When words don't spill.

Confession. I almost decided to stop writing today.
And I'm not sure why myself. Maybe it's just the scary lightning that got me into this mood.
This isn't writer's block (I'm not narcissistic enough to have that yet), it's plain simple insecurity.
I fear I'm not good enough at this, that I'm unable to get my message across to many.
I've been thinking of this for the past 2 hours now.

But it's 8 p.m. I've had enough sad thoughts for the day.
Time to defeat this inertia and see some of my words on my laptop screen. Time to convince my primal brain stem that all this negativity is me being teenager-typical melodramatic. Time to reassure myself that my brain isn't decomposing into tiny shreds of its former robust self. Time to believe I was a Renaissance humanist, or a poet from Atlantis in a previous life.
Time to convince myself that I am NOT a zombie from the twilight zone; that my writing does not put insomniacs to sleep!


I look up from my mundane passage and observe what's happening around. My sister is splashing around in puddles, my mom is watching the "News at 8" on some channel, dad's wondering why he supported Denmark and not Netherlands today. Noone else is consumed in this pathology they call writing. While everyone else is relaxing at the end of a busy Monday, I stare into an abyss.

ENOUGH!!!!
I need to get out of this yo-yo bullcrap. Yesterday!
I have ideas, good ideas, the words are in me, so come what may, I shall write. My sentences ARE more interesting than what I read on the label of Minute Maid Pulpy Orange Juice in front of me.
So, I'm just dipping my toe now, and jumping. Into the familiar world of filling words onto an empty page.
And guess what?
The water's fine. I don't really have a choice, do I?
I will continue to write in my little corner in cyberspace.:)

:)

If you're reading this, I'm here for you.
Always will be.
I understand things, even when you think I don't.
So, relax. Things are good, and won't become bad again.
I promise.

Smile. And get some sleep now. :)

To A Stranger.

Hey there, stranger.
I'm calling you X, obviously to make your story more enigmatic.
I'd like to know your name, and know more about you. And I'll tell you why in a second.
But for now, hi. :)

You never get a second chance to make a first impression, is one of those things I've heard too often to count. I just realized that I always arrogantly believed my intuition about people based on how my first interaction with them. The quickness of that first smile, the accent, the clothes you wear etcetera etcetera.
A spur-of-the-moment judgment I make of you, marred by microsecond subconscious attempts to match you with others in my life.

You haven't ever spoken to me or met me, but I have seen you and heard you. You've made an impression on me. Your stance, your hairstyle, your look, your tone, your words have reminded me of someone who has behaved like a jerk with me. Yes, unfortunately, my first impression of any one person is always one of skepticism. And so, my first impression of you is that you,X, will be yet another jerk.

But, wait. First impressions aren't permanent, are they?
I'm thinking that just by making this on-the-spot judgment of you,based on my not-so-nice prior experiences, I'm the jerk here.
For all I know, you may be the nicest person in the world, and may turn out to be one of the most important people in my life. So I'm going to review my entire experience of you right now. I see now that there is room for doubt, and my first impression of you was just based on my preconceived notions and life experiences. But you deserve better than that. You deserve to be judged with an open happy mind, and I shall strive to see the best in you now onwards.
So, I've decided to take the time to understand you, rather than misunderstand you from the get-go.

I write all this, because I realised today that every friend of mine was once a stranger to me. And I love my friends, and am there for them, come what may.
And hey, if you turn out to be the jerk I originally thought you were, then lucky for you, I believe in second chances. Guess I'm just a silver-lining kind of girl.

That's why I want to know you.
If you don't want to talk to me right now, then talk when you want to. Coz I want to all about you.
Just tell me your name first. Calling you X is getting lame. :P
Bye, X. :)

Gypsy Blooded Me.

Let me tell you something about myself.
I'm quite possibly the most restless and impatient person you'll meet. If I'm just sitting somewhere waiting, I'll be minutely observing every detail of the room and people around, while skimming idly through three-month old sports magazines. I hate sitting at home and killing time by flipping channels and landing upon an old Bollywood movie named "Meri Biwi ka Jawab Nahi". :/

Maybe this whole restlessness thing has something to do with my nomadic childhood.
Let's take a look at  the statistics.
I'm 17 years old. I have lived in 6 cities.(Vijaywada, New Delhi, Coimbatore, Pune, Kolkata, Mumbai.) I have studied in 9 schools. I have traveled with my family to numerous places in India, and then some abroad. And, as a child, I had a penchant for getting lost at airports and shopping malls!
Is that what makes me so restless in one place? The aforementioned psychological baggage from all that moving around as a kid?
Is that what spurs on my love for travelling and exploring?
What is is that drives me to wander? What engenders this desire to discover a new place?


Honestly speaking, I don't care much for the reasons why . I'm no Freud, and even if I was, he said that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar too.

I guess it's just the innocent joy in rambling around and chancing upon the hidden waterfall, or the brown monkey that excites me so much.


When I start earning, these are the places I'd love to visit.
Iceland, Greece, Nigeria, Egypt, Peru and Italy.

And of course, I'll be humming "Where the Streets Have No Name" all the way there. :)

The wanderlust inside me can't be ignored today.
Today, I want to soar.
Even if it's just in Andheri, whose population, by the way, is more than that of Greenland!

P.S. I got admission into the B.B.A program at N.M.I.M.S, which was my first preference. Could I be happier? :)

Morning Yearning

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rqbcV39Sq1o

This is my favourite Ben Harper song, and definitely on my list of the top 50 songs. It's called Morning Yearning and is from his album Both Sides of the Gun.

This video was directed by one of my screen favourites Heath Ledger (R.I.P.), and that is the video you will really fall in love with.
Nonetheless, it's a beautiful song. Genuine, and you'll feel like you've just been tightly hugged after listening to it.

My favourite lines from the song-

"The world awakens on the run
And will soon be yearning
With hopes of better days to come
It' s a morning yearning"

I'm unable to embed the video onto my blog, but if you're reading this, you'd be insane not to go watch the video!
Play on. :)

Night : Book Review

I'll be honest.
'Night' was a hard book for me to read. The language was simple, almost too simple which made it all the more compelling. The writing was intense, stark, terrifying, moving.

"That night the soup tasted of corpses."  Eliezer's comment after he has witnessed the agonizing death of the child who was hanged. 

In fact, there were times when I questioned the veracity of the statements made, but I knew they were seemingly impossible but true facts. Facts that cannot, should not be questioned.
The Holocaust had happened. Less than a hundred years ago. People had been killed, had suffered unmentionable atrocities. By the end of the Nazi regime, 2 out of every 3 European Jews had been tortured and killed.
"Night" is the story of Elie Wiesel, a man who survived.

"Men to the left! Women to the right! 
Eight words spoken quietly, indifferently, without emotion. Eight short, simple words. Yet that was the moment when I parted from my mother."

It is the true story of a 15 year old who lost his parents and sister in the concentration camps, who lost the immense faith he held in God, who turned on his own family following his inherent instinct to survive himself. It is a story of remembering the travesties of that dark time, that demands that the reader never succumb to conveniently forgetting what civilised humans are capable of, how much they can make others suffer, how much pain they can choose not to see.

"Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, which has turned my life into one long night, seven times cursed and seven times sealed. 
Never shall I forget that smoke.
Never shall I forget the little faces of the children, whose bodies I saw turned into wreaths of smoke beneath a silent blue sky.
Never shall I forget those flames which consumed my faith forever.
Never shall I forget that nocturnal silence which deprived me, for all eternity, of the desire to live.
Never shall I forget those moments which murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to dust. Never shall I forget these things, even if I am condemned to live as long as God Himself.
Never."

These are probably the most powerful and cogent words in 20th century literature.
The sheer magnitude of the importance of this slim volume can't be limited to words. But this is what I came away with after reading those words.
    That I'm still in a state of disbelief that people could be brainwashed to such a level, in the 20th century. Even more disturbing, the fact that the civilised world calmly looked on as it happened.
   That the world didn't learn enough lessons in humanity, because the genocide in Rwanda, bloody conflict in  Sudan and global terrorism is still reality.
   That I'm amazed at the impossible courage of people who survive the harshest of human crimes.

This book is definitely not a light read. I'm sure no one really enjoys reading about unspeakable violence and inhumanity on a Saturday night, unless of course, you're a sadist of the worst kind.

However, this is a book that must be read.
To keep the memory alive, and to learn that surviving the darkest phases of life requires proactive work and a little more than just candle-lit hope.

I'm happy and I know it! :)

Random achievements, big and small, since the last time I wrote here:-

• I ate an entire Spa omelette (3 egg whites with a variety of chicken toppings, with hash brown and toast) at Theo Bromas, and STILL had the appetite for a delectable chocolate pastry!
• I discovered I can actually stand in a line when I really need to. Like to submit college forms or to get a burger at McD.
• My name is 22nd on the first list of N.M.I.M.S Economics Honours course, my second preference course at my most preferred college. With a score of 52 on the entrance exam, I got 77.25 total, which means I scored 25.25 on my personal interview. Haha, awesomeness!
• My name is 39th on the first list Symbiosis School of Management Studies B.B.A course, which was never really an option, but so cool anyway!
• I mailed this lady from the CRY India organisation requesting to volunteer, and she sent me this.

Dear Nitisha

Thank you for your email. There is no standard format to apply to volunteer at CRY and it was really nice to read about your committment to Children's Rights and why you are opting to spend some of your time volunteering.

To join in, you need to attend a volunteer orientation. We usually have one every month, after which you can join a volunteer group and get into the action. Most of that work happens on the weekend and is adjustable as per your schedule.

I've added your email id to my database and shall email you once we fix the date for the next orientation

Regards

Havovi

^^That just feels nice. :)

Bombay rains are here, and in the midst of the dreary weather, my life is shining bright today.
I'm just happy that I'm making something happen in my life, and not just sitting still and looking on.

And today, I had really cheap Indian-Chinese food in the rain, and good coffee after the longest time. One of my favourite days this year.

"So live your dream beneath the northern horizon
Be at peace, set your heart in flight again
For the light is truth...
The light is you..."
(A song I love from Anathema's new album.)

I raise a toast...

...to the fact that it finally rained last night. Okay, it drizzled, but first rain is always nice,no matter how acidic.

...to the crap new song on the radio I seem to like.
...to Elie Wiesel, whose masterpiece Night, kept me awake till 4 last night.

...to the fact that I try to write atleast once a day, no matter how dead my day, or mind is.
...to Anathema, who came out with a beautiful and "happy" album after the longest time.
...to the Black Forest pastry I'm dying to eat.

...to the tension surrounding college admissions, that I want no part of.
...to questions, which are infinitely more important than answers.
...to hypocrites, who can't help but be so. Yes, I am one, on more than one occasion.
...to a chilled glass of Coke, the way to my heart.

...to people who write, who make music and who dance. For the right reasons.

The Book Thief : Review.

My first thought after reading a good book, is automatically, why didn't I come up with that first? And then, I begin to contemplate on how the idea struck the author. Where was he? What was he doing?
And these questions definitely did spring to mind, once I turned the last page, closed the book, and wiped the tears from my eyes.

I read this book, during my Board examinations. I borrowed it from a second-hand library nearby, and well, to be honest, I never gave it back!

This book, by Australian author Markus Zusak, has a concept that I'm sure could have had much more of an impact, had it been a little more certain of its own strength. It leans towards the youthful sensibilities of the people, but only to the effect of portraying the inherent innocence of the protagonist. Leisel Meminger, a little child, with a love for words and flair for language, trapped in a world of indiscriminate bloodshed and merciless Nazi atrocities.Obviously, she is the Book Thief here. She steals books, for a reason revealed early on in the story. To make sense of the death of her little brother.

I'd not like to give away the plot, but this I just have to tell you.
The story-teller here, or the narrator, is Death. Yes, death, the time heralded enemy, witnessing crimes from the darkest zones of man, who is empathetic towards himself, and at times, is scared of the power of mankind himself. However, he presents a light-hearted, self-deprecating picture of a grim concept and a horrible time.

The characters of her best friend Rudy and her parents, Hans and Rosa Hubermann, are meticulously crafted, compelling and they stay with you long after you've finished reading. You root for them all, laugh at their joys and get teary-eyed at their disappointments. An innocent, as well as horrifying view, of the Holocaust.

Could the author have been a little less metaphorical, and more effectively to the point? Sure.
For example-
"For the book thief, everything was going nicely," Death observes, as the extermination camps flourish in the summer of 1942. "For me, the sky was the color of Jews." Wordy, sure. But it does leave a stark,vivid image in your mind.

But this story in itself, and the way Zusak marvelously toes the line of quiet horror and innocent joy and wraps it into this delightful endearing concoction, is definitely original and worth a read.
In fact, I'd go as far as to say that it is the contemporary "The Diary of Anne Frank".
I give it a 4 out of 5.

"I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right."

                   -The last line written by Liesel Meminger in "The Book Thief."

Why I Write.

Yes, I have very obviously copied the title from George Orwell's famous essay, who was trying to answer the same question. So if any of you try to point out my plagiarist tendencies, I own up to this title-cheat one right now!
I've been reading literature and writing all my life. In 1st grade, I narrated the story of some cunning fox and pretty peacock and won the Best Storyteller prize. In 2nd grade, when the teachers would give me a word to make a sentence with, I almost always came up with a great one. In 6th grade, when I was asked to be editor of the junior school magazine, of course I enjoyed myself. Later on in high school, any script or speech or short story needed to be written, and I was assigned that duty without a second thought.

The reason I'm writing all this, and making myself sound like some Literature pedant, is simple.
I'm trying to figure out why I love words this much. Why I inherently feel like I have to make sentences of these words, why I want to put my thoughts to paper, know the correct usage of 'whom', why I think some words are beautiful and others ugly, why I'm fascinated by various schools of writing, why I want to use the word perfidiousness in a sentence. (Haha, the word comes as a spelling error as I write this!)

I'm unable to figure out what draws me to it.
Am I just too much of a lazy bum to do much else?
Do I just want to seem more articulate and well read than the next person?
Is this my way of fitting in, or standing out?

Or, is the romantic in me, just searching in vain for a more beautiful answer to this question?

Much excogitation on this subject has brought out the sesquipedalian in me, and with not much equanimity, I'd like to profess my unequivocal discontent at not having arrived at an answer that satisfies me.

Blah blah on.