Curiouser and Curiouser
Today’s prompt was crooked. Here’s some wordplay/social commentary/crooked behaviour:
As you can see, my artistic ability is minimal. But this is quite fun. Turns out I like creative challenges.
More on my drawing backstory tomorrow. I’ve eaten far too much good food tonight & I’m incredibly sleepy.
Curd rice out.
Today’s prompt was “shy”. Here’s a rock-ing joke. 
Continuation of my drawing backstory:
My family has multiple people who are into art. None of them, to the best of my knowledge, have taken it up as a profession, but, rather, use art as a mode of expression, or a stress-buster. They enjoy the activity as a hobby. A serious hobby. My grandfather does a lot of pencil sketching, painting, and just about everything else. He’s incredibly talented, and specializes in reverse glass painting, something I’ll explain in a later post.
Naturally, some amount of pressure existed on baby Tejas to excel at art. But I defied expectations. How? I didn’t excel at art. By virtue of my left handedness, I sucked at all crafts related projects (I can’t cut straight lines). The most I got out of any colouring activity was a bunch of colours on the underside of my palm – a glorious consequence of my hand going over what I had coloured.
Still, I persisted. My parents bought me some amazing colouring books – including one devoted just to cars that I purchased at the old Oasis Center in the UAE, perhaps two weeks before it burnt down (in 2005). I loved colouring. Once I spent an evening at my father’s old office and drew a “landscape” photo. A house (purple or something), a sun, a couple of birds, clouds, a tree, and a river. A mountain too, I think. And my father framed it and everything. That, I think, is the best piece I’ve ever done out of my own volition.
Over the summer once, my mother wanted to decorate the house with things we did as a family. So, we bought a couple of supplies like thermocolĀ boards and ended up with some cool artsy stuff my mom made me do. My contribution? Ensuring my mother’s projects received validation. That was it.
The highlight came in Grade 1. Or 2. I had to draw the “Stone Age” or something. Basically Prehistoric Man. So I drew one of those men by sketching them out (my mom sketched it out while I nodded), and then drew a lion. I drew the lion myself. It was all me. Why? I don’t know. But I wanted a lion.
Did I colour the lion? Yes.
How detailed was said lion? Extremely. Had a mane and everything. Pretty great. The highlight? It smiled.
The lion had a smiling face.
Here’s something close to what it looked like (imagine this without talent):
More about my artsy adventures tomorrow, with a special feature on: Tejas’ grandmother teaches him how to draw a fish for Grade 3 Science class. (WITH GILLS!!!!)
I’m starting to do inktober. Will draw/post something funny everyday (I hope). Prompt for the day is “Sword”.
This is slightly self-explanatory but for those who cannot appreciate the beautiful fish I have drawn & the lovely writing – it’s a Swordfish. With a “Something’s Fishy” written below.
Cue back-story about my drawing skills:
I have none.
(this is only 98 percent true. Will post one bit of my drawing story everyday till inktober ends. Some fun is warranted during times of intense researching.)
Blue ticks,
A developing distaste for your (once) favourite show,
An unpinned chat,
A backspaced tag,
A deleted photo.
Finding out about their lives through social media,
And then thinking twice before messaging them a
“Congratulations!”
Not being the one they’d call, sobbing,
To hear you laugh and say,
“What a loser”, or
“Everything sucks, but here’s some ice-cream”
But,
Knowing that their number hasn’t changed,
And that they’re in the same time-zone:
Awake,
Asleep.
Online.
Fri(end)
I’ve been unwell for 3 days now – waking up consistently with a fever, some sniffles, and then beginning to cough to get the sputum out of my system. Which has led to some classes being missed outside of my quota for committee work, but it’s given me some down-time.
Since the start of September, I’ve pretty much been hopping from event to event in formals. I went through my phone’s Gallery and found 120 photos featuring yours truly, but all of them in the same formal Shirts I possess – which I ended up washing and using for all events. Aside from the realization that I’ve gotten to a point in life where having a multitude formal shirts is now necessary, I figured out that I hadn’t really taken a break this month.
Which is why I’m very glad the long weekend is here. Recently I wrote a small piece on how difficult I found taking time off. But I figured that perhaps this entire illness episode is my body craving down-time and sleep.
I’m also glad I could use the time to get back to my reading, which had taken a bit of a hit with all the work going on.
There’s a lot to look forward to this weekend, not least the extra amount of time I get to spend in my room. And the fact that I don’t need to wear formals this Monday.
If someone could get me Italian food right now, I’d be very grateful. (just putting this out there.) Missing home a fair bit.
When you talk,
I don’t think,
I respond.
And:
For that instant,
The backspace key is non-existent,
But sometimes I wish I
Didn’t type at all.
I took a day off today,
To sleep,
Read a book,
Recover, and rest.
But, to my astonishment,
I discovered:
There’s tremendous chaos in silence,
Akin to cacophony in violence,
And,
I’m not sure I like it at all.
I have finally acquired new pieces of footwear to wriggle my toes in. There’s new music I find daily, and my reading’s back up to pace. Things in Gujjuland finally feel normal again.
A large part of why I haven’t been able to write as much is because I’ve been running around for something or the other – even hopping cities in the process, since September started. It’s all been quite lovely, but sometimes how tired you are gets to you. Writing ended up falling out of my priority list, which sucks. But eh. Guess I’m human and can’t do everything I want to all the time.
I feel like University has started to become this singular quest to figure out what you like the most. As a first or a second year, you have the luxury of time – in terms of the Committees you join, for example. This is largely because no Committee will entrust you with significant portions of work in your first year. But also because you’re given a lot of scope for mistakes – you’re new to the general University atmosphere, and probably not as good with managing your time.
But that changes in the third year. Suddenly, expectations are automatically higher. That you’ll use your time judiciously, but also be able to devote all your time and energy to everything you sign up for. It’s strange. Sometimes when faculty ask me why I missed a meeting or something, I’m very tempted to say that I was addressing a more pressing matter – for example another Committee’s, far more important piece of work. That’s likely to offend them, so I don’t say it, and instead create mental cariacatures of them in my head.
To make memes out of. Nothing else.
It’s rather frustrating. I find that I can no longer simply sign up for everything I’m interested in. That I actually have to adopt a more cautious approach in figuring out what I want to do. Evaluate whether something will be worth the time, but even if it is, whether it will be worth the emotional investment.
Why?
Because work here is rarely not an emotional investment. I’m attached to the smallest, strangest things. Gulab jamun tasting nice at an event is a good example. I take personal offence if someone didn’t like it.
(especially when I did.)
(but that frustration may be misdirected. maybe I’m upset at my lowering jamun standards.)
Whatever.
Basically I now have to think more about things. And I don’t want to.
But the alternative is never getting to sleep.
The struggle is real.
For the last couple of months, I’ve been on this massive exploration trip where I discover new things about Asian cultures: from food to television, media, music, clothing. I’ve just been reading a lot more than I ever have about Asian nations, and that made me realize a couple of things.
As children growing up in India, we’re exposed to several components of this culture: several YouTube videos with K-pop music, arcade games, several anime shows (such as Pokemon), and yet, as we grow older, our exposure to these significantly reduces. Most DTH operators, for example, largely broadcast English medium shows created in the USA. It took a while for them to recognize the shift that began where people started appreciating British pop culture a whole lot more, yet, that phase between 11-18 years old, when you’re moving away toward Star World type channels, is where, for me atleast, I ended up losing my connect to the East.
I’m slowly finding that again – and it’s wonderful. We’re so ignorant of cultures so close to our own. Bangladeshi Rap, for example is something I came across and was blown away by. Pakistani music has appealed to me for a while – Coke Studio makes appreciating that far easier. But there’s so much I miss out on while living in my bubble of loving Western shows.
If anyone has book suggestions on Eastern cultural phenomenon, please let me know.
Isn’t it strange,
That the Earth spins,
The SunĀ shines,
and we have a Moon that reflects,
But humans can possess and express emotions that make
Them feel like the Earth has started to spin in the wrong direction,
Or that the Sun will not come out any longer,
Or, worse,
That the Moon will no longer reflect the light in their lives on a dark day.
What we also have, however,
Is cloud cover, which,
Offers the comfort of shade and shields from harsh rays,
Forms rain that kisses parched lands,
And the knowledge that we don’t control any of these phenomena.
Thankfully humans also possess the rationality,
To understand that didactic logic dictates that therefore,
The Earth will continue to spin and orbit,
The Sun shall rise, and set,
And the Moon will reflect the light that shines in your eyes, and your eyes only.
Tomorrow, as it did today.
I’m back.
More when I have less work.
Flying back to a city I’m most comfortable in evokes memories of the first time I landed there. Atleast in my memory, I instantly recall being wheeled by a porter, because I decided to sit on top of my suitcases – a big, grey Delsey, as the Unaccompanied Minor staff allocated to me struggled to keep up with our pace, holding all documentation. I remember searching the crowd for my grandparents’ eyes, my grandmother’s eagerness, and my grandfather’s excitedness. An entire summer here, I remember thinking. Pure bliss. Only to be presented with incessant rain and unpleasant tomato juice.
Year after year, for 6 years, similar scenes play out from the B-roll that is my brain.
Each time, I recount, vividly getting into the Cream White Omni my grandfather owned and being wheeled away to the Basaveshwaranagar house. The smell of ripening yelakiĀ bananas and Parle-G biscuits surrounds me, with the tantrum I threw – expecting a more lavish spread for my arrival. What strikes me was how uncomfortable I first was with the taste of the water – and how my grandmother packaged water in plastic Bisleri bottles, to ensure I felt protected by the RO my spoilt body was used to.
I can place the first phone calls made to home, announcing my safe arrival. What I imagine is my parents heaving a sigh of relief, considering their package had reached its’ intended destination. I can’t particularly relate to what they must’ve thought when their 5-year-old, fresh from kindergarten graduation asked to fly alone to India. But I’m so grateful for that experience. So many memories of mine involve aeroplanes.
Including puking every single time I had to leave Bengaluru. Every. Single. Time.
I never learnt. My relatives would all turn up with food I loved eating to my grandparents’ place. And I used to eat it year after year. Only to awaken and vomit it all out – either at home before leaving, or en route to the airport. Once I even puked after clearing Check-in, just before Security. I remember using the telephones in the old HAL airport to call up my grandfather and aunt and tell them I was fine.
Flying into, and out of Bengaluru has a lot of emotion connected to it. It’s the city that shaped me as a person.
As I go back for the third time this semester, all I want is to pause and remember that feeling of each wheel hitting the tarmac. I want to pause time when I hear the announcement that we’ve landed in Kempegowda International Airport. I’d like to take that extra second to smell the air from the staircase to that bus that shuttles you to the terminal.
I’m not as homesick anymore, largely because I’ve adopted my room as my home.
But God, the thought of getting rejected by an auto driver after saying “Jayanagara hogthira?” is quite beautiful.
Tejas Rao 