ten things on my mind

I thought I was losing my mind.
The past few months I couldn’t live without my little black planner, or everyday lists that told me what to do, when. I’d be a nervous wreck if I couldn’t locate the little piece of paper that said- “Water the plants! Eat lunch!”

First it was only important events, assignments but soon I had to depend on little bits of
paper to tell me to wash my hair! I just had too many things I wanted to do. And I hate that nagging feeling at the corner of my mind that says “there was something else, you forgot to do..what was it?” And I think for hours, double check, but can never be sure I’ve done everything I’ve wanted to!

One day my friend said that I was very *clinical* in most everything I do and that he’d consider me a freak if he didn’t know me better. It was true. My life has always had a plan. When I have to go meet friends I need to know venue, time etc a day in advance. Again, spontaneity, uncertainty makes me uncomfortable.
When someone says: we’ll do lunch somewhere, ok? It makes me squirm. Can you not be precise?! Where? When? Who’s coming?

But plans don’t always work. And having a plan doesn’t make things easier. I still worry, think and re-think. So, what’s the point?
I think I’m going to tackle one thing at a time. I often talk about independence and somehow dependence on pieces of paper doesn’t sound very appealing :P

PS: To let you in on a little secret, whatever said and done, crossing off a task that you’ve finished, gives one immense satisfaction. Such that I can’t begin to describe the feeling! :) :)
I’m hopeless, aren’t I?

Grandma broke my slippers...

We were just in time. As we approached the library a sea of excited children met us. Those shining eyes and eager voices were difficult to miss.

Akka! Rosy miss! We’re going to the park!
We walked for ten minutes on black tar, and a kuchha path with pebbles and dust. I almost tripped over a stone. Then I looked down.

“Jeeva, where are your slippers?” I asked the six year old. He smiled his bright smile and said, “Pati broke them yesterday”.
*I imagined it was some kind of punishment, maybe he disobeyed her and in a fit of rage, she burnt them and threw them away*

Me: “Why did she do that?”
Jeeva: “She can’t see properly, akka. She tripped over them and they broke.”
*bright smile*

“Oh.” I patted him awkwardly on the back, blinked, took his hand and continued to walk.

NOTE: a friend and I, volunteer at a library for slum children. We help them read, with math, tell them stories or just have fun :)
http://ilpindia.blogspot.com/ Go see.

Those dreaded turns!

I glanced furtively at my wristwatch. I was early again. Well, I might as well get my pirouettes straight. I was very distressed about them lately, unable to manage even a single turn properly. It was a nightmare; my instructor seemed to be losing patience too.
I entered the studio. No one, as usual.

I was wrong.
From the shadows I heard someone whisper a feeble “hello”. I turned around. There he was managing three pirouettes at one go. My face flushed, I wasn’t about to unveil my incompetence in front of this guy. He might be a new student at this level for all I knew. I had been stuck in here for what seemed like eternity. And personally I felt I had no right to be here, my instructor swore by my raw, wild dance skills and felt I was ready for this. She appeared equally surprised when I failed to adjust, still struggling and fumbling with basic technique.
Deciding to crush my ego and trying not to be conscious, I warmed up and had a go at those dreadful turns. We’re doing jazz here, for god’s sake! I cried.
My frustration was quite apparent. He walked up to me, both managing slight smiles. I still wonder what his was about. Taking no notice of any audience, I continued. I looked up at the mirror, he had joined me. My mouth opened wide, wishing I was as good. He wasn’t trying to impress as I would come to know later.

“Hey guys!” the instructor broke my reverie. That class I managed two and a half pirouettes! And that was how I found a friend and my salsa partner, in the fifteen minutes before class.

Number 25

The daylight lessens with every passing second, the chill begins to set in and I am gradually enveloped by disappointment and unhappiness.
The Gypsy continues its way through the dusty, forest road. The engine’s hum, now the only sound for miles around as the entire forest falls suddenly silent.
It’s past six and we’ll leave the forest any moment, all my hopes now crushed like the gravel beneath the tyres. Making our way up a small hillock we abruptly come to a halt. The driver gets down and mutters something about a puncture. The atmosphere changes and now everyone’s tense, fear creeps in. I’m overjoyed, positively thrilled! Images of black and orange dance before me, I don’t care any longer. My wish comes true.

Everyone stiffens, gets back into the vehicle. I witness my first brush with wild beauty, there stands the Tiger. The image is blurred, I wish it was morning. I dig into my bag and fish out my brand new night binoculars. It’s clearer now, the magnificent stripes, the pattern of orange and black, that piercing look. I start breathing again.
I notice a pattern. We’re lucky says the local, this is no ordinary animal. It’s special. Look above the eyes he says…then I notice the number 25.
That night was magical, one like no other. In my own concrete jungle I’m back to my routine. My eyes scan the headlines and there in bold letters it says:

Tiger Trapped! ; Animal gets caught in trap meant for deer, chokes to death. Identified by officials as “number 25”, the animal was special to the locals and a favourite with tourists. This is the most recent case in a slew of tiger deaths. Poaching is on the rise.

The paper is blotchy; a tear runs down my nose, my mother beckons me to finish my breakfast.

Change is the only thing that’s constant. Really? Ouch.

I have this problem. I couldn’t figure out what it was. Till recently.

A few months back, a friend after listening to me vent unwittingly told me: “Rosh, you have adjustment issues, don’t you?”
For days I thought about it. She was right. Damn. I do have this cocoon around me. When I’m in a new place, it takes me ages to get into a comfort zone. And when I do, its time to move on. I’m afraid. Really really afraid. Of change. Of getting up one day and seeing nothing familiar.
My childhood fears of acceptance and rejection had actually taken over my life. I think a hundred times before I say anything in class, change my opinion constantly. I almost always suck at spontaneity. I visualize a whole conversation in my head (peppered of course with a lot negative reactions and drama), I even practice saying Hi!
I desperately want to fit in. For long I’ve had this really bad self image, about how the other person is almost always going to think: “Oh, what a Freak/Nerd/Weirdo”. It’s funny ‘cause when you think about it, it’s a reflection of what I think of myself. I hardly ever give you the chance to tell me what you really think. I assume, presume and act according to that.

Not everyone is going to go out of the way and make me feel nice or comfortable. When around a group of new people, I prefer to shut up. Already I’m thinking: I shouldn’t have worn this dress, that shoe or so much kajal. And, hey, what band is she talking about? Oh my god, I don’t know shit!

I’ve always wanted to be you. And in the process, I’ve forgotten how to be ME. I can’t remember what I like to wear, what I want to eat, or the name of my favourite book.

The last time I bid goodbye to a set of amazing friends, they told me: We love you. Don’t change, ever. And I was thinking, wha-at? That’s not possible. Now, I know what they were talking about…ten years hence, I’ll most probably have a different hairstyle, different clothes but at the core, I want to be myself, not some shape shifter.

:(

I woke up today to the sound of singing. Very loud singing. Not particularly melodious or welcome, since I was still in a state of semi-consciousness. But the singing was intriguing.
I looked outside my balcony and saw a group of four blind men walking in the middle of the road, singing with their arms outstretched. I rubbed my eyes.
A woman in her nightgown came up to them and dropped a few coins en route to picking up the newspaper, a young man on a bike, stopped, parked and did the same.

I watched them till they disappeared from sight. And heard them for even longer.

Squiggle. Scribble. Doodle.

Used to. Still do. Will always.

On the sidewalk with fat chalk; drawing pink airplanes and blue apples. On cream coloured walls, mosaic floors and on my Book Of First Words. A lot of circles. Curved lines. An unsteady hand. Unsuccessful attempts to write my name.
Throughout school, on the margins of my math book, unable to engage with trigonometric equations, sketches of models with high heels and glittering wrists.

Bored to death during sociology, inane conversations emerge in between notes about the Hindu Joint Family. Dotted with mispronunciations of our entertaining lecturers accompanied with elaborate illustrations.

Later, you’re mortified. Or not. Smile, at your doodle growth chart…