Perils of an empty head!

Being stupid is perilous? Being called an idiot. Being taken advantage of. Being easily skipped over. It must be a hard life being stupid aka an empty head. Then again, how would I know. I am not stupid. But the head is almost empty. Barely some strands of hair and that’s it. And that’s usual for my age, totally. But then it was not a big huge deal for me for a really long time.

It was a weird feeling though. People would just randomly start staring at my baldness mid-conversation and just wouldn’t stop. That was very awkward. You’d relate better if you are woman when I say this. You know those instances when someone’s gaze would travel down your neck and stop further down at an uncomfortable angle. Well, I had the twin challenge. I had to resist people’s eyes wandering neither north nor south of my face. Trust me that’s an absolute challenge with an average face! It’s not like people get caught in their trails with ‘looks’!

People would eventually stare and offer their condolences for my ‘passed’ hair strands. Some offer oil prescriptions on the go. Some offer exuberant hair therapies. And there was this one lady at the railway station once, couple of years ago. She offered to make an offering to a local ‘hair-specialist’ goddess for my sake. That warmth indeed shook me, and I am pretty sure I have already written about her. Apart from some rare crazy moments, it’s mostly an annoying experience to hear people lament about hair.

Lately, have been feeling bad about it myself. Probably because it’s all locked down and there aren’t much people to whine over my hair, that I thought it’s my turn now. I could use some more hair perhaps!

P. S. All references of self-loathing should be ignored as side effects of having too much time to stare at the mirror, even while on office calls. It’s all about working things out from home after all.

The yellow glow!

She turned to his side of the bed. The spread was wrinkled and still had his warmth. She rolled over, awake the rest of the night. When did he leave? Did he say anything? She couldn’t think straight, still caught in the unfulfilling sleep. Wasn’t it obvious he’d leave anyway! But somehow, she wished otherwise. It has been a tough time thru this. And she couldn’t handle it anymore. The yellow light shimmered.

She loved the light. The yellow light. The dim flickering filament bulb. And the yellow glow. The best part, as she saw it, was that, when you shut your eyes close, the light just stays off. It doesn’t penetrate thru eyelids and poke your retina to acknowledge its presence. Unlike what the fluoroscent tubelights do to your eyes. And when you open your eyes, it still stays there, causing no difficulty to your eyes, adjusting to the brightness. The yellow light shimmered.

When was the last time she had the yellow light? Was it way back at home? The only apartment her parents rented was so dimly lit. She could recollect faint glimpses from there. Everything had a yellowish hue. The glow of the yellow light. And the yellow flame of the candles during the ‘power-cut’ hours! Again. The yellow light shimmered.
She never liked the yellow frock her parents got her. The only one they bought together. She despised the pineapple jam coz it was yellow in colour. She adjusted with the mixed fruit. She didn’t like yellow coz her aunt died of jaundice, all yellow and pale. She didn’t like the sun, coz it was yellow and hurt her eyes. She loved the moon. Is that how she turned into this night person? But at all times, she loved the yellow glow and the filament bulbs. The yellow light shimmered.

What did he wear last night? Was it a yellow shirt? And the same yellow pants? She doesn’t remember. It needn’t matter anymore coz the night is over now. The yellow sun had risen up. But it still bothers her. Did he actually wear those yellow things for her? The yellow sun disturbed. She pulled the blanket over her head and went back to the slumber. The yellow light shimmered.

The yellow sun gave up and the moon came back, welcoming the yellow glow. The bulb was turned on, once again. The yellow glow spread all over. The room had the yellow charm back. And she silently sneaked out of the blanket. He was at the door. Wasn’t he better looking than the guy from yesterday? Rather, wasn’t he the most good-looking, of all the men who stood at that door? She was mesmerised by his glow. And she let her hands open in a huge embrace to welcome him into the bed. Before he could move, she let her hands go asked him to leave. His head hung in apprehension, he turned away and walked in silence. He didn’t wear yellow. His glow wasn’t yellow. She wanted yellow. She embraced only yellow. She kissed only yellow. She could please only yellow. She loved yellow, perhaps. The yellow light shimmered.

She closed her eyes, taking on last glimpse of the yellow glow, before she drifted back to her sleep. The yellow light glowed even brighter, noticing her looking at it. What colour would be the blush of the yellow light, you may ask her. And she’d say, what you see as flickering, that one moment of fading away, is my yellow glow blushing at my gaze! The yellow glow beamed. And she slid under her cover. The yellow light shimmered. And flickered. And faded. And was putoff.

She wakes up into the new red glow. She fits back into the routine. But this time, she doesn’t filter out the non-yellow-outfit men. All are welcome. All are accepted. The room no longer glowed in yellow. The charm was lost and the glow was stolen. The yellow absence filled the room. And her soul. She hates light. She is in love with black. Her face no longer seen in the dark. The glow disapperead into the abyss. And, the red light flickered at the door. Not blushing, but annihilating. The red light doesn’t shimmer.

Media – the showbiz!

The other day, I had this heated argument with my brother, that ended up without any conclusion. Considering that we debated about the Delhi rape incident and the related activist-spree that’s blaring up, conclusions can’t be quite expected anyway. It all started with me re-tweeting something about how the media has taken up the news and are keen on sensationalising it and how passive the country is, as ever. It’s always a show biz if you ask me. You get a new sensational news item, the media brews it for you in a newspaper, along with the morning tea, and a crunchy snack for the evening news. And a whole day pack, if its a weekend at home, with live coverage and headlines, played in loop. Its a season, a fiesta; a grand fiesta for the media and for all the good for nothing organisations. To enjoy and eat out of any of these sensational and sensitive incident. Now, its the rape season. One girl got raped, and that became THE news. And the subsequent days have nothing but gang rapes and child abuse to report about. Like the entire world just stopped everything else and resorted into some rape mania. The woman got raped, mutilated and brutally killed. Its a really unfortunate thing to happen and a huge shame to the whole of the country. Now what about it?

As ever, nothing about it. They talked a looooooot. They are still talking a looot. Will talk a lot more and then finally stop when it gets boring. And obviously, yet another sensational tem has to show up! So that they can repeat the whole media stunt! My point is too clear here. There’s no action ever taken on anything here. But that’s a totally bearable fact in a democracy as big as India. I don’t expect demands to tansform into protests, protests into amicable discussions, discussions to bills, and bills to rules, overnight. Its a lengthy tedious infinite-parameters involved execution. And everyone CAN wait so long, if they could wait this long, in the first place.

I wrote so much so very long before, but waited for something to happen. Like somebody would really make a difference and things would really change for better! Duh! Like I’m in Utopia. Now don’t ask me if that ‘somebody’ couldn’t have been in you or me. Or that, how insensitive I am about life issues. C’mon folks! The showtime is over, switch back to practicality. Like my bro, like so many other fellow idiots, I too hoped, things might actually turn out different atleast this time. And may be, I’d have to discard my this draft and compile a new token of acknowledgement to the miracle that could have materialised. *silent grin* The draft didn’t go in vain!

P.S. Many of you might find this post too narrow minded and written out of sheer ignorance. Well, possibilities are either way, you might be right or you could as well go wrong. For the record, I have totally nothing against media, but sensationalistion.

The three days!

‘Three days’ wouldn’t ring a bell to most. ‘Those days of the month’ says it though. Yeah, menstrual days, periods, the cat with its throat cut. Its all the same! But three is significant. Read further.

Bought up in Kerala, with the obvious inhibitions and consciousness of a woman, trust me its difficult. Just too difficult to actually ‘ask’ for sanitary pads. Super market billing counter is a different thing. Asking for ‘it’, waiting till the shopkeeper finds your brand and specifications, and finally making sure he wraps it up with something, rushing out without making eye contact. Its more difficult than taking the first step in proposing to someone! Trust me when I say that for its my experience. 🙂

How many of us women actually let others know if we are thru ‘those’ days? For some of us, it appears quite obvious when the body quite doesn’t cooperate. Its fine somebody getting to know. Not having ‘it’ in time is what concerns you here, so its perfectly fine. But announcing it? Going around and saying that ‘I’m on my periods!’ That’s impossible. Ah, and that is what I go through every month. Its disgusting. Tell your husband, tell your bro, tell your dad, tell your friend. Even tell your friend. But saying it to another male is like ‘ugly’, if I may want to sound polite and euphemistic.

So why would you say? For those first three days, you become an untouchable. When your body craves for some warmth, you’ll be dragged down the cosy bed to icy floor. Dont touch anything. Dont stay close to anything. Just dont dont do anything. Thank god, my books and phone doesn’t get washed if I touch them!

All these are what you suffer if you fall into a Brahmin family. But what it does to you is awesome things. The first three days of extreme pain, if any, you get cent percent rest. It lets you muster courage to go ‘ask’ for it. Not the least, it lets you realise the worth of touching things around you and existing with them! The bed suddenly turns more warm, the sofa all the more cosy, and the carpet becomes the best thing you have ever felt!

Just another day!

Just another day. Just another morning. Just another night. Just another feeling. Just another joy. Just another tear. Just another laugh. Just another pass. Just another being. Just another day that I survived. I survived. Just another life. Just another for another?

Disillusioned!

Remember this mad guy I talked about some months back? Oh I didnt post it. It was just a draft and later went to trash. As my most ramblings.

So there was this guy. (cant call him mad already!) Used to see him everyday at the bus stop as I waited for my bus to college. He walked around the place, talking senseless and acting weird. Would come so close to those talkative group of girls. So much as to make them stop all the chattering abrupt. Nervous and terrified. But he was harmless. He never did anything to them. He didn’t even stare at them, let alone talk or disturb. He just went round and round, lamenting and shouting.

One day, I could actually listen and understand what he was saying. He was talking to a lad, probably a stranger. It was not conversational kinda. More like screaming, he was saying how women are chasing him, yearning for his love and time. He was desperate. I could see through his eyes. It craved for someone to yearn for him. Someone to want him and his love.

Easily predictable. He would probably been have ditched by some bitch. And he just wouldn’t have got out of the shock. I pitied him.

Didn’t see him for some days then. By then, I had developed a habit of seeing him every morning. He resembled someone. That’s not the reason why I looked forward to see him. He just didn’t seem a stranger to me. And then he comes one day. With a cloth bag kinda thing in hand. He was going to Madras it seemed. With a small kit in hand, he was all set for a voyage. Instantly,
I was sad. Not a moment long. The bus came. I got in. And moved on.

Today morning, I saw two normal looking people talking casually. It wasn’t much difficult to recollect the face. And there he is. Back home. Back to his place.

So..was he not mad in the first place? Was that my ideas and thoughts forced upon him? Or may be he was just normal with a crazy streak. Or may be that just was his way of venting pain and agony. However may this be. My nth lesson for the day : Never ever dare judge another person’s mental status. Its complex. 🙂

The inside story

Was down with a fever and cough for a week. And that was such a wonderful timing that I missed five of my internal exams. Frankly, I was glad I’ve more time to study. But yeah, nothing of that sort happened and I screwed them up as usual. No big deal. The retests were postponed and dragged, long enough that I was itched to face them and get over them. But then, it’s the teachers’ mercy playing. And that’s such a rare commodity! Well, whatever. Glad that I’m finally done with it today. Almost. Yeah. Just almost. One more to go.

Well. This aint about my retests or academic crap. I was actually talking about the inside story. The plot and the dialogues inside a staff room. That was funny. Rather surprising. Teachers are
unpredictable beings outside the classroom, or more precisely, inside the staffroom. They talk. Gossip. Prick. Laugh. Confess. Seek help. Seeking help is the most common actually. 🙂

Okay. Everybody does that. So can teachers. They are also common people like you and I. But that’s not the point at all. They do all the very common things in a peculiar way. ‘Appo eli kadichittalle elippani pakarunnathathu??’ I laughed at that question. Laughed really hard. Not thinking about the scientific aspect of it. But seeing my ‘Digital System Design’ teacher stare so stupid and blank, I just couldn’t stop! (The subject name says how bright she should be!) And adding to my surprise, all the teachers in the staffroom fell silent as I broke into laughter. They looked at eachother and I could sense me screwing up. But to my shock, they started laughing with me. They find me mocking at a teacher so hilarious! Seriously! Lol. And another teacher. She says how she’d scare them, coming back as ghost if they dont get her a wreath of rose if she dies of elippani!

I loved the irony. The teacher next to me was shit scared and tensed. I was rotflmao (in my mind) when I learnt the reason for her worry. She was worried of screwing up coz the Inspector from the university had caught her using mobile phone during class hours! I still cant stop laughing. Rotfl.

The never ending complaints about how under paid they are. How the evaluation camp exhausts them. What are the procedures for applying for a Phd. When on earth will they finally get a change in
designation!

It was fun. And revealing. (cant be relieving when the teacher stares at your answer sheet!) What they actually thought about students is what actually we think about ourselves. That was mews to me! I’d love to write more of retests! If only they wouldn’t postpone it. 🙂

The life of a problem

How long can a problem live? Rather, what’s the average life span of the thing that squeezes your brain and crushes your peace of mind and normal course of life? Somebody told me that answer is different for both the genders. For a man, a problem lives till he finds a solution or something close to a solution. But for women, problems are just a night long. After one good sleep, it seems that a woman forgets the previous day’s problems and worries. She’d have had her new set of problems and concerns for the next morning. Just another set of short living woes!

But my thoughts dont seem to concur with it. May be coz my womanhood felt insulted. Or may be just coz I kinda know better! A problem lives in your puny little head until you are done with it. Being done with doesn’t necessarily mean finding a solution to it. It just means being done. Getting over it. Push yourself hard. Till you reach your threshold. Of letting go. Getting over. Freeing yourself, just to fall into newer pathos. Finding closure in your problems. That’s how it works. Focussing onto the issue at hand, encompassing life around it. Some find closure that way. For some others, its slightly different. They leave one issue half way and go in search of another. Dont ask why. Its just their way of finding closure with themselves! 🙂

Problems dont live as long as it lives for you, as for me, as for someone else. Different problems. Different scopes. Different thresholds. But one thing is same. They all take you off your course and rupture your brain. As you, as me, as someone else.

The ‘without’ journey

Journeys. Train journeys. They have been a part of my life. Traversing lands, of my dreams, of my desire, of my passion. Shuttling between universes! When in one, the other seems so dreamlike and unrealistic! Well, that sounds like something from the past. Something that I wrote in the past. But how does it matter! The past continues. So do the verses from the past. They echo till eternity. For journeys are eternal. Immortal. Real. The most realistic, or rather the only realistic experiences of my life are always related to a journey. May be that’s a slight exaggeration from my part. But then, that precisely says my yearning for journeys, sans exaggeration. Its such a pleasure to travel. Immense and profound. Today was one such day. A day of journey. Smooth and soothing. Even an untimely alarm is forgiven. The journey was definitely worth it. Less crowded, rather empty compartment. Extravaganza of stretching the limbs. Window seat. Wind caressing my hair. (thanks to mom, for tying up my hair :D) Slow hum of the engine, with occasional startling whistles. Early rising sun. Sweat beads on my forehead. And finally, the dreaded crossing and waiting for signal. One thing I’d love to keep away from is the Ladies’ only travel. The gossips and never ending woes about husbands and in-laws, and all other thinkable and unthinkable versions of every single thing out there! The ladies’ talk was so annoying that I wished if I could hang on to the lingering sleep. But then, had it not been for them, I wouldn’t have written this at all. With all the annoyances and silly talks, they represented a clan, a class apart for a person like me. Their thoughts, their worries, their concerns, their worlds. It seemed so ideally perfect. So straight. So clean. I don’t wish if I were one of them. May be, even without my knowledge, I am already one among them.

The ‘vanity’ bag clad women joined me mid way. They kept getting off and on the train. Different faces. But same ‘vanity’ bags. Nobody stayed for the whole of the journey. I am glad I traversed the entire path. Without struggle. Just an unsettling ease of having it crossed. Being done with the journey, I am worried about the next. The journey was short and smooth. I went through it, pleasantly. Will the next be as smooth as this? Will I have to go through the shame and pain of getting down midway? Will I be able to pay for the whole distance? Or should I be traveling ‘without’ ticket? I am worried. Confused.