Darkness to Light

(Radiohead's logo behind a drawing made by its lead singer- Thom Yorke)

And it happened again last night. It is enormously maddening when insomnia strikes during exams. Some of you might think that’s strange, because for most people, the mere sight of text books lulls them to sleep. But no sirrreee, that’s not for me. After I’m done with whatever I plan to do for the day, I shift all my books and notes and everything to the other side of the bed, switch the lights off and stretch out in the hopes of catching a good night’s sleep and then getting up and revising everything the next morning. Hah! In my dreams (that’s a paradox!) I let my mind wander off in the beginning. It’s okay to gather up your thoughts at the end of the day and reflect on whatever happened or reminisce about the good ol’ times.

But, as luck has it, even though my body is unmovable with exhaustion and every pore is screaming at my brain and telling it to release those stupid sleep chemicals and put me to sleep, it just won’t happen. And the weirdest part is, I think of the most bizarre things imaginable. I think of what was, what is and what could have been. About what’s going to happen and about those damn ‘what-ifs’. Why do we do that? Why do we even need to think about the future at all? Or the past? Why is it so difficult to live in the present? Why do we have all these expectations and apprehensions when we know it’s only going to hurt when they come crashing down? Similarly, mulling over and regretting my past is another thing I have got to stop doing. I keep juggling with my past, present and future, worrying over nothing.

Sometimes I think so much I feel like someone is chewing my brain up. I just lie there, like a crumpled heap of dirty clothes, lost in my cornucopia of thoughts and speculations. Last night, for some reason I was thinking about the time when we had gone to Manali and how I had stood under the sky and felt the snow falling on my face. I could actually see it. When you look up at those tiny wisps of snowflakes falling, you feel like you are rising up; instead of them coming down. Pretty cool, huh? It’s almost hypnotic. I was thinking of how cute it would be if I were a little Labrador puppy. I would find myself so cute I would probably eat myself up. (I’m not joking) Also, (and it’s going to sound like I’m a freak) sometimes I hear lots of people talking together in my head. I can’t make out, but it feels like I’m in a crowded, noisy room.

I try to listen to music usually, but yesterday even that didn’t help. Listening to Radiohead makes me extremely emotional, nostalgic and dreamy. Actually, that might be one reason why I don’t fall asleep easily. The songs are hauntingly beautiful. It’s like every time I listen to it, I realize how addicted I am to them and how much I love them. Anyway, helpless and disoriented, I just lay there, paying attention to every sound, every instrument, every word and soon enough, it was almost morning. I saw the soft rays of sunshine entering through my windows through the curtains. A new day brings with it fresh thoughts and positivity; but ironically, I was thinking about not-so-sunshiny things. Recently, I saw Black Swan and I loved it, for obvious reasons. Darren Aronofsky has played with my mind earlier too with Requiem for a Dream and he did it again. I was trying to figure out how much of a Black swan I am. Is the White swan in me more dominant than the Black one?

Then I realized that it’s extremely difficult to assess yourself honestly. You’re always trying to defend yourself. You can point out a hundred mistakes in another person, but for you, you’re your favourite. I figured out a few things about me might put me in the Black swan category. I am selfish. There, I said it. Not always, but most of the times. Many times when doing something for someone, I’ve found myself asking, “Wait a minute, why am I doing this again?” Also, I can be extremely impatient and crabby with people who I have a low tolerance level for. Out of the blue, I go into these phases where I stop talking to people completely, then spring back into the old form and expect them to talk to me as if nothing happened. I expect a lot from people, and end up getting hurt if my expectations aren’t met. I don’t spend a lot of time with my family members; especially my grandparents. It bothers me, but I just do not put in the efforts.
When I’m going through my mood swings, I want people to get me and understand me and support me, but rarely do I ever do the same for them. I’m lazy. Lazy to the point of being insensitive.

I guess it’s enough for a day. I know I need to change a few things about me. Nay, many things about me. I’ve got to start pushing, making efforts, doing things worthwhile. I have constructed this little separate world of my own. In my room, on one specific corner of the bed, where it’s me, my netbook, my phone and my music. I couldn’t care less about what’s happening in the rest of the world. I’ve got to start caring, and break out of this shell.

You know it’s not entirely a good thing to be a spotless, sparkling white swan. You need to have a few flaws, a few shortcomings that make you human. But then, I’d like to be more on the white swan side just to be safe :)






P.S. And NOW I'm feeling sleepy. Great :|

Reaping the Benefits

The sun was a big, deep orange, harmless ball and the breeze was blowing gently. I looked at my hands, they were covered with mud and the small finger of my left hand was bleeding a bit. It hardly mattered at that moment. I was enjoying being there, I was enjoying the sweat sliding down my neck, I was enjoying the incessant deep voices shouting into those police-type speakers, “kaatiye bhaisaab kaatiye. Rukiye mat, kaatte rahiye.”  I was enjoying the relentless, pleasant “khach khach khach” sounds all around me.

I moved my sickle around the wheat stalks alongwith hundreds of women and girls all around me. As I removed them and kept them aside, I could see the bugs and the beetles scurrying about; shocked and annoyed at the sudden exposure to the sunlight. The fields were swarming with people. Thousands of men, women and children; so many hands moving together. Some were collecting the stalks and some were tying them up into bundles. It is uplifting to see so many individuals working together, selflessly, for no personal reasons; but just because they want to, because it is noble. The students, the teachers, the uncles, the aunts, the cousins, the friends, the relatives; everybody working together trying to accomplish one task. The vast expanses of fields which were covered with a thick fur coat of golden brown wheat stalks not so long ago were suddenly getting bald, at an alarmingly rapid pace. I looked over my shoulder, to see the patch I had cleared and smiled proudly. It was humbly satisfying.

I was humming the tune of one of my favourite songs and it shockingly and suddenly reminded me of a poem we had in our course in the sixth standard. It was called ‘The Solitary Reaper’ by William Wordsworth.

“Whate’er the theme the maiden sang,

As if her song could have no ending,

I saw her singing at her work,

And o’er the sickle bending;-

I listen’d, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.”

And then I saw Him, working at the far end of the field. Cutting, collecting, keeping, never stopping, never tiring. I felt a bubble of respect and pride rise inside my chest. Soon, the sun was beating down fast on my back and my hands had started to get blisters. I ignored it and went over to greet a friend. The work was almost over and people had begun to relax, they sat beneath the trees and talked, while some walked around, laughing and talking. Only the task of collecting all the stalks and tying them into huge bundles was left which is usually done by the gents. Their spirit of camaraderie blew me away. When all the wheat was finally cut, they suddenly charged out of nowhere, shouting and hooting and began to tie the bundles, carried them over their shoulders and loaded them on the trucks with tremendous efficiency. This is what we call the undying ‘DB spirit’. They were charged up, eager, happy, blessed to do the work, to do seva.

After a couple of hours of using the sickle I was spent and I just sat, right there on the freshly shaven field, amidst the beetles and bugs and looked around me. It was a beautiful day. Everyone seemed so happy. I sighed contentedly and moved my fingers lightly through the mud. It was glittering in the sunlight. Even my little wound had covered itself up; it was hiding somewhere on my mud covered fingers, as if closing its eyes and smiling. I felt my sweat evaporating as the breeze blew across my face. I was close to nature. I felt humble. I felt glad to be alive.

I had never felt more human before. 

Life in plastic, it's fantastic!

Big blue eyes and shimmering blonde hair. Perfect 34” 24” 36” figures and an exquisitely sophisticated wardrobe. Eternal, ceaseless smiles embossed on cheerful plastic faces. They were my world. And what a flowery, glittery, dazzling world it was!

I got my first Barbie doll when I was eight. (Before that I used to use my sister’s old ones, so they technically weren’t mine) I was so thrilled that I did not/could not study for days. I named her Annie and I would spend hours and hours dressing her up, changing her clothes, brushing her hair, having imaginary conversations with her and would take her everywhere. (Yes, she used to sit with me on the dining table, even though mom would tell me not to do that everyday; and I would make her eat the bite first before I ate it myself. Go ahead, you can snigger) Soon after, I got my second Barbie who I called Nancy. After coming back from school, I would spend my entire day playing with them. A couple of years down the line; I had 6-7 Barbie dolls (their names were Caroline, Shania, Harriet, Vicky and their puppy who I called Michu) their car, a hoard of dresses and countless accessories (and they had their own house, with a bed, a lamp, an bookshelf, chairs and all the works)

I never got around to buying a Ken and so I would have to team up with my bro to play because, come on, they needed to have male friends! So my Barbies would have to do with either a masked scary-looking, red and blue guy who had a big black spider scrawled across his chest; a semi-nude heroic warrior with crazy yellow hair who could not survive a second without his shield; a half turtle-half man freak who lived in the gutters; or a superhero with two pointy things on his head and who would only come out at night to save mankind.

But actually, it turned out to be a lot of fun. I would get really serious about the characters, their roles, the plot and the settings. My bro would make a face at the idea of his super awesome Batman (who was not even half as tall as my Barbie) being Nancy’s boyfriend. “Why can’t he be her brother or cousin or something?”, he would say. But I would always make him propose to her and make them kiss (while making kissing noises) and would make him save her from gundas at night.

I used to make proper arrangements for the sets, stitch appropriate dresses for the Barbies according to the stories and prepare proper dialogues. This one time, we had a water park scene and I had actually used my bro’s Hot Wheels yellow tracks and my mom’s china to make the water slides! There used to be twists and turns and kidnappings and accidents and murders and love triangles and love and tears and what not! Those toys have had a blast with me! And now they’re just lying in boxes. With their ever-smiling faces and their long shiny hair.

As I grew up, I realized that it was an artificial and a make-believe world I had created for myself. You don’t grow up to look like your favorite Barbie doll. You get pimples and your skin doesn’t glow and your nose is big and your teeth aren’t straight and you don’t have flat abs and your hair isn’t silky shiny. Also, I developed an aversion for the colour Pink. It's just so... pink! It turned out, that I started to become more like a tomboy as I grew up (and thank God for that!) I don't wear high-heels or pretty butterfly clips or make-up or go "aww my koochee poochee poo" at every baby I see. On the contrary, I may have turned out to be rather clumsy and unsophisticated. I drop things in the most disgraceful way possible, I fall and stumble while walking, my mom tells me I don't know how to dress up and act like a girl, I laugh like baboons and sometimes I'm just a loud, crazy chimpanzee who has lost it's nuts and bolts. 


But I was just thinking, maybe I’ve always been like that since I was a kid; lived in fantasy. Ergo I’m still like that somewhere. A dreamer. I love fantasizing. I love to imagine. I love to envision a world where there is love and peace and happiness in abundance. And if something happens to disrupt that image, BAM goes my little heart. 
I used to write elaborate, endless stories about my Barbies where they would travel everywhere and anywhere and have the time of their lives and suddenly there would be an accident, or a wedding, or they would set off to solve a murder mystery! (they were basically inspired by Nancy Drew and Mallory Towers) but in the end of the story, everything would be okay and everyone would be happy! I still have them and I read them sometimes because it makes me smile to see my childish cursive writing and it makes me realize how much of free time I used to have. (And how stupid my stories sound now) My sister and my grandfather used to read them regularly and correct all the grammatical errors (I never used to make spelling mistakes) My sis actually used to ask me to write because she would want to know what would happen next! True story! And I still love her for that! That actually gave me the motivation to write. I remember when I was twelve, I had written a 'novel' and had full plans of getting it published. Kheekhee. 

Back then, after a hard day’s work of playing and thinking and dialogue-delivery, I would feel so satisfied, so happy and so... important. Like I’d achieved something. How easy it was then to feel like that. Painting a birthday card for mom, cautiously colouring a picture in a colouring book, successfully making a paper flower, reading an entire Enid Blyton series, winning a round of Business King.. all these were achievements. Little moments of triumph. All those were things I wanted to do and I did and felt a sense of pride. And how often do I feel like that now?

Rarely.

We usually don’t get time to do the things we love or we don’t love the things we do. Even if we have free time, we squander it all online or just wasting it away. True, we have other bigger, more urgent things to worry about, but surely we can make some effort to be those free-spirited, carefree kids we used to be! I wanna get out! I wanna be impulsive! Time is slipping away and soon I'll get so busy I won't even get time to write blog posts! Maybe it’s time I figure out what it is that would make me feel joyful again. Take time out and just DO it! Shed my sluggishness for once and actually do something to feel like that again!

Draw. Sketch. Paint. Write. Dance. Be creative. Be crazy. Something. Anything! And most importantly, let my imagination sooooooaar!

P.S. Just for your information (and for fun) Barbie's full name is Barbra Millicent Roberts!

P.P.S. Just for fun, a kiddie picture of my brother and me! :)