I feel like white with a single horizontal red line passing through. But you see, that white isn't just white. It smells like the alcohol a thousand people drown themselves in It tastes like the salt in your mouth right before you throw up It sounds like the silence of a woman jumping into the well with a newborn in her arms It looks the unpromising white clouds that bring no rain, no rain. And that red. It's mocking. That cruel mocking red that laughs at the white, for being able to feel so much and unable to express it. For being so strong that it can never break, never let the load burst through. It is meant to be too pure, given too much importance. That red, which is vain and conspicuous and too strong. Such an attention whore. That red which will overpower the white. Never let it show. Let it fall to the background. That red which threatens to swallow everything the white has ever stood for. I hate red and it is my favourite colour.

Sometimes.

When we arrive in this world, hungry and clothed only in the million hopes and dreams, we are invincible. It is those dreams that cushion us. Not all of them are ours, though. Some are our parents' - I will send my child to college because I did- Or because I didn't. Some are our family's - my grandchild will carry on our family traditions. Most are our own - not all are big- plenty are just for everyday little things. These hopes are not the point.

What I mean to say is, as children, we are protected from the harsh realities of the world by our countless hopes and dream. They keep us alive by keeping us from breaking. It is not easy to put us down. There's always tomorrow- a new day, new possibilities. And we have the rest of our life for everything. If not today, then some other day.

But you see, one by one these hopes that surround us start to wear away and chip off. We start to feel the impact that was previously absorbed by them. We realise we can't have everything we'd like to have. So do our families - I don't think my child will go to college, I'd be happy if he could just finish high school. You have to choose some of your dreams and let go of the others. And it is up to us to keep these dreams alive- which we do, by feeding them on our achievements, and the baby steps we take towards them.

Some never lose any dreams. They preserve them all, caring for them like little pearls. They never let anything get to them - they have a kind of childish pride that acts as a shield. And when the world looks at them crazy and ridicules their dreams, in them sprouts yet another hope. Eventually they shine so bright that even when they are defeated, their life is exemplary. Even when they depart from the world, they turn into stars, little specs of light that illuminate the darkest of skies and encourage us to follow the light. A pity there are so few of them.

Then there are most of us. We aren't so strong; we can't salvage all our dreams. We aren't so brave. Sometimes, we have to watch even the dreams closest to us crumble. We have no choice. Very often, we let our obstacles get in the view of our dreams so we can't see them properly. Sometimes there's fog. But after letting go of some and doggedly following others, we get them.

And finally there are those who let their dreams die off so fast, lying to themselves they don't need them. Their life exists in the real world, where every obstacle is unavoidable. They have no dreams to protect them, they die.A pity there are so many of them.

Return to Home, Return to Myself

I haven't been the happiest person I know for the past few months. In fact, I've been feeling so low that I've been finding it impossible even to do the things I used to love. In short, I just haven't been the person I was before.

Ever since I moved to India last year, I'd felt the need to connect to people who I could share my thoughts and ideas with. I'm not saying anything against the people I know in India, but somewhere I felt that my classmates and schoolmates would never look at life the way I did- of course, we had all been in different situations and places- and would not understand. If I ever even thought about things such as the meaning of life or what it meant to be truly happy, I know their response would somewhere include the word 'weird' or one of its many synonyms.

For the past three or so months, I had been in great emotional turmoil. I knew that deep down I was unhappy and was trying everything I could to try and be happy. But nothing worked.

Today things changed. A friend ( who I am grateful for - since he is perhaps the only person who is as deeply contemplative and interested in literature as I am) was sharing some songs, I was taken back to a song I used to listen to when I was still in Malaysia. And with that, things changed. I revisited all my favourite songs - those that had been removed from my iTunes a year back and then the memories came rushing in. I spent several hours listening to all the songs I had loved, recollecting all the memories I had associated with each. 

And suddenly I realised that people in fact did not change. Their old personality eventually gets buried deep under the new roles and pretenses that they have to play with the passing of time. And underneath my current appearance of a studious girl who doesn't have friends, I am in fact still the same girl who loves beaches, plays football, and had a grand time at my tenth grade prom - all I need to do is uncover a few layers.

Music helps you do that, really. It's a link between the past and the present and the future. Music lasts for ever.

Here's a quote from the book Just Listen by Sarah Dessen that sums up precisely what I've tried to say in so many words : 

Music is a total constant. That's why we have such a strong visceral connection to it, you know? Because a song can take you back instantly to a moment, or a place, or even a person. No matter what else has changed in your or the world, that one song says the same, just like that moment.

And no matter whatever happens, a song you can always go back to. You need never lose yourself again.

Ratting Out

Saturday night, our school marked its first anniversary with a musical. Set in modern day India and loosely based on the story of the Pied Piper, Ratting Out is the story of a small town with a big problem.

Complete with lively markets and corrupt politicians ( of which I played one), the town has been pestered by rats. When an unusual hero, a piper steps in to save the day for a lakh of rupees, everyone is delighted. Of course, as the story goes, the mayor refuses to pay him, and the piper sets off to take his terrible revenge. But this is modern day India, that stuff can't happen. Instead, we have a bunch of reporters taking up the Piper's case, widespread protests and a public interest litigation against the government, before the mayor and her councillors are forced to resign. And there it is, a happy ending. Well, except for the councillors, but they deserved it anyway.

That was the story, but summaries of musicals don't make satisfactory subjects to write about ( like English teachers say : if it's a summary, you get an F). I will proceed by writing about what this play did to me.

Having never acted before, I found this play to be quite a thought-provoker.

I had always believed acting to be a shallow profession; after all, who can live their entire life pretending to be someone else? Especially in this world where everyone is permanently preaching about the importance of being your own unique person, acting to me was simply not comprehensible. Of course, I was part of the drama club ever since it started ( up until the school decided that twelfth graders did not need the club block because we needed to focus on their studies - yeah right, as if we're ever going to open a textbook), and drama was fun. But up until now I had never perceived drama as something other than pretending.

I realised that acting is more about studying people than it is about imitating them. People are programmed to respond in similar ways to similar situations and to pick up subtle clues about what people are feeling without realising it. In drama, as I learnt, every single countenance, gesture and movement is emphasized, made larger than life not for fun but to unmistakably get across our own, personal message, because everything looks smaller from the seating area than it looks from on stage. To an audience, perhaps, it may just be pretense, but to an actor, the reality is different.

I discovered this reality for myself when I played the role of the corrupt Minister of Food and Agriculture in the musical, and this too when I had just two lines. After the initial disappointment of having just two lines in the entire production wore off, I was determined to let them be the most perfectly delivered two lines in the history of drama ( of course, that doesn't really happen but I was determined to try). I was already used to being a girl and I decided that I wanted to be a man ( and that women had to wear saaris and the last time I wore one it was a fail) and because my hair was long, I was made a sardar. I'd decided that I didn't want to just go up to the mic and say my lines just as everyone would, but that I would be that character, with his culture, history, swag, accent and of course his looks. I started learning Punjabi and observing men, the way they walked, sat and ate, and then I began imitating them. I walked like a man, sat with my legs apart and tried to speak Punjabi myself. I modified my lines and sentence structures to sound like my corrupt minister. By the day of the play, I had created an entire context for my character, an alternate reality, after stepping into which I ceased to be me but was him.

After the play, many people congratulated me. During a speech when the chief guest said that parents and teachers should let children choose their passions, a teacher whispered to me saying, " I do not want you to be a doctor or an engineer. When you grow up I want you to be a Sardarji". I guess I can take that as a compliment.

Enough with jokes, but the truth is, when I was up there, I was no longer Srishti. The council meeting was my reality. I could not see or hear anything beyond the semi circular stage of the amphitheatre.

It was not until then that I realised that acting is not just pretending but observing fundamental human behaviour and using it to your advantage. When your character has not just lines but a context, a history, a culture, a family, he automatically becomes more believable. When you understand your character on a deep level, it shows: you put up a better act.

Writing the Common App Essay

                Since the dawn of time, or at least ever since the creation of the common application essay, students have been plagued by the question, “So what is it that really makes a college tick?’ Tell you  what, I recently had a chance to find out.

                Yesterday, the regional director for admissions from UPenn (Yes, you read it!) visited my school and I had the opportunity to interact with him for a good twenty minutes (after most people had left) thanks to my college counselor (who’s been pushing me to apply to as many Ivy Leagues as financially possible).

                And yesterday, I finally had the opportunity to ask the admissions officer (the real live guy who’d be reading my application) what it REALLY took to make a successful college essay.

Well, for starters, this guy was impressive. I’ve had a more-than-fair share of bad admission counselors. And when I mean bad, I mean horrid. There was once this woman who spoke at the rate of one word per hour. Another looked like Hilary Duff’s stepmother from ‘A Cinderella Story’ right after she had had a botox… treatment? God, I can’t even use the word botox in a sentence. Hopefully I’ll never need to.

So anyhow, this guy was impressive. He spoke like a pro, looked approachable enough, and by the end of his presentation, had convinced every person in the room that Penn was THE choice for them.  

And when I did ask The Question? He said:

“Write an essay which only you could write. Write what makes you unique.”

Oh right, as if we hadn’t heard the famous line over and over again from our college counselor, ALL websites and ALL college admission officers. And at that point I could have sworn that there was some course on planet earth specifically for admissions officers which taught them all to say this at the most crucial time. As if life wasn’t confusing enough already.

                 But then he gave an excellent example.  In less than eloquent words, I will try and supply the essence of his speech.

                Write what makes you unique. Something that no one but you could have written. Something that leaves an impression. Think about your favourite book. What was it that made that book memorable? Have you ever thought that this was something no other writer could have written? Maybe a particular combination of words that stuck? Write something only you could write with the experiences that you have.

                

                And I will sign off with this, it’s time for class!

A glance back at the road already travelled,

About a year and a half ago, I wrote frequently in my diary which I'd named 'The Adventures of the Girl in the Disposable Poncho'. It contained mainly short stories and poetry and an occasional rant. The concept was to keep an account of my days and to serve as an outlet for pent up teenage energy, and still be indecipherable to nosy classmates (and parents). So what I did was, I picked the most significant event from that day and wove a story around it. And it is this book which contains the most accurate account of my first kiss ( and yet no one reading it would know, because everything in the diary is just a 'story' anyway).  Perhaps one day when I am emotionally distant enough to those experiences, when they are no more than just stories to me, I will post them here. But for now they belong in my diary.

No, the point of this post is not to describe my diary. That would make a shitty post wouldn't it? Well anyhow, to the point.

As I flip through the pages of this unadorned exercise book, I look through how the events of the past year have changed me to a point where I feel uncomfortable spying on myself. My stories revolved around an unusual plethora of people and situations, a girl confused about what to do with her dog once she has decided to get out of her live in relationship, people trying to distract themselves while walking up and down a hallway, whatnot.

But the story which fascinates me the most now is one of Champa, a prostitute, who has fallen in love with a criminal who shows up at her doorstep, drunk of course, every night, professing his love. She does not mind when he wakes up each morning a stranger to her, all she needs is the false promise a love like hers brings. Un corazon que se muere por dar amor.

What is strange is that I seem, in these pages, to have a kind of vitality, a kind of childish maturity, like that of Sara Crewe when she refused to cry, and a different kind of understanding of everything that I was going through. Perhaps it has become too easy to deal with emotions without letting them get in the way of work, but these pages record the time when I learnt that it was possible.

Strange huh?

Stranger that any eloquence fails me at the thought of reconnecting with my past?

Perhaps in a year I will look at this post and reflect on the rough edges in this post and in my mind and think how insignificant the objects of my wonder were. Anyhow, good night. Starting 'Ostrich with a twist' tomorrow with my favourite series of all time : Twilight!

Just kidding, I cant stand twilight( another post on that later). 

The Chronicles of Narnia up next.

Summers (:

                  A good friend will bail me out of jail. Nidhi Krishnamoorthy would be sitting right next to me saying, " Damn, that was fun. As soon as we're out of here, let's get some snow ice, hit on a few cute guys and do this again."

And what wouldn't I do to go back <3