Wear Sunscreen

I’ll give you three good reasons to read this blog post. First, read it if you want to read/hear something beautiful. Second, read it if you want to feel good about life. And finally, read it if you want to know why this song which my best bud shared with me (who I will henceforth refer to as Chee) makes me cry when I listen to it.

‘Wear Sunscreen’ is an essay titled "Advice, like youth, probably just wasted on the young" written by Mary Schmich and published in the Chicago Tribune as a column in 1997.  In her introduction to the column, she described it as the commencement speech she would give if she were asked to give one. The most popular and well-known form of the essay is the successful music single "Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)", released in 1998, by Baz Luhrmann.

EVERY time I listen to it, I smile, I sigh, I dream, I spurt and I just feel happy. Such simple lines, and yet so powerful, moving and inspiring. The song conversion is simply beautiful. You have to listen to it. Like seriously!  

Here’s how it goes. Read it and savour it. And then watch the video I posted.

WEAR SUNSCREEN

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the class of ‘97,

Wear Sunscreen.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it.
The long term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists whereas 
the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience.
I will dispense this advice now. 

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth; oh nevermind; you will not understand 
the power and beauty of your youth until they have faded. But trust me, in 20 years you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how 
much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked.

You’re not as fat as you imagine. 

Don’t worry about the future; or worry, but know that worrying 
is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubblegum. 
The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your 
worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday. 

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts, don’t put up with people who 
are reckless with yours. 

Floss.

Don’t waste your time on jealousy; sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind.
The race is long, and in the end, it’s only with yourself. 

Remember the compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing
this, tell me how. 

Keep your old love letters; throw away your old bank statements. 

Stretch.

Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life.
The most interesting people I know didn’t know at 22 what they wanted to do with
their lives. Some of the most interesting 40 year olds know still don’t. 

Get plenty of calcium. 

Be kind to your knees, you’ll miss them when they’re gone. 

Maybe you’ll marry, maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll have children, 
maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll divorce at 40, maybe you’ll dance the funky chicken
on your 75th wedding anniversary.
What ever you do, don’t congratulate yourself too much or berate yourself either.
Your choices are half chance, so are everybody else’s. 


Enjoy your body.
Use it every way you can. Don’t be afraid of it, or what other people think of it.
It’s the greatest instrument you’ll ever own.. 

Dance. Even if you have nowhere to do it but in your own living room. 

Read the directions, even if you don’t follow them. 

Do NOT read beauty magazines, they will only make you feel ugly. 

Get to know your parents; you never know when they’ll be gone for good. 

Be nice to your siblings; they are the best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future. 

Understand that friends come and go, but for the precious few you should hold on.
Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography in lifestyle because the older you get,
the more you need the people you knew when you were young. 

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard;
live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft. 

Travel. 

Accept certain inalienable truths, prices will rise, politicians will philander, 
you too will get old, and when you do you’ll fantasize that when you were 
young prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their 
elders. 

Respect your elders. 

Don’t expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund,
maybe you have a wealthy spouse; but you never know when either one might run out. 

Don’t mess too much with your hair, or by the time its 40, it will look 85. 

Be careful whose advice you buy, but, be patient with those who supply it. 
Advice is a form of nostalgia, dispensing it is a way of fishing the past  from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than its worth. 

But trust me on the sunscreen.”

I feel..

Like an a corrugated iron nail in the ocean

Like the wax sliding down a candle

Like a fish thrown on the shore by the vindictive waves

Like a lonely stranger walking alone on a cold winter night

Like the smoke that blows away into eternal nothingness

Like a sad song that reverberates into oblivion

Like lies and contempt that has no meaning

Like a soft whisper that is heard, and then is lost again

Like a lonesome tear flowing from a brown eye

Like a discarded photograph, faded with time

Like a beautiful dream, erased from your consciousness

Like a forgotten memory, that is not forgotten after all

Like an old, torn out yellow-papered book

Like a broken autumn twig on the ground

Like a paper boat that lost its way, soggy and adrift

Like a soft caress, that is felt briefly, and then never felt again..

When I think of Bombay..

When I think of Bombay I think of the never ending flyovers and the palm trees.

I think of the million CCDs specked everywhere.

I think of the humidity.

I think of the local trains, vada pav and bhel.

I think of the beaches, the malls and the big buildings.

I think of Rangeela and Essel World.

I think of Gothic Victorian architecture and cobbled streets.

When I think of Bombay I think of bumping into celebrities, great looking people and the film industry.

I think of Candies. 
I think of Chowpatty and the Taj.

I think of wet sand between my toes.

I think of rains. 
I think of sitting at Marine drive at 3 AM, with the breeze blowing my deep, poetic thoughts into the air, somewhere far far away on the noisy wings of nonsensical talks and sniggers.
I think of poor sweet scary doo, throwing me her protective and head-shaking smiles.

I think of loud music, a dingy place, raucous laughter, drinks with a crazy bunch of friends.

I think of screaming and dancing without a care in the world.

I think of holding hands and street shopping.

I think of homely, loving parents and a home cooked meal with love.

When I think of Bombay I think of balancing on moss covered rocks and the waves crashing and roaring against them.

I think of the warm gleaming sun in the cloudy sky and the feel of the water spray on my face.

I think of the powerful, cool breeze blowing my hair wild and the feel of the intermittent waves lapping at my feet.

I think of the scores of invisible people running about, making out or just walking and I think of holding the hand of that one person who really mattered that moment.

The boy with the infectious smile who looks like a little child when he talks about something excitedly, with a gleam in his eyes.

When I think of Bombay I think of the train ride and the conversation that flowed.

When I think of Bombay I think of friends.

I think of fun, and joy, and laughter and craziness backed by a dosage of unbelievable awesomeness.

When I think of Bombay, I think of dreams.

When I think of Bombay, I think of love.

When I think of Bombay..

I think of him.

Mary and Max

I saw Mary and Max by Adam Elliot yesterday. And I HAVE to talk about it. Because I can’t get it out of my head. It was one of the most sublime, deep, endearing black comedy movies I’ve ever seen. It’s a true story about how a lonely little eight year girl from Australia, Mary Daisy Dinkle becomes pen pals with a 44 year old obese, Asperger’s syndrome ridden man in New York, Max Jerry Horowitz. (Don’t you just LOVE the names? They’re so much fun to say)

The special thing about the movie is that it shows two highly unlikely people becoming best friends, extending their love and affection over two different continents; and how they’re so utterly lonely in their respective real lives. Mary asks him the most innocent of questions, ("Do sheeps shrink when it rains?" "Do goose get goose bumps?) which he patiently answers and shares his own fascinating life experiences with her. They find solace and consolation in writing letters to each other and exchanging exotic chocolates.Because of his disorder, he'd never been comfortable at understanding people and "love was as alien to him as scuba diving." Ergo, when the friendless Mary asks him questions about love and relationships, they send him into severe anxiety attacks and lands him into a mental institution. However, their unusual friendship grows stronger over a span of twenty years and even though towards the end things become a little turbulent, they do manage to salvage their friendship.

Although it’s a clay animated movie, (where the makers of this movie actually created clay puppets for all the characters), it basically focuses on the darkest of aspects about life in a humorous way. It shows how relationships are formed, how they break, how morbid and despondent lives can get and the kind of problems people face while they’re struggling to survive in this mad world. It talks about death and depression and sex and mental disorders, but all in the most innocent manner possible. And all this they’ve done through animation, art, photography, crafts and design. It is sheer brilliance to listen to the letters exchanged between them.

The movie starts with the words spoken by the narrator, “Mary Dinkle's eyes were the colour of muddy puddles; her birthmark, the colour of poo.” If I could, I would have quoted the entire dialogues between them over here, but I’ll restrict myself to my most favourite quotes from the movie: 

Max: “Do you have a favourite-sounding word? My top-five are "ointment," "bumblebee," "Vladivostok," "banana," and "testicle."

(Psst, my favourite-sounding words are’ whimsical’, ‘postulate’,’ impeccable’, ‘protagonist’, ‘ginger’, ‘vegetables’, 'befuddled', ‘pickles’.. and actually many many many more!)

Max: “When I was young, I invented an invisible friend called Mr Ravioli. My psychiatrist says I don't need him anymore, so he just sits in the corner and reads.”

Max: “It would be good if there was a Fat Fairy. She would be a bit like the Tooth Fairy but would suck out your fat.”

Mary: “Where do babies come from in America? Do they come from cola cans? In Australia they are found in beer glasses.”

Mary: "Here's a photo of my other neighbour, Damian. I wish he was my boyfriend and we can be in love and do sexing"

Max: “Dr. Bernard Hazelhof said if I was on a desert island, then I would have to get used to my own company - just me and the coconuts. He said I would have to accept myself, my warts and all, and that we don't get to choose our warts. They are part of us and we have to live with them. We can, however, choose our friends, and I am glad I have chosen you.“

They’re so deep yet naive yet thoughtful, right?  How can you not like such stuff? The last scene of the movie was so painful and touching and beautiful. It culminated with the most perfect words “He smelt like liquorice and old books, she thought to herself, as tears rolled from her eyes the colour of muddy puddles.”

Such movies really impact you and compel you to think. About a hundred things. And I can’t mention all of them here. This movie is going to stay with me for a long time.

P.S. Once again, thanks to my spurtal buddy for sharing this with me. You deserve a colon phi :)

The Weekend

My spurtal buddy came to town to give me a visit for the weekend. It was beyond amazing. Beyond perfect. Right from the moment I saw him walking towards me, smiling from ear to ear when I went to pick him up at the station; to the time he peeped out the train to wave me goodbye two days later.

We visited my school and I squealed telling him stories behind every nook and corner; we hung around in my room and read the crazy stories I used to write as a kid and laughed till I got tears in my eyes and his sides burst; we went out for lunch and had fruity French pudding; he met my college friends and I met two of his, who came all the way from Delhi to meet us; we had pizza in the car, listening to music while the rain drops fell against the glass of the window; we went out on my Activa late at night to get medicine ‘cause both of us were sneezing and wheezing like pigs; he visited khet with me and picked out moong ki phallis; we had a warm lunch where my parents and grandparents shared hilarious childhood stories; we held hands and clicked the cutest of pictures together; and we went to the station to drop him off, listening to Dil Se as it continued to rain outside.

He brought me shampoo for my hair fall problem and he brought me Catch 22 which I really wanted to read. He also got me movies. I did nothing except spurting and PDAing in the craziest manner. And telling him how much I love him. He’s perfect for me. Tailor made and customized to suit me. I’m still trying to recover from the crazy-fairytale-adventurous-amazing weekend and settling back into the college routine. I’m having a lot of trouble doing that.

I’m missing him beyond measure. He always cheers me up (even if all he says is “Tee tee!”) I’m missing his amazing straight hair and his beaver teeth. I’m missing his small but clean arthiritic hands and the way he sticks his tongue out when he’s up to mischief. I’m missing the way he wrestles with the steering wheel of my dad’s old car and says he enjoys it. He is funny. And tall. And he makes me feel pathetic when he scores 98 percentile in CAT. He writes so well. He sends me the funniest and interesting-est of articles and he sends me the cutest text messages you can imagine. He listens to me every day and tries to help me through my whiny complaints and jibber jabber. He laughs when I tell him I have defective body parts and says he loves my nose even though it’s big. He gingerly sings soft kitty with me and laughs when I’m being funny. He calls me Asthie. And Chee pee. And Pop. And other variations of it. He tells me just how much he loves me.

I hope it wasn’t all a dream. It wasn’t, right? Was it? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. This is all too good to be true man. How do these things happen? How can a person like him even exist? But no, it was not a dream. Miraculous awesome stuff happens. At the risk of sounding cheesy, I'd like to say that I just feel like the luckiest girl ever :D What's happening is beyond belief! It's the legendary incomprehensible super amazing stuff that happens in movies.

And man, do I love it. Please, let it not be a dream God? Like, please? :)

Amen.