their earlier residence – amidst the breeze, with an extremely comfortable share, and close proximity to the kitchen, and the smell of tomato rasam. Nothing delighted me more.

I digress.

These days when the power goes, my mind turns to whether our electricity supply will auto-switch, or whether we will have to call maintenance. While simultaneously, I pray that our appliances stay safe, and rush to check that all stabilizers aren’t in need of revival.

That sound is the worst, mind you. After that annoying sound some road bikes make, that stabilizer sound has to rank second. If you haven’t heard it, you must. It’s a sound you need to have registered.

Side note: Maybe that should be my alarm.

It’s then, when I contact maintenance, that I understand a little more of the home I inhabit at present. You learn about how the electricity flow and grid works, what challenges electricians face, and how there are always a host of tasks and complaints they need to attend to.

The kind of due diligence I might do as a lawyer can save a lot of people from spending a lot of unnecessary money. But the kind of due diligence these people do ensures that none of die as a result of electrical shock, or have to live without the comfort of lights and fans.

On the electricity panel, as I watched the electrician dexterously move his hands through the wires, I questioned whether he was merely matching random wires in the hope that it clicked.

I dismissed that thought instantaneously, though my mind contemplated snatching a wire and running away: to see if all those wires genuinely mattered.

Maybe I should have studied engineering to understand how these things work. They’re useful skills to have in life, I think: the ability to build yourself some sturdy furniture from pieces of wood, and the ability to resolve electricity and water supply problems – apart from knowing a little about how technology works.

We need a boot camp for millenials.

Seriously.

Also, sidenote, and conclusion. Growing up is learning that chores are intellectually stimulating and can be fun. And help you live comfortably.

 

 

I’ve never enjoyed the rain. Being from the Middle East, the rain was not a phenomenon I witnessed on a daily basis, or even on a monthly basis, and in my 10 years there, I remember it raining just once. And hailing once. On both occasions, school ended early, and we shut all our windows, making a lot of noise in class – creating a ruckus for our Class Teacher. It was worth it.

On the contrary, I love water. I’m a camel, and drink a lot of water. Hearing about water scarcity, or water resource problems petrifies me. Chuck alcohol, forget about your caffeinated or aerated beverages. You can survive off water. My mother taught me the value of water somewhere around the 11th Grade, where my friends began to drink Red Bull, but I was deprived to prevent me from becoming the dependent. Water inspires me in other ways as well. There’s the calming effect of staring at your own reflection within a water body – allowing you to introspect about miniscule, trivial details within your life. There’s the hustle and bustle you witness on beaches. So many memories of water, the only substance apart from the internet that my generation will consume and sustain itself on for days.

Coming to India as a child was an exercise in despising the country. The school I studied in didn’t follow the CBSE system, nor had an affiliation to any other Indian Board. Being a British run educational institution, we followed the Western academic calendar, with summer holidays spanning from June to September. Three months of scorching sun, and nine months of taking care of me meant it was usually time for my parents to get their share of “annual leave”, so I departed for India like a diligent child, holiday homework et al.

I arrived here each year in the middle of monsoon. Pathetic weather conditions, no stable Television, Electricity, or Internet connections, mosquitoes everywhere, cockroaches entering my home from random holes, and that nasty smell. I hated it. I cribbed occasionally, I think, but my grandparents entertained the cribbing and supplied me with alternative outlets for my frustration – learning how to dismantle a computer and put it back together, figuring out how to play games on the computer, reading, learning Sudoku, and even stitching myself a bag.

My parents and guardians had reservations with this water thing as well. I was never allowed to get drenched in the rain as a child, instead hearing frequent reminders of my “wheezing”, or catching a flu, and I wasn’t allowed to drink cold water, ever. On weekdays, I was prohibited from swimming, unless it was for coaching purposes, and my parents enforced a strict 1-hour rule in the pool.

To see them get drenched in the rain today was amusing, to say the least.

Since I’ve moved back to India, I’ve embraced everything this place has to offer – including the weather. Being in Bangalore, there isn’t much to complain about, but being a member of the human species, I’m used to complaining. The fluctuating climes offered repeated tests to my immunity levels.

I didn’t get drenched till I moved to Gujarat though. And then too, out of necessity, when the weather turned on me – as I sat in the library till 12, and then headed back to the hostel on a day that had seen soaring temperatures of 45 degrees (Celsius).

It was strange. I felt cold and my clothes stuck tight to my body, but my hair felt fantastic. I lept around in puddles and ruined my sandals, and my pants, but I felt very carefree doing so. Without an umbrella, I felt the water droplets rushing through the spaces between my fingers, and peeling away any residues of dirt I had collected on my hand. It felt like a bath from the Gods, and for a long while, I was lost in my own thoughts – imagining cariacture images of what that would legitimately look like.

This evening we got stuck in the rain. My dad and uncle dealt with it by being themselves: pragmatic and methodical – attempting to find shelter and wait out till the most opportune moment arrived to cross the road and walk on home. My aunt and I were more head-on. She jogged cautiously, and I walked briskly, ensuring we didn’t ruin our respective footwear. I carried my bag on my head to prevent a little bit of the water from reaching my scalp (to no avail). The objective was simple: get home fast, stay as dry as you possibly can.

My dad got his pants wet while crossing the road, and my mother shivered throughout – she couldn’t bear the cold.

It taught me a lot about how moving out of my comfort zone has made me adapt to a host of changes. And think more objectively.

Moving around when you’re feeling cold is also a faster way of warming up your body.

Coming home, we did what I do on this blog. We analyzed. Talking about what would have been better “in hindsight”. I don’t know why we do these things – it seems rather redundant.

But the conversation was delightful. All of us taking turns with the hair dryer, me attempting to style my Bart-Simpson hair, a bit of catching-up on Sports, and general sleepiness.

That’s what I’m grateful for today.

Also, massive props to my grandparents for helping out with a pooja this morning: everyone woke up early to accommodate my internship schedule, and we managed to finish ahead of time – even though I woke up last!

More tales tomorrow.

 

 

Public transport.

For a kid that travelled on a solo flight from the Middle East to India, using public transport should have been easy. For one, it’s a shorter journey, within the same city – which means it’s far easier to come back home. Second, you know the language to communicate with individuals – whether it was Dubai (where English worked), or Bangalore (Kannada). Finally, public transport used familiar routes – ones that were visible with the naked eye, without the need for any form of onboard camera, or blind faith in the abilities of a pilot. A wrong turn was identifiable.

Yet, the bus scared the pants off of me.

I took a while to warm up to the auto-rickshaw. I’m aware, you don’t consider the auto rickshaw “public transport”. Let’s deal with that first. To me, “public transport” is a mode of transport that (1) I am not in control of, or (2) Me and my immediate family are not the sole users of – that there is a possibility of a user I was unaware of. For all the taunts my mother made when I was a child, I was quite a germophobe, and sitting on the same seat someone else sat on scared me.

Worse, the shape of buses just put me off. Most buses look like monsters. That Cars movie didn’t help things either. Disney made a van a hippie, and I didn’t take kindly to it.

I used the bus once when I was in Bangalore with my grandfather – we had to go from home to the Air India office in order to book my return ticket and fill out some Unaccompanied Minor form. I remember the day pretty vividly – there were no Volvos in service then, so we used the blue BMTC’s, and switched over two buses. My greatest achievement that day? Holding on to my grandfathers hand and managing to stick with him throughout the ride. I saw a couple of people jump off the bus while it was moving, and managing to land on their feet. While my little brain wondered why I was incapable of such daring feats, it was easy to rationalise. I was sure they were stuntmen, blessed with capabilities beyond my wildest dreams.

Relocating to India, I despised the thought of buses. I stayed away from them for 2 years, after which someone proposed a challenge. To travel the bus route alone.

I couldn’t stand losing.

So I went.

Since that day, I’ve developed a romantic relationship with buses.

(That sounds so creepy)

But in general, with all modes of public transport. I find them more enjoyable than travelling alone in an Uber/Ola Cab.

Mostly because my brain paints backstories to every individual on the bus – secretly hoping one of them will be the love of my life, or that one of them is an Indian Batman.

Or maybe I’m an Indian Batman.

Or an Indian Batsman.

But you get my drift.

There’s so much creative potential sitting on the bus. It’s a comic strip waiting to be written.

One day, maybe I’ll pen some sketches. They’ll sell for millions, just you wait.

University spoils us. It’s a sentiment I didn’t feel until I got home, and back to some form of structured responsibility. At University, you’re independent – and you become resourceful, but facilities enable you to forget about small worries. Water will always be there in the hostels. If not, there’s a mail sent to you about when the water cut is scheduled. And it’s very manageable. The Internet is always high-speed, for research (and football streaming) purposes. The Library’s A/C rarely fails – and everyone complains, but someone else at University fixes it. The room is cleaned by someone. There’s a Washing Machine on campus. Someone to iron your clothes.

The cabs come straight to the Boys Hostel Gate, and there’s a Provisional Store on campus that has everything you need to live comfortably.

You don’t even have to wash any dishes!

What more do you want?

Your electric points don’t work in your room, you can call someone to fix that.

That’s not true at home. I think in that sense, I have a lot, I’ve learned today, in a moment of introspection – where I was horribly pissed at how the power kept fluctuating – to be grateful for. So much.

So, so much.

For everything that makes my life more comfortable, for all the little luxuries my atmosphere provides to make learning more enjoyable. There’s a need to express that sentiment more in today’s world. That’s a goal I’m carrying forward to third-year – just be more grateful for everything I have in University. Thank people more than I do today.

My dad is the handyman/resourceperson at home. While I’ve picked up on a few skills of his, there’s no one who can get work done the way he can. But it’s tough to work under his monitoring – only because he’s very strict with the process and the outcome he expects. I’m the beneficiary of all this. Thanks for restoring the house to a lot of normalcy, Appa.

I also hope to help out more at home now. I think I did a decent amount of chores as a child, but there’s more to do to help restore balance here.

Clean up here and there, perhaps. Let’s see what the summer brings.

But first, I’ll have to get off my insanely comfortable beanbag. Ah, how I’ve missed you.

 

Today, one of my friends left Bangalore for Bombay, and watching him drive off in the distance in his Etios Uber cab, I felt like an adult who had taken time off for a holiday and had to return to work soon.

It was a pathetic feeling, because my brain did this thing where it sped past the time-space continuum into the future and imagined 3 of us hanging out in our mid-30’s.

My mood brightened instantly at the thought of my upcoming internship, however – because I promptly returned to reality, and the realization that I didn’t have a job to go to (yet!). And that’s great (for now!), because I’m not tied down to doing anything. I’m pretty sure my opinion on this will change in a year or two, or some time in the future, but I’d like this sentence to remain on this blog – solely so I can read back and remember what I thought of things as a 19-year old.

News of an internship is often great. I’m of the opinion that your internships really enable you to see Law come to life – and you learn so much about working with a diverse set of individuals. You develop skills that will last you a lifetime, even your experience ends up being one you wouldn’t recommend to others.

I went to Delhi for the first time during my last break, and being in Delhi taught me a bit more about being independent, getting along with people who have different tastes, and putting up with pressures at the workplace – trying to dissociate these pressures from your outside life. Having a bad day at the office shouldn’t translate to having a bad evening or night at home, and that’s something I appreciated in Delhi.

I’m looking forward to what I’m going to get out of this internship. I’m not entirely certain about the path it will take (for I am not a yogi or a mystic), but I’m sure that I will learn a new branch of Law, and get to meet individuals that I haven’t met before. Which means I’ll get to have new conversations, learn about more life experiences, and generally take-away a bunch of information that I can construct a better opinion on things with.

I’d do anything for those sort of things.

During my first internship in Bangalore, I came home every evening and spent time explaining what I learnt during the day to my grandparents – and they were so fascinated by the stuff I said. Even when my days became monotonous. And that kept me going, because I wondered why I was no longer fascinated by the opportunities I was being presented with, and I had to work hard to get an experience that was story-telling worthy.

Finding things like those – small bits of motivation, really, really helps.

The next month will present a lot of challenges, I’m hoping, and I’m hoping to just grow as an individual (without putting on too much weight).

Bloody calories man, they’re everywhere. Wish I could just burn and destroy them (good wordplay no?)

I return to Whitefield tomorrow – I was in Jayanagar this evening. Which means I must rest for my cross-city trekking adventure. And check that I have my Whitefield visa, and enough money to pay imaginary toll as I cross the city limits to go to Bangalore rural.

Urbanization man,

What a pain.

This semester I became more introverted as an individual. I reckon life does that to you at some point – an instant, or perhaps a series of events, that leave you wanting and desiring your own space, separate from your social identity. Craving that feeling, I took time out to eat meals alone, read, sleep, find music, write, and generally get back to things I did back in Grade 12 that I missed in my daily schedule in college.

It was good while it lasted. But throughout, I wrote extensively on this blog about how I faced a disconnect from school friends. I further went on to philosophize and unnecessarily theorize my feelings, I feel.

What I honestly discovered over those months, where I attended class, read, and slept (not enough), was the core part of my identity that school forms. And how much I miss it. It’s only when you’re back in your city – with a group of your friends, that you’re able to recollect things that made life fun. Today was that day. At lunch, with school batchmates, and at dinner, with school seniors.

Crushes, random moments of hilarity, the absurdities of faculty, and the fact that you ‘survived’ seeing each other for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, for years. Remembering those things is nice, once in a while. At the same time observing how you’ve each grown past those years –  what University has taught each person, the different experiences you’ve had. It’s a lovely feeling.

What that also enables, however, is in discovering your own value/belief system. I found myself in a minority quite often at school, and still do, to this day. While trading tales, cracking jokes, and discussing voting patterns (yes, we did), you figure out things you believe in more that others.

Chuck all this serious stuff though. The fun part of this entire thing has been watching Stand-Up Specials on Amazon Prime Video. I’m not being paid for this (though there’s a fair argument to be made that I should be), but they are fantastic.

One, what a brilliant move by Amazon Prime Video. Getting all the stand-up comedians to their network, releasing specials weekly. Quite nice, I must say. Attracts youth. I’m considering buying a subscription past my free trial maybe.

But, two, so much to learn from these stand-up comics’ sense of humour. The way they structure each piece, each joke, and the segue from one joke to another (which Biswa ignores by calling these Jokes without Friends).

You should also watch Journey of A Joke – a series by Abish Mathew.

It’s all so exciting.

I think I’ll try an open mic night.

Take a Frooti up on stage.

And belt out bad puns.

Avoid the tomatoes that will be thrown at me.

And run off stage.

Another trip to the Barbershop means another opportunity to tell you how much I miss childhood and simpler times where I had good eyesight and merely had to sit atop cushions because my dad took care of ensuring I did not come out looking like an absolute nincompoop. (yes, that’s a thing)

Today I went for a haircut where the barber I had booked wasn’t available. So a new individual had the opportunity to cut my hair. What I was extremely appreciative of was how he engaged in Barbershop Gossip. It was lovely. I grasped community sentiment about crucial issues like potholes and poorly constructed roads. Oh, and changing weather. All this while my auto broke down in the middle of the road because it hit a stone and I walked from sunshine to rain in 5 minutes. Wonderful. Thanks, man.

But I took off my glasses. Explained the haircut I desired. And then prayed for 20 minutes as he used a machine over my head and then cut rapidly. His hands (the only object large enough for me to see without visual aid) moved like an artist. Left, then right. Then a shake of my head. Some powder on my face (blinding!). Then a shake of my head. A patdown of my nose. More cutting. Silence.

“Saar”, he said.

I wore my glasses. In the background, a crowd gathered. Moment of truth.

I looked like a poor man’s Bart Simpson.

This man moved my hair partition 10 centimetres to the right and cut my hair unevenly. I now look like I cut my own hair.

And I can’t hold Scissors properly.

My only consolation is that hair grows back.

I also had my first driving lesson today. It was overwhelming and underwhelming at the same time.

I’ve been waiting to drive since I was 6 or 7, and I’ve loved cars for as long as I can remember. Ever since I started asking seriously (about when I turned 15), my parents told me to wait till my 18th Birthday. Owing to University and Internship scheduling, that got pushed to my 19th Birthday. So, sitting in the driver’s seat of a car – albeit not my own, made me smile. It was fantastic.

I then thought I’d feel like an F1 driver, what with the clutch and all and having to be smooth on the pedals. I wanted to feel wind in my hair and all.

I couldn’t start the car only. Full sad I was.

Till it revved up. Then I felt cool.

I wanted to buy racing boots and then mod that car to put paddle shifts in immediately.

I drove at 20 kmph today. Safety first.

I will learn the art of the gearshift tomorrow it seems. I’m super excited!

What a holiday this is turning out to be.