Change..

On stone were the first thoughts engraved
Then on leaves and lambskin
Afterward came paper, smooth and white
Now it's the text editor.

Chisel and clay gave way to
Stylus and pigment; then
Pen and ink, now the pen is not mightier
Than the keyboard.

Thoughts of great men and women
Were treasured in books.
Now anybody's thoughts can be stored for
Eternity - in the web of global consciousness.

Boldly going alone.

The sun had set but it wasn't completely dark yet. St. Peter’s lit up then. The church, the square and the fountains were bathed in strategically placed artificial lighting. I was by myself, but I didn't feel alone. Travelling and exploring new places on my own was actually a wonderful, exhilarating experience.

How did an ordinary South Indian girl (with all that social conditioning about girls not going anywhere alone) end up by herself in Rome? Well, work brought me to Italy, with a brain-ful of ideas about how I wasn't going to waste a single weekend idling away the time. I was going to explore it all. The others from my company posted there along with me, however, had other ideas. Most of them were quite content to spend all their weekends oiling hair, taking long baths, doing mostly nothing (well, maybe some shopping). I love lazy weekends, don’t get me wrong. But we were in Italy! I was out of India for the very first time, with so many plans to visit so many places. To be fair, there were some people who were interested in visiting other places, but they’d already been there for a few months and had seen most of the sights.

For the first two weeks, I tried my best to get some of the others to come with me. I wheedled, whined, sulked, and finally understood that they were not interested at all when some of them agreed to go with me to Naples the next day but refused to when I knocked on their doors to tell them it was time to go. I was so upset by this that I didn't speak to them for a whole week.

The next Monday, I asked my Italian friends at work where I could go safely alone. I was damned if I was going to let the lack of these people’s company stop me. I felt I was better off going alone. That’s how I ended up with a borrowed mini-tripod, my camera, a few snacks, some water, and an umbrella; at Caserta. I had a lovely day walking around the palace and the expansive gardens. I met some wonderful people, got invited to Adelaide the next time I was ever in Australia, and got a mini-lecture on why I should catch an Italian guy because they apparently make such good husbands. It was a revelation. I wasn't bored on the train journey, I didn't have to make meaningless idle small-talk about which actor was in what movie (none of the Telugu movies have plots these days, the titles follow a theme that changes every few months, how am I supposed to keep track? I don’t even watch most of them, for heaven’s sake).

The entire day was a delight. It made me confident that I could go places, literally. I made sure to ask my friends if these places were safe or not, of course. I planned out my day, took some printouts of maps (I didn’t have a smartphone then), packed my backpack Friday night and explored a new place every Saturday.

----------------

Two months passed, I was happy with my weekends, but I hadn't stayed anywhere overnight by myself; nor had I set foot in Rome. One or two times, someone would join me; most of the time, I went alone. Then a couple of people showed interest in visiting the Eternal City. I was ecstatic, until we started planning the weekend. There was a same-day-return offer at Trenitalia, where you got the return ticket free if you travelled the same day. Obviously the other two wanted to take up this offer. I was confused, frustrated, anxious, you name it. I tried convincing them that they wouldn't see much of the city this way, but found out to my horror that they were only interested in being able to say they had been to Rome. All they wanted were a few photographs of themselves standing in front of the Colosseum and St. Peter’s. I wanted to tell them to just use Photoshop and be done with it, but I had one more month to go before I’d never see them again.

I was hesitant about spending the night alone in a strange hotel in a foreign land. All the things my elders had ever scared me with swam to the surface of my mind and nearly drowned out the entire plan to visit Rome. Again, my Italian friends came to the rescue. Giorgio, being the most absolute sweetheart as usual, helped me search for a nice respectable hotel near the railway station. He even spoke to the hotel management and made sure it was all above board. Once that was done, I felt much more confident. The others were shocked that I’d be staying on after they left, but I was adamant. The train offer would go waste, they said; it wasn't safe, they said; what would I do, they asked. I told them to stay back with me if they were so concerned. That shut them up.

And that’s how, after getting rid of them on Saturday evening at Roma Termini, I walked around the Vatican City walls and entered St. Peter’s Square just as the lights came on. I met a wonderful American family and had dinner with them, then took the subway back to my hotel. My room was cosy and comfortable, and the man at the front desk made me feel comfortable. He didn't give out creepy crazy rapist vibes, anyway.

The next day, I really explored Rome. I walked through side-streets with no tourists, I jostled with the crowds at the Trevi Fountain, I felt my jaw drop at the magnitude of Circo Massimo, wandered among the ruins of the Forum, asked random people to take photos of me, felt dwarfed by the magnitude of the Pantheon, and awesomest of all, ran into a re-enactment of the liberation of Rome by the Allies.

Travelling alone made me really connect with the place I was in at that moment. It also led me to some powerful insights about myself and how I react to different situations. It made me more confident and self-reliant (and gave me a sort of rebel image among my Indian colleagues in Italy). I met a lot of interesting people from different places, and had interesting, even uplifting, conversations with them. Most importantly, this experience taught me that if you wait around for people to go with you, you mostly end up staying back.

One night..

Oh come on already! I've restarted the modem, unplugged all the cables and plugged them in again, even rebooted the laptop for good measure, to feel like I'm actually doing something. It’s no use. The lights remain stubbornly and defiantly red. What am I to do? The guys at customer care say there’s some technical problem, and the connection should be up by tomorrow. Meanwhile, I've got half-a-dozen emails to send off, and I need to post something on my blog, not to mention all the reading-random-stuff-on-the-internet time I'm missing out on.

Should I just use the app to answer emails? Should I type out the blog post on my phone as well? Or should I just hook up the phone as a personal hotspot? Two emails are important, I answer them from my phone. The rest can wait until tomorrow. As for the blog post, I’ll write it; literally. If nothing else, it’s good practice for my handwriting. I can type it out later, what matters is that I'm writing. Now for what I'm doing for the rest of tonight. That YouTube playlist is obviously out of the question, there’s nothing that interesting on television, and I'm not really in a channel-surfing mood right now.

There’s a pile of books to read, but I don’t want to explore a new book either. I want comfort — comfort food, comfort reading, and my comfy bed. So, I curl up after dinner with The Lord of The Rings. People don’t usually understand why I keep going back and re-reading LOTR. (“You've read LOTR? All three books? More than once? My God.”) It’s just epic, and definitely yields something at every single read. So, I'm off to Middle Earth to journey to Mount Doom, and shudder at all the Gollum bits; and of course, I can’t get enough of Gandalf, the elves and the Ents.

I'm going to be up all night, reading an actual book. Everything is as it should be, the internet be damned. For tonight, anyway.

Don't judge a cuisine by its big-city-fancy-restaurant version

For over six years, I've carried around a dislike for all Bengali food, except the desserts of course. The desserts are scrumptious. Who doesn't love a good, fresh, spongy Rasgulla? Even the tinned ones are delicious. The rest of it though, I thought I didn't like. This conclusion was based on surviving four days in Kolkata at a tech symposium while in college. The food was catered from some hotel, so the quality of ingredients was good; but I really don't like my main course sweet and dripping with khoya. If I do want something sweet, I'll have a Rasgulla or some Sandesh, thank you very much.

This led to me walking around for six years making statements like "I don't like Bengali food, it's all too sweet; there's no other taste to it" and "There are no decent vegetarian options in Bengali cuisine except for the sweets". Of course, living on steamed rice and lentils with Rasgullas for dessert at every single meal for four days does have that effect.

Then I went to the interior of Bengal this month. There were no fancy restaurants, no disgustingly rich preparations dripping with sweetness. And guess what? There are wonderful vegetarian dishes that I really enjoyed, and one that I loved, too. There was real Bengali food at a small eatery in "canteen" style. The waiter recommended a thali for my lunch, which was a platter of rice accompanied by dal (lentils), two kinds of vegetables, chutney and a roast papad. It was delicious, I loved everything on that plate. The chutney was sweet and salty and tangy all at once, a real burst of flavour in the mouth. There was a green leafy vegetable and potato curry and another with some root vegetable. The green curry was simple and light, and the other was heavier and spicier. The flavours were robust to go with the blandness of the rice, which is the staple carbohydrate source in West Bengal. The whole meal would of course be accompanied by fish in some form or the other, in case of a typical Bengali meal. It was simple, tasty, hearty fare; and get this -- not sweet.

I had some other lovely meals too, in those few days. Though I don't really prefer deep fried things for breakfast, I relished every morsel of luchis and ghugni (a dish made of dried yellow peas) that one time.

I'd been misled by restaurants trying to impress guests with the richness of their food, and had forgotten one of the cardinal rules of food. The real cuisine of any region can't be experienced in big city restaurants. They are found in the nondescript eateries which serve the locals their everyday meals. Also, one experience shouldn't decide an opinion about an entire cuisine or region. I thought four days were enough to get an idea of a cuisine, they weren't; at least not the way I spent them holed away in a convention hall for most of the time.

If you want to know a cuisine, explore. Go to big fancy restaurants, and roadside stalls. Go to swanky neighbourhoods and little side-streets. Go to every kind of place that serves this cuisine, talk to the owners, the waiters, and the patrons; and then a complete picture starts to emerge. Or you could just stick to Rasgullas, that worked fine for six years for me, but then you'd be missing out on great stuff like Aloo Posto  (potatoes in a poppy seed gravy), and that tangy chutney.

(Oh, now I'm really hungry; and it's just an hour past breakfast time. That's what writing about food does to me I suppose.)

Why I write

I've been asked why I write a few times in the past few weeks, ever since it has come to people's attention that I have been posting on my blog regularly of late. It took me aback a little because I had never stopped to consider that question. "I write because I want to" would be my instinctive answer, but it wouldn't make much sense because the fundamental question would still remain unanswered -- What makes me want to write?

I really didn't know. I've never actually thought about why I like to write, why I want to write; I just do the actual writing -- it's very visceral. I sometimes have to push myself to write, but that's just to overcome my innate laziness to do anything at all. I was also surprised that I didn't know and hadn't ever examined my motives behind writing.

So I sat and thought about it. Several cups of coffee later, this is what I had:

I write because I've always loved reading, ever since I can remember; and I want to give that pleasure to others, or at least try. When I write, sometimes I feel that I'm part of something bigger; the endless flow of words and thoughts that makes humans separate from all other life on earth. When I write funny things (or things that I intend to be funny) I may not be as good as Wodehouse, but if I get a smile from at least one person, that's great. My writing, floating around on the internet, made someone's face light up for a moment; how amazing is that?

My mother read a post of mine last week. She said, "This feels like you want to say something and point out about stuff". I told her that was the whole idea. I do write to make a point, to express my opinion on things. To me it's not enough to discuss some things among friends or at a social gathering. Those words are fleeting, ephemeral; they usually have no impact beyond "I guess that's true" and a change of topic. Expressing my opinions in writing gives me a chance to craft my thoughts into some semblance of order, and gets people to pay a bit more attention than when they're checking their Whatsapp during conversations. A reader may not get to the end of everything I write, but when they do, they will have absorbed what I had to say, processed it, and formed an opinion -- whether to agree or disagree with me, but that's another story. The important thing is, reading requires more attention and focus than a random conversation. "Words are wind" most of the time; writing has more permanence.

I write because I have a lot to say sometimes, a story I want to tell; and I don't want to keep that to myself, or within the circle of my immediate friends and acquaintances. I want what I say to have a wider reach. I want my thoughts to touch the minds of those who don't love everything I say by default, even though they do disagree sometimes. I want unbiased readers who don't know me, so they can express their opinions about my writing without fear of hurting my feelings. I want my stories to take wing, and reach far-off places where I've never set foot. I write because it is therapeutic sometimes to pen down my angst or sorrow in a cathartic flow of writing. It might be utterly ridiculous when I read it later, which is why most of those don't end up out on my blog (or anywhere else except in my notebook); unless it's so ridiculous that it's really funny. The fact remains, however, that writing helps me put my feelings in perspective and make sense of things.

In the end, I write because I want to. 

The reason behind the want may be different every time, and I may or may not choose to make it public. But the want, the urge, remains the same; and that is what makes me write, in the end.

Marshak From Moscow

My brother wanted something to read, so I was mucking around in my old bookshelf. It hadn't been touched since I moved out from my home town. I was feeling lazy and grumpy, but my not-so-little-anymore brother insisted, and so I looked through all my old books to see if there was anything that he'd like. My search yielded a few books for him; and an old treasure for me.

I found one of my very first books, a nice little illustrated one, published in Russia, no less; about an old lady and her mischievous dog. It had my name written twice on the cover in my just-learnt handwriting, along with the class I was in -- I(B), or, first grade. There was also a message -- "Congratulations & blessings to Chy. Lalitha from Dr. Ramanamma". 'Chy.' Is short for 'Chiranjeevi', it means " one who lives forever". It's a commonly used title when referring to kids, basically it means that the one who's referring to you like this wants you to live a long and happy life. Dr. Ramanamma is one of my mother's very dear friends. She's a wonderful lady, and always told the most interesting and funny stories. Her children, though much older than me, were always ready to play with me whenever I visited. It was on one of these visits that Aunty gave me this book.

I'd forgotten most of the words, but the pictures were still fresh in my mind as I leafed through this thin little book. I remembered the grey dog, and how I felt drawn to it because of our own black dog that we'd had since before I was born. I remembered how carefree I was, how innocent and pure those days were.   I remembered a lot of other things that made my childhood magical, not least, our dog, Chinna. I still miss him, after all these years.

I showed the book to my mother and brother, which led to more reminiscing by my mother of how mischievous I used to be, and how at the end of the day she'd settle down with a book and I'd cuddle up to her with my own little book about the old lady and her grey dog. Maybe that's when I started loving books, when I could barely read but loved the feel of the book in my hands, and looking at the pictures the words made. The feeling that I was holding something made all the way away in Moscow added to that sense of wonder.

I hope I can hold on to that.

Generally speaking..

I recently came across this rant in the comments section of a video on the internet:

""You must pay no attention to the things I say."
See this is how men get in trouble. If a man takes a woman at her word and holds her accountable for the things she says then he is reminded by the woman that she is just a silly woman who says silly things.
But later, when she wants something else she expects to treated as if she is fully competent and responsible for her actions. If a man remembers that she's "just a woman" and can't be relied upon to be accountable for her actions then he's a sexist. And yet this is exactly the message that women tell men again and again when they want to get away with their cruel and abusive behavior."

The dialogue in question was from an episode of Downton Abbey where two of the main protagonists are flirting with each other. The man reminds the woman that she didn't have a very high opinion of him in the beginning and that's when she says these words. They merely imply that she's changed her mind about him, and they kiss. Surely anyone can see that? I guess not. A woman, especially a character in a period drama, has no right to expect that her words will be taken in context. How utterly silly and unreasonable!

There were, of course, a series of replies calling the commenter above a misogynist. There were also some replies from other men and a woman too, about how this is true. But "Cruel and abusive behavior"? What about when women are killed for the crime of having an opinion and daring to voice it? What about when a woman can't even take public transport without fear of being gang-raped and mutilated? What about a female child being denied the basic right to life? Are all these things a figment of a "silly" woman's imagination, leading her to say "silly" things, because she is "just a woman"?

Admittedly, this person might have faced some problem with a woman, hence the online rant on what was actually quite a romantic scene. But it doesn't justify the sweeping generalization that women want to be taken seriously only when it is to their advantage; and want no part of any responsibility for their actions. In fact, all sweeping generalizations are untrue. All men are not bastards, literally or figuratively. All women are not weak; all Indians are not mathematical geniuses with funny accents; all Caucasians aren't patrician snobs.

There, I made a sweeping generalization about generalizations. Of course, sometimes generalization helps people to put things in order, like a mental filing cabinet; but they shouldn't become hard and fast rules. That's where bigotry starts, and there's usually no way back up from that bottomless pit.

The story of a pillion ride

I've always had a fascination for Bullets. They're stately, they have a certain air -- they reek of confidence, bravado even; they're masculine, they have an old-world charisma that newfangled big bad super-bikes can never hope to achieve. Most importantly, Royal Enfield Bullets (the older ones anyway) produce the most melodic of thumps. I don't know how to ride motorbikes, but I've always wanted to at least ride pillion on a Bullet.

Finally, a few days ago, I got my wish (or daydream, rather). A friend invited me over to visit, so off I went, for a mini-vacation in the middle of my three-week idyll away from my day job. He had recently got hold of an old Bullet. We revisited old haunts and discovered how they still held a special place in our hearts. And of course, since we had access to the only genuine Indian touring motorcycle, we had to go on a ride.

We planned to go to Digha, a little sea-side place in West Bengal. It was a 105 kilometres away, and we took three and a half hours to cover the distance. We didn't want to go too fast, you see. The ride was more important than the destination, and the feel of the ride more important than the speed. There's nothing better than sitting on the pillion of such a bike, with a good friend. The landscape unfolds on either side, the dust of the town is blown away by the clean air of the countryside, and both of you lapse into a comfortable silence, unbroken except for an occasional comment or exclamation. Talking seems irrelevant here, maybe even a little irreverent.

The rice fields were a green carpet, with a few lotus ponds here and there. Bengal is truly beautiful in the monsoons, especially when the sun comes out for a day or two in the middle and it's as if everything is newly minted. The leaves are at their greenest, the air is washed clean of floating dust, the ducks swim in their usual ponds, and the cows and calves wander onto the roads once more.

Talking seemed irrelevant and irreverent here.

It was almost mid-day by the time we reached Digha, with the sun beating down on us. The sea was breathtaking, as usual. The beach is separated from the town by a promenade. Nothing very fancy, but it serves to keep the beach area relatively free from the noise and bustle of the main roads. The result is that the sound of the sea is not drowned out by vehicles. The sea can really speak to you here, if you only sit and listen.

I felt at peace there, with the sea stretching out into the horizon, the waves breaking on the shore, and the only other people little dots where the surf met the sand. All the fatigue and heat seemed beside the point. We were there, with the Bullet in the foreground, and the sand and the sea beyond. We'd have to leave early the next day, but that was beside the point. The journey had led to a destination. Going back would be another journey to look forward to, another ride.

The "Bull"

Type your title here. If only it were that easy.

Okay, so I've finished writing a post, or an article, or an essay, or whatever. It feels great. I go back to the beginning and proof-read, tweak a few sentences here and there, and move some words or even sentences around. I search for the perfect picture to go with the text, if I want to use a picture in that piece. That usually doesn't take too much effort. Then, when I'm ready to post/publish it, there's a big empty field on top, waiting for the title. Waiting, in fact, to hold the name of my creation.

I type in whatever comes to mind at first. It sucks. I alter it a little and cut down some words to make it short and catchy. It sucks even more. I erase it all and type in another idea. Alright, maybe it's not so bad after all. Then I read the first sentence of the main text and realize that this new title doesn't fit what I've written very well.

I sigh and give it another go. I read the entire thing again and try to summarize it in a single phrase. Sometimes that works, sometimes it doesn't. When it does work, I'm ecstatic. The piece is really complete now. People will read the title and know what I want to say. Hopefully, they'll want to read more than just the phrase that summarizes the piece.

When even this doesn't work, I usually get quite frustrated. I save the draft even though it has already been auto-saved that very second, and log out. I take some time off from what I've written. I work on something else, or make some coffee and take a break. After a while, the unnamed piece (languishing under the bastard "Untitled" tag) starts tugging at me again. I start thinking about what I wrote, and what kind of title would make me want to read that kind of thing if someone else had written it. Now the rusty cogs of my ability to make up titles creak a little.

There will invariably be a few more misfired attempts, but I soldier on. I come up with the lamest, cheesiest titles, type them in just for the heck of it, and erase them again. This is a great stress-buster for me (well, I have come up with a few title ideas, bad as they may be) and gets me really going. I think up funny titles which will hopefully make people laugh and want to read the rest of it. When that isn't really a good idea because the subject matter or the tone of the piece is serious, I try to come up with a hook -- something catchy, which is related to the text but isn't necessarily a 100% fit.

If all this fails, I go back to the first title I wrote out, and go with that. Let's face it, I'm not that great at titles, though sometimes I don't suck so much. Every time, I just have to try to suck a little less, and some day, I'll get there. Fingers crossed.

That moment when...

Some moments, when I look back, shine out. A few have the brittle brilliance of diamonds. Others have a gentle glow, like the light glimmering in a distant window in the dark. One or two, however, loom large and cast their light and shadow over all the rest.

These last moments came without a warning, when I had no expectations and no inkling that something out of the ordinary would happen. They came when I wasn't thinking at all, but going along with the day -- going with the flow, so to speak.

They may not look life-changing or even extraordinary to others, but to me, when I think of them, they are reminders of how sweet life is, and how it is best enjoyed when I let go and just be... They make me realize the importance of seizing the present and not wearing myself down with thoughts of what might have been and what may (or may not) come. They are complete in and of themselves, capsules unsullied by the sordidness of everyday drudgery. They remind me to not hold on too tightly, because only when one moment ends, can another happen.

Taking the plunge

"What the hell am I doing here? Why did I even think I could do this? Oh my God I can feel the wind on the soles of my feet through the grating.. Oh nooo..." These were the kind of thoughts racing through my mind as I was being prepared for my very first (and till date, only) bungee jump.

I went from Hyderabad in Central India all the way to Rishikesh in the foothills of the Himalayas, just for this. Well, not quite. There was also another jump (a canyon swing) and white water rafting on the Ganga. We were a bunch of adventure enthusiasts, and I was the only girl in the group. After braving a 21 hour journey by sleeper class train, we reached New Delhi, and another 6 hour drive took us to the campsite.

There was thankfully enough time for a nap, after which we all got ready for the day and explored the camp a little. It was breath-takingly beautiful. There were rows of tents on a sand embankment, and beyond them was the river, on the other side of which loomed a hill. There were mountains all around, and the river meandered through them on its way to the plains. It was a bit of a hike to reach the road where the vehicle was parked, but none of us minded.

The road to the "jump site" wound through the same Shivalik range. We caught sight of the jump platform first -- a yellow metal rigged structure with a bridge to the actual platform from where we would jump. That was the first time I realised I would jump from the road level to the valley far, far below. 82 feet doesn't sound so very scary on paper, but looking at it made me so afraid I almost turned back then and there.

The others were also a little scared under their bravado, so I knew I wasn't alone. We filled out a form absolving Jumpin Heights (the company taking care of the whole bungee setup) of blame should anything happen to us.

And then, we walked to the platform. We were there. This was the whole point of the journey -- the jump. The staff were all quite calm (of course!) and friendly, and tried to put everyone at ease. Then when it was my turn to be harnessed, they said I couldn't jump in my shoes, because the hooks for the laces could scratch the bungee cord. The floor of the platform was actually a metal grate sort of thing.

Taking off the shoes and feeling the wind tickle my soles through the grating was terrifying. I had come all this way to find out if I had it in me to take the plunge. The knowledge that my feet were firmly harnessed to the bungee cord didn't help much. The rational part of my brain must have fled long ago. It was time. They led me to the edge, until my feet were half in the air. I could feel the edge of the platform pressing into my instep. I almost turned back there. Then I looked straight ahead. The jump master, an awesome lady from the Netherlands, tried to calm me down. I told her to give me the count right then, because I felt reason and courage both slipping away. I knew that the longer I stood there, the more scared I would feel, and in the end I might not jump at all.

I think she understood. I heard the count , "One, two, three.. BUNGEEE!". And I jumped. For the first few milliseconds, I was sure I was going to hit the ground and get my brains splattered all over the valley floor. But I didn't, of course. The adrenaline kicked in, and then the bungee cord pulled me upwards again. It was an amazing moment, with the blood rushing to my head and the landscape (oh, wait, that was me actually) bouncing up and down.

In that split second before the jump, at the edge, I really didn't know if I was going to actually take the plunge. Then, when I heard "BUNGEEE!" I decided I'd come too far along to give up at the last moment. I told myself there was no going back from here, only down. And then I was falling. And flying, and falling again. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

The whole experience taught me that whenever I felt scared, or that I couldn't do something, I just had to take one step forward, into the unknown. There's no way anyone can predict the outcome of their effort with absolute certainty. The thing is to push ahead, regardless.