The Painter - A Short Story

The Painter tiptoed into the living room, carefully avoiding the mahogany coffee table and yet another china vase. He was as quiet as a church mouse as he moved over the carpeted floor, searching for the painting in the dim light of a handheld flashlight.

The baseball bat swung at him out of nowhere, and missed him by a hairline. He grabbed the bat and forced it off the wielder - the middle-aged owner of the house. The two men struggled, delivering punches while knocking off framed photographs from the mantelpiece. The heavier, bulkier house owner got the better of the Painter and shoved him to the floor. He got him in a choke-hold and the Painter struggled to get free.

The Painter strained his head and looked up. The painting he was looking for was hanging right there on the wall - an original painting of a dinner table from 1659, oil on canvas. The Painter was starting to feel light-headed.

He reached out his hand towards the painting, and immediately, a knife in the painting started to twitch. It flew out of the painting, materialized and came to a stop within his palm, just as he gripped tight the strong, steel cutlery. He jabbed the knife backwards into the house-owner's torso, and immediately felt the grip around his neck loosening. He forced his hand over the owner's mouth and slit his throat.

Fresh, warm blood spilled all over the Painter as the man spluttered violently. Soon, he was dead. The dark pool of blood around him grew quietly. The Painter stood up, wiped the blood off the knife using the nearest table cloth and pressed it back into the painting, where it resumed its former position as a part of it, without showing any signs of ever having been removed.

The Painter was about to take the painting off the wall when he heard noises upstairs. "Walter? Walter, are you all right? You told me to call the police, I - " The woman walked into the living room and found her husband's bloodied corpse. She let out a horrifying scream as she fell to the floor, right beside him.

The Painter watched this from outside, through the window. His object of interest was still hanging there on the wall. He could hear the sirens in the distance now. He will just have to try another night.

The investigators were clueless. There were no witnesses, no fingerprints, no DNA evidence and no murder weapon that they could find. The murder seemed almost... supernatural.

In the midst of the search for the killer, hardly anyone noticed the small specks of blood that had been newly added to the 1659 original painting.

INFINITY WAR: Trailer Reaction and Review.

As you all know, the official trailer for Avengers Infinity War released yesterday and all of Marvel fandom went bat-shit insane (me included). Being one of the few fans who did not see the leaked version, I was hyped as hell when it finally dropped. I went so far as to go live on Instagram with my reactions as I watched it for the first time. Needless to say, all that video captured was three minutes of me screaming at a screen. Hey, fan-girls don't apologize for being a fan-girl.

Nevertheless, I feel the need to have a more civilized and coherent response to the much awaited trailer, which is why I'm making this blog post - all geekiness and none of that high-pitched shrieking.

Let's get started.

It starts off nice and slow, with haunting music that pulls at your heartstrings because you know it won't be pretty.

There was an idea... to bring together a group of remarkable people...to see if we could become something more. So when they needed us, we could fight the battles...that they never could.

Then comes the intro, which honestly gave me goosebumps because it's such a cool intro. The theme music plays slowly and "Marvel Studios" appears on screen. Ah, fangasm.

It gives us glimpses of all our favorite characters, with eerie, saddening and exhilarating music and dialogues. There is Thanos flaunting the Infinity Gauntlet, Black Widow with her killer blonde hair and, of course, our dear old Captain America dressed in black with that oh-so charming beard. In King T'Challa's own words,

...and get this man a shield.

Infinity War is what we have all been waiting for. This is the ultimate team up, where they get together to fight the big baddie. And yes. There will be death. We see them all gearing up for battle. Because this..

This is war.

Avengers Infinity War coming to theaters on May 4th, 2018.

First time in a Saree: The Pros and Cons of Wearing the Classic Indian Garment.

My first attempt at wearing a saree was a few months ago, in September; all part of being high school seniors. Naturally, all those times unsuccessfully trying to wrap the endless cloth a gazillion times around your tiny little body while playing dress up as kids doesn't count.

I had harbored nothing but dislike for this traditional clothing for a long time. It was impractical, time-consuming, and looked severely uncomfortable, yet it found everyday use in the lives of millions of women in India. How? Why?

Spending quite a few hours in a saree and actually stepping out in public with it have, I must say, given me a new perspective to view this entire thing from. And boy, have I got a rant for you!

PRO #1- You feel like a freaking queen! That's right. When you've got 6 yards of cloth wound around your body, your curves become more prominent and graceful. With the long fabric flowing behind you, every step becomes a catwalk. Not to mention, sarees are the only "acceptable" way to show off your midriff without being judged by the prying eyes of Indian Society.

PRO #2 - A gush of wind from your left side and you've practically got your own internal cooling system. It doesn't matter that the front of your saree puffs up like a balloon because the wind that follows, swirling around you, is like a kiss from Heaven.

CON #1 - It is HOT. AF. You are sweating like a pig even in room temperature. With around 200 layers of cloth around your lower body, you bet it's going to be hot in there. Good luck on that catwalk while you try to ignore the trickle of sweat down the length of your legs.

CON #2 - It is tighter than having boa constrictor around your chest. The blouse is actually a torture device in disguise that squeezes the life out of you like a damn corset and people should have left it in the 1800s where it really belongs. Breathing is now a tedious, difficult and necessary task that you have to consciously perform every waking moment. I'm sure that the remaining 8 hours of wearing this will be super fun.

I would really like to know, who invented these? Who thought these were okay? More importantly, how are they still important, and at times mandatory, as a dress code in today's day and age? Women are forced to dress in sarees and then they call us delicate. How dare they?

Of course it's delicate. Every single second, you are conscious of every single pin holding your delicate saree together. The absolute hours spend getting into this prehistoric contraption of torment can all be undone in seconds should you make one small wrong move. The pressure and the stress of holding it all together is enough to drive you to an eternity of aversion towards any piece of cloth longer than a meter. Forget running or climbing the stairs, you can't even walk properly without accidentally pulling it all out.

I wore it for a few hours and I am done with it. It amazes me how people wear sarees on a daily basis. I mean, how? How do you work in this thing? How do you sleep comfortably in this thing? Most importantly, how on God's green earth does one take a leak in this thing?

I cannot understand how it is humanly possible. It must be witchcraft. My dear saree-wearing women of this world, how do you do it? Do you secretly have four arms? Do fairies come and assist you? Elves, perhaps? Please let me in on your well-guarded secret. I promise I won't tell.

So, apart from all that, wearing a saree was quite a fun experience. All my classmates came dressed up like princesses and it was a really enjoyable day for all of us. Now, the question remains, will I wear this again? I might, actually, considering that Farewell is coming and we will all have to wear sarees. I suppose I could wear it. Just for a few hours. I'm sure I can put up with that.

I would just like to say that this post contains only my personal beliefs and opinions, and it was not meant as offense to anyone or anything. Clothing is a personal choice and I have nothing but respect for all you ladies who choose to wear sarees.

With that said, I would also like to say that if the need arises, I will wear a saree again, but under certain terms and conditions. And only occasionally. Once or twice in a lifetime seems frequent enough for me.

Until next time, All Hail T-shirts and Sweatpants!

Whose great idea was it to compare a woman to a flower?

"A woman is precious and delicate, like a flower. But once you pluck the petals, the flower is worthless."

I am sure that we've all heard some variation of this comparison more times than we'd like to admit. As revolting as it is, it took me too long to understand why this is one of the most sexist and idiotic comparisons out there.

Biologically, a flower is the reproductive organ of the plant.

Let me repeat that louder for  the people in the back.

A flower is the freaking Reproductive Organ of the plant!

So when you compare a woman to a flower, you are reducing her to merely her reproductive organs. That is probably the most moronic thing I've ever heard.

A woman is so much more than that. She is an entire person. She is the whole package. Why is that such a hard concept for society to grasp? She is her own person, with her own dreams, desires and ambitions. She is a human being.

Ladies, you are not an object. You are not a flower or a piece of tape that becomes worthless when someone touches you. You are so much more than that. You are a beautiful individual and you should be proud of that. Lady, you are not a flower, you're the whole damn plant. You are a human being. Don't let anyone treat you any less. Let us end this silence now. Let us stand up and fight - against sexism, misogyny and assholery. Let us fight for our human rights.

Dogs of Sikkim: Travellogue Part 7

As an avid animal lover, I feel the uncontrollable urge to pet any animal that passes even remotely close to me. Such was the case at Tashi View Point.

While everyone else was busy shopping and taking photographs, I had my eyes set on the little brown puppy walking around the place. He was simple adorable. And when I got close enough to him, I crouched down and beckoned him to me. The energetic little puppy came running to me and I was overjoyed. It came to me like I was his long lost owner. He started licking my hand as I tried to pet him, and was jumping around, wagging his tail. Getting this reaction from an animal has to be one of the happiest things in the world.

Our embrace was broken up when my parents told me off for touching a dirty street dog. I stood around for a while, watching the puppy. He seated himself in front of a bench, where two men were eating popcorn. It was quite obvious that he was hungry. But he made no noise. He just sat there, hoping to get a bite to eat. I desperately wished I had kept some food with me.

When the men left the bench, so did the puppy. I noticed a piece of popcorn lying on the seat. I discreetly grabbed it and took it to the puppy a few feet away. He started jumping when he saw me, and when I offered the popcorn, he immediately took it and started playing with it, while trying to eat it.

I was enjoying watching this adorable ball of fur before me when I saw him approach. He was a big dog with yellow fur, and he was coming straight at me. For a second I was scared. I didn't have any food to give the new comer. I was crouching on the floor and so this dog was as tall as me. What if he attacks me? It was too late to get away.

But he just stood there benignly. He motioned with his head that he wanted me to pet him, and so I did. And he looked extremely satisfied. I was relieved. He didn't want food; he just wanted someone to pet him.

That's the thing about cats and dogs. Just like humans have three basic needs (food, shelter and clothing), they too have their own basic needs - food, shelter and petting.

I rubbed the dogs head, and I felt there was bond forming between us -  like we've known each other all our lives and we were now being reunited. I wanted nothing more than to take him home with me.

Just then, they called me; to leave the stray dog alone and to come take some pictures with them. I reluctantly left the dog behind and approached them, only for them to look behind me and let out gasps. The big dog was following me around. Apparently, he was not having enough of me petting him.

Even as I sat down on the bench to take a photo, he wouldn't leave me alone. While everyone else saw this as a menace, it warmed my heart to see him following me around. So we ended up taking the pictures together - me with the dog that refused to go away.

All this makes me think, how much the dogs would have been craving attention to follow me around like this. How much they crave to be loved.

Saying goodbye was the hard part. It was like leaving behind a long lost lover, never to see him again. He watched me descend the steps after I kissed him goodbye. I swear, if he had followed me down the steps, I would have cried.

One think I noticed about the dogs of Sikkim was that every single one of them was incredibly handsome. They all had thick fur (I suppose they would need to, considering the climate) and looked well fed. I assume people took care of them, despite them being street dogs. Just like the people, even the dogs here are decent and friendly (unlike the hostile dogs in my hometown). Man, I love this place!

I think I'll move to Gangtok and adopt a couple of dogs. Yep, seems like a good idea.

Then again, why stop at a couple?

Sightseeing in Gangtok: Travellogue Part 6

Day 3 (1-5-17/ Monday)
Gangtok

We arrived in the city of Gangtok by around 6 pm and we went straight to the hotel. It was almost dusk when we reached our rooms, which was on the top-most floor.

Just one more step, I kept telling myself as I staggered up the seemingly never-ending flight of stairs. And with one massive surge of will, I reached the summit. And what I saw amazed me.

We saw the city below us, touched by the orange rays of the setting sun, and the mountains beyond it, in shades of blue and green. We felt like we were on top of the world, with the valley far beneath us.

We went into our rooms and settled in, only to come out a few minutes later, when it was dark outside.  It did not matter that we had spend half the night at a railway station and the other half on a slow, freezing train compartment. It did not matter that we had spend the better part of the day on a long and tiring car journey. It did not matter that we had just climbed, or rather, crawled, 10 floors to reach our rooms. It did not matter how exhausted we were, because the view made it all worth while.

The hillside was alight with numerous flickering lights in gold and silver. It looked like someone carelessly scattered glitter over a black canvas; like stars over an inky black sky. And we were watching all of this from up above. If only you could have been where I was, seen what I had seen - for what I saw was beyond mere words and pictures.

Gangtok: night view

Day 4 (2-5-17/ Tuesday)

Our ride arrived early in the morning. Our plans for the day ahead included visiting seven different tourist points in and around Gangtok.

The first stop was a handicrafts museum quite near to our hotel, where we saw the arts of weaving, painting and sculpting. With plenty of other locations on our itinerary, we did not linger around much longer.

The second stop was a flower show. In the warm and humid room, there were numerous different types of flowers and  plants, all in full bloom. It was the perfect place for photo shoots, and we didn't hold back. Outside, we stumbled upon some people who lent out traditional Sikkimese dresses - long silk gowns with fancy hats and loud jewelry - at a low price, just to take photographs. Needless to say, one look at the pretty clothes and we spend almost an hour taking photos in different poses. Looking back, the fun we had was one of the major highlights of the entire trip.


Stop #3 was Hanuman tok, a temple on top of a mountain dedicated to The Monkey God. We spend time taking photographs and enjoying the view.

We skipped a couple of stops in between and head for the next point where we could get a decent lunch. Tashi View Point was a nice little place, and we went straight into a restaurant as "some of us" were more than a little hungry.

The restaurant we got into was little more than a crowded, noisy, cramped up room. But we had to make do with what we had. We pulled together a couple of tables and feasted like there was no tomorrow.

Despite the clamorous and restricted ambience of the restaurant, the food was excellent. We ordered thali meals (rice with accompaniments), chowmein (a type of noodles), thukpa (soupy noodles), rotis with curry and a couple of plates of momos (a type of dumpling). The dishes had a strong Chinese and Tibetan influence. The little hotel gave delicious food at reasonable prices and fine service. If you're in Gangtok someday, I suggest you check this place out.




We went up to the view point where did some more shopping and took some photographs. Our next stop was a Buddhist monastery. It was a very calm and peaceful place, and the inside of the temple was adorned with exquisite designs.

By late afternoon, we reached the last spot on the list. The rope way ran between two points in the city. We had to wait a while to get tickets, but the ride was totally worth it.

Gangtok is an incredible city, nothing like anything I'd seen before. The people are friendly, the drivers are decent and the city is beautiful. In just a day, I was in love. The places I grew up in was nothing compared to Sikkim.

It' s decided then. First chance I get, I'm moving to Gangtok.

Local Delicacies: West Bengal: Travelogue Part 5

I did say that the food in West Bengal deserves its own blog post and so here it is...

Perhaps nothing in this entire journey contradicted our expectations like the food. I must admit, we went in there having very wrong assumptions about what their food tastes like. And what we experienced truly left us in awe.

Right from the first cup of tea (the milk came from the cow in the shed behind the house), we knew we were in for a treat (literally). We ate lunch with other family members in the house in Debipur. They served us rice, followed by dal curry. There were many vegetable accompaniments, each one tastier than the last. But the one dish that stood out was the fish. Two large pieces per person was hardly enough. It's soft, white, juicy flesh was simply delicious.

The main course had us stuffed, and when they came to us with desert, how could we turn them away? Our mouths said yes while our stomachs pleaded no. Slowly we had the mango chutney they poured into our plate. It was the perfect combination of sweet and sour. Desert #2 was rice pudding with sugar balls. My mother attempted to say no, owing to lack of space in our tummies but they would have none of it. With the first taste of the pudding, we realized that we had just avoided a big mistake. It was truly scrumptious.

Dinner at the reception was a grand feast. A few snacks like pani puris and a dish of chicken were available before the main course. I tried to count the number of items that were served but, honestly, I lost count. Roti and rice items were accompanied by many vegetable and meat side dishes. Dessert included gulab jamuns and rasagullas, among others.

It was with these tastes lingering in our mouths that we boarded the train to Sikkim, the next part of our journey, where another adventure awaited us. 

Back in Debipur: Travelogue Part 4

Two hours in the cramped up train carriage that took us from Kolkata to Debipur was a fun and exciting journey, and the beautiful view of the fields outside was a good enough reason to not fall asleep in an awkward position.

The sun was beginning to set when we got off at Debipur station, although it was hardly after 5 pm. It was considerably easy to find our next mode of transport; or rather, they found us. In that little town, we stood out like a sore thumb.

A blue toto was waiting for us. These battery-powered three wheelers were a better alternative to auto-rickshaws, considering their efficiency, low cost and the fact that they are environment-friendly. All six of us (with our baggage, mind you) managed to squeeze in and not fall off, all throughout the bumpy and thrilling ride.

The toto came to a stop outside the house where the wedding reception was going to be, and while everyone else went in to get ready for the party, my dad and I headed out to do something before we missed the opportunity - explore the fields.

The sun was setting and it was getting dark. We walked through the mango garden and got to the other side. This time, we stepped down and walked into the fields. And there it was.

Paddy fields: up close and personal

I don't think a lot of people from my generation has seen paddy fields, at least not where I come from. It's a rare sight in Kerala these days; I doubt it even exists. I had to come all the way to West Bengal to see something that was an all too common sight in my parents' childhood.

By then, a man from the house and a couple of boys (from the neighborhood, I assume) joined us, and graciously showed us around the paddy fields, and the adjoining land, where they grew all sorts of fruits and vegetables.

It was getting dark, and the festivities were starting. We came out of the fields and our guide suggested that we take the long way back, just so we can see more of the village. We walked down the little streets, taking in the sights, sounds and smells I knew I would hate to leave behind. The air, unpolluted and unconstrained, the chatter of the chickens, dogs, goats and cows, and fields as far as the eye can see, into which the sun so untimely sunk; all of this carried breathtaking beauty.

It was night time, when we got back to the house. We had seen almost a dozen ponds on our little hike and the heat had made us seriously consider jumping in. And we would have, if we weren't late for a party. We could have stayed here for a week and still not have seen enough or done enough. That's what this village did to me. It showed me what I was missing, living in the city.

We came back to the house and I remembered, to my disappointment, that we would have to leave Debipur in a few hours. After a quick shower and dressing up, we went down to the party.

Later that night, we got into the car with our packed bags and headed for Barddaman Railway Station, but not before bidding adieu to our delightful hosts and all the wonderful people we met in Debipur. These people gave us a home miles away from our own. And we are eternally grateful. As the car pulled out, I made a silent promise -  I would do everything in my power to come back.

A Day in Kolkata: Travelogue Part 3

After lunch with the family in Debipur, our party of six got into a car and rode two hours to the city of Kolkata. Everything was different by day. The city was gorgeous.

Our first stop was The Victoria Memorial, an exquisite work of architecture, built dedicated to Queen Victoria. Unfortunately, we were unable to visit the museum, but we did take a walk around the building, through the lush, green park.

After a lot of walking and quite a few photographs, we were ready to leave. As we set off to our next destination, it was already dusk, and Kolkata was even more beautiful at night.

In this part of the city, there were numerous fly-overs; all of them decorated by the signature white-and-blue lights. It was quite a sight indeed. I only wish I had gotten better photographs.

Kolkata's famous New Market is a bustling street, and the entire day's tiredness left us at the prospect of a whole evening of shopping. We spend a good couple of hours there, strolling from shop to shop in that crowded street, stopping only occasionally to buy something. What's interesting about the shops here, is that any price is negotiable, and, given the right shop and with a neat set of bargaining skills (something I, regretfully, lack), the products are an absolute steal.

We had a light dinner at one of the small restaurants within the market. And when the shopping bags got too heavy and too many in number, we decided to call it a day and head to the hotel we had booked to spend the night.

Originally, we had planned to spend the night at the house in Debipur, but given the long journey between Debipur and Kolkata, we thought it would be better to just stay in the city and see the sights before going back for the wedding reception. Our hotel was a nice little place hidden between apartment buildings in the suburbs outside the city. There, we got air-conditioned rooms, hot showers and complimentary breakfast in bed. Sweet!

Day 2 (30-4-17 / Sunday)
Kolkata

We got up bright and early and stuffed ourselves heartily with hot puris and potato curry delivered right to our doors. Having checked out, we took a cab all the way to Mother House, the Headquarters of The Missionaries of Charity and the final resting place of St. Theresa Of Calcutta.

Sunday Mass was almost over when we got there. The chapel was where the tomb was. The room right next to it had been modified to be a museum, where many articles used by Mother Theresa were on display. We were also allowed a glimpse into her room. It was quite interesting, seeing how modest and humble everything about her was.

 

Another thing we noticed about Mother House was that there were hardly any donation boxes in sight, unlike in most churches and chapels where there is a box kept before every idol. The place was quiet and peaceful, always emanating a positive energy.

Stepping back outside into the busy streets on Kolkata, we got on one of those local yellow cabs in an attempt to find the last few trams that were still running. The cabbie dropped us off at a tram depot, which, on closer examination, revealed nothing more than a run-down place behind locked gates with a couple of old, out-of-service trams inside sheds. Well, we did see tram tracks and, technically, we saw trams (even though it was through the small crack between gates), so, thinking that's all we were going to get, we were about to leave when a local told us that the actual depot was on the other side, and any working tram would be coming out of there.

Not the kind of people to give up, we walked about half a kilometre in the blazing afternoon sun to find a tram. We got all the way to the next junction before calling it quits.

We were both hungry and exhausted. We were convinced that only one tram was still operating, considering the fact that we had not seen a single tram the whole time we were here, and this one tram could be anywhere in the city. Not really wanting to run after it, we got in the nearest air-conditioned restaurant and had a heavy and delicious lunch.

Our bellies full and heads now clear, we stepped out, planning our next move. We had to get back to Debipur in time for the reception and the sooner we got there, the better. We had to get to Howrah Railway Station, to take the train to the little town.

Not wanting to get into another hot and stuffy yellow cab, we called an Uber and waited for the car. Still in disappointment about not being able to board a tram, we stood there on the lookout for our cab.

Just then, we saw it, right before our eyes; a big, blue and white tram riding along on the other side of the road. We could only watch with open mouths at the missed opportunity, as our Uber pulled up before us, and the Tram-that-got-away swept out of sight. Damn. 

Howrah Railway Station was busy and bustling with people. We got our tickets and took the first train out to Debipur. And after a day in this big city, I was glad to be going back to the village.

A Bengali Wedding: Travelogue Part 2

And now, for the main event - The Great Bengali Wedding.

We didn't know what to expect when our hosts called us over and we followed them to the nearby mandir. Maybe they just wanted to show us around, we thought, as we admired the local temple. The language barrier meant they were unable to explain to us what this was all about, so we just stood around, having no clue as to what was going on.

The commotion started soon after. A car pulled up, the bride and the groom stepping out of it. They were dressed in the traditional wedding attire; elaborate silks, huge flower garlands and fancy headdresses. The tip of the groom's mundu and that of the bride's saree were still knotted together. The actual wedding ceremony took place the day before, but the festivities were far from over. The bride and groom were returning to the groom's house after spending the last two days at the bride's. As they walked to the temple, the band started playing. Only then were we informed that we were expected to dance.

Wait, what?

The slightest reluctance on our side was met with reproving looks. It was tradition, they explained; it was part of their rituals. As the ceremony went on before the idol, the women and children were dancing to the beat before them. We watched in amusement the sight before us, until they pulled us onto the dance floor.

And so we danced, quite pathetically, I might add, for it would have been rude not to. But I'll tell you one thing - it was a hell of a lot of fun!

Once it was all over at the temple, everyone headed back to the house. The ceremony continued inside, and we curiously watched from the front row. It lasted about 20 minutes. We thought it was all over when the bride and groom headed upstairs, but we were wrong. They asked us to follow them upstairs and we had a hunch that the surprises weren't over yet.

Upstairs, the bride and groom took their steps towards the bedroom, only to be met with a door bolted from the inside. As the groom's cousin soon explained to us in English (we would have been quite clueless about the ceremonies otherwise), the groom's sisters were inside and they refused to open the door and let the newlyweds in, unless they were paid money. Yet another tradition.

After a lot of laughs and quite a few negotiations, the groom gave them around 2000 rupees, by sliding the notes under the door. Only then did they open the door. Quite an interesting tradition.

Soon, they came back out and sat down on a straw mat on the floor in the upstairs hall, and proceeded to play certain games; all, thankfully, explained to us by the groom's cousin. The bride and groom played with small shells and uncooked rice, joined in by other members of the family. It was a noisy and exciting affair, with people cracking jokes every now and then. If only we could understand them...

And with that, the ceremonies were over for that day, and everyone went down for lunch.

The reception party was held at home the next day. The house was all set to receive guests. The bride's family and relatives arrived well into the night, and were received grandly with fireworks. This was some wedding!

It was an incredibly joyous atmosphere and I felt deeply humbled to have been a part of this. They accepted us outsiders as a part of their family. We were blessed to have been able to see a Bengali wedding up close and personal; as this was a cultural experience like no other. 

A little town called Debipur: Travelogue Part 1

Day 1 (29-4-17 / Saturday)
Kolkata/Debipur

Kolkata. The city evokes different images for different people. For me, it was not a pretty one. All that changed with this one trip.

I wasn't too keen on the visit; not at first. I had some false and damaging ideas about how the city might be. Plenty of movies had imprinted in me a very disturbing image of Kolkata.

As we stepped out of the air-conditioned airport into the hot, stifling night, I didn't know what to expect. I was in a big city, at night, miles from home. We didn't linger around much longer. What lay ahead was a two hour drive to our destination - a little town called Debipur just over 80 km north of Kolkata, where a family was putting us up for the two days we would be there. 

The roads were almost empty in the middle of the night; the huge trucks and lorries ruled the streets. Our little car scurried along amidst the giants in the middle of the night, and by 4 am, we arrived.

At first I thought it was a joke. We were in the middle of nowhere, amidst fields and forests, and we had left urban and suburban areas miles behind. We were in a very rural village when the driver stopped and said, "We have arrived." I prayed that this be a joke. It wasn't.

The old, creaking, wooden door opened and an elderly couple stepped out to welcome us. We greeted our hosts with a smile, although my mind hadn't recovered from the shock. This can't be where we're staying!

We stepped in though the narrow doorway into an open courtyard. If the house looked old outside, it looked practically ancient on the inside. It had cemented floors and wooden window panes. Plastic chairs and tabled were strewn all over the courtyard - the only indicator that this is where the wedding party was going to be. That's the real reason for our trip to Kolkata - my dad's colleague was getting married. And the groom's family were our hosts.

They lead us up a dark stairwell onto the second floor. There was someone sleeping in almost every room. We were given chairs to sit in the small bedroom, and our host went back down to get us some water. Only then did we drop our smiles.

We looked at each other in horror, feeling like we had made a huge mistake coming here. How are we ever going to stay here? This is a mistake, right? They don't expect us to actually...?

What was I expecting? Well... Oh, I don't know... Maybe a little luxury resort away from the crowds of the city; a nice couple of rooms with a beautiful view, air-conditioning and swimming pools. I soon realized what a spoilt brat I had become.

There's nothing wrong with this place, it soon became clear, as the sun rose. It just wasn't what we were expecting. We were a little shocked; that's all. At 5am, the sun was coming up. We went up to the terrace and was amazed by what lay around this house. It was a typical village with trees, huts, fields and ponds, and I couldn't wait to go exploring.

The beauty of the village was revealed to us only after sunrise, and I immediately resented any ill comments I made towards this place. We went down and had a look around. There were cows, goats, chickens and dogs around the house. The people were incredibly warm and welcoming, despite the language barrier. They mostly spoke Bengali and Hindi; very few people could speak or understand English. We only dabbled in Hindi, so communication was difficult. But we got by.

We met the whole family; aunts, uncles, cousins and kids, who were all here for the grand wedding. Our host took us to the smaller house right opposite this one, and only then did we know that this was where we were actually going to be staying. This house, though small, had a spacious upstairs bedroom with attached bathroom and a few large windows overlooking the street outside. From the balcony, we could see a pond and the fields beyond. It was beyond sufficient.

After a quick nap to rid ourselves of tiredness, we came down for breakfast. The food... oh, the food! The food in West Bengal deserves its own blog post [Coming soon].

This incredible little village and its people will always have a place in my heart. Its beauty was unlike anything I'd ever seen before. This rural village, untouched by the advances of the city, was peaceful and serene. And I would jump at an opportunity to go back.

This blog post is just a tip of the iceberg. There's many more to come, so stay tuned for more posts about our epic adventure in the north.

To be continued...

Turf Wars: Chapter 3

"Oh my, what happened to you?" Valerie asked Greyson as they lay basking in the morning sun. She had just noticed the large wound near his hind leg.

"It was an accident. Some dog thought he could get me. I was a little careless. It could have been avoided." Greyson replied.

"You can't fight Ginger in this condition." Valerie said, concerned. "You need to take your time, and plan carefully, before you attack."

"Oh, I'll be fine," he said dismissively. "I'm sure I can take him on. How tough can one old guy be?"

"Very tough, I think you'll see. You need to lay low, at least until that heals. Then we'll take him down. He won't know what hit him," Valerie said, wisely.

Two months later...

There were three of them - and they were the prettiest kittens Valerie had ever seen. With Greyson for a father, how could they be otherwise? She liked them all lovingly. The tiny grey kittens cried as they tumbled closer to their mother. 

Greyson was still in hiding. Valerie could sense that Odie and Ginger had their suspicions of a stranger on the turf. If they knew about the kittens, it would only be a matter of time before they sniffed him out. And then, it would be war. 

He came around once or twice a day, when he knew it was safe, to see the children. They all took after him. Children, being heirs, played a very important role in family feuds, without ever actively participating.

The children soon grew too old to stay hidden in their little box all day. They were coming out and playing most of the time, each day venturing a little farther from their hideout. The litter, comprising of one boy and two girls, were very noisy and energetic, all of them perfectly healthy. 

Odie watched from afar, then returned to Ginger's side. 

"You were right," she said. "I just confirmed it. There are three of them. All grey."

"Hmm... how long did your sister think she could hide them from us? Hide him?"

"I can't believe she would dare to do this," said Odie, more shocked than angry. "What are you going to do about this? Please tell me you have a better idea than just challenging him head on."

"Relax, Odie. I have a plan. There's only room for one of us on this turf."

To be continued...

Turf Wars: Chapter 2

"Hi, I'm Greyson," said the handsome, grey tomcat standing before Valerie.

"Hi, nice to meet you. I'm Valerie," she said, still transfixed by his looks. "You're new here, aren't you? I haven't seen you around before."

"There comes a time in every man's life when he has to set out and find his own territory. I've been traveling for two days. It looks like, finally, I've found something I like," he said with a grin.

"Oh, you will love this place! We could use a - Oh no!" Valerie exclaimed. "Ginger. He shouldn't see you. He'll - "

"Ginger? Is he your - ?"

"He owns this turf. If he sees that you are his competition, you won't walk away without a fight."

"That's exactly what I'm looking for, Valerie dear. I will challenge whoever owns this turf, and make it my own," he said confidently.

"I don't doubt that, Greyson. In fact, I'll be rooting for you. Anything to get rid of that sick... never mind. But you can't do it now. Don't jump into it. Take your time. We'll take him down together," she said.

"And when I'm king, you'll be my queen."

"I can't wait."

She took him around and showed him all over the turf. Greyson was impressed; by this goldmine of a turf he had tumbled upon, and this clever, beautiful woman he had met. He had known that taking over a turf would be extremely difficult. But it might be easier, if she was by his side.

Together, they walked out into the night.

To be continued...

Turf Wars : Chapter 1

Ginger and Greyson were ready for war. Snarling, seething, shouting profanities at each other, they waited for the perfect moment to launch their attack. Tails erect, hair standing on ends, the tension between them was insurmountable. They were oblivious to the spectators watching them; their wives and children, hiding under cars and on top of walls, fear and worry clouding their faces. The moment was right. They pounced.

Then it was chaos.

Six months ago...

It was meal time. Odie and Valerie jumped for the food the minute it hit the plate.

"Get away! It's mine!" Valerie shouted, using her paw to push Odie's head back.

"You first!" Odie snapped, countering with a swing of her paw.

Odie and Valerie growled and hissed, ready to fight for the plate of food before them. Valerie raised her paw to attack, but the fight was broken up when the human came back out. The human lady separated the cats, divided their food into two equal halves and gave it to them. Odie and Valerie grudgingly ate their shares, safe in their corners.

It didn't matter that they lived in the same house, or that they were half sisters. Odie and Valerie hated each other. Their father was a majestic, white tomcat who was the best ruler the turf had ever seen. He was kind and benevolent, yet strong and mighty. His reign lasted for generations and it was a time of peace in the turf. No one dared challenge him.

But now, he was no more. Old age caught up with the cat who had never lost a fight in his life. With him gone, the golden age also came to an end.

Odie and Valerie, having finished their lunch, lay basking in the sun, carefully grooming themselves. A tomcat announced his arrival and the ladies looked up; Odie in eagerness and Valerie in contempt.

Ginger jumped down from the wall and approached them, his tail held high in pride. As the present king of the turf, he owned everything and everyone in it. His orange fur looked almost brown due to lack of care. All over his body, he had wounds that refused to heal. A prominent scar ran across his face; a mark that will forever be a reminder of that one fight from which he was lucky to walk away from in one piece. As a ruler, Ginger couldn't hold a candle to his predecessor, who was far greater than him in terms of looks and capability.

Odie dutifully ran to him, licking his face and neck affectionately.

"Darling, I'm so glad you're home. How was your day?" Odie asked.

"Tiring. Very tiring." Ginger replied, collapsing on the floor and stretching himself all over the sun baked sand. "Being king is hard work."

Valerie grunted in disapproval and walked away.

"Does she have a reason for hating me?" Ginger asked once Valerie had left.

"It's not just you, it's us." Odie said disdainfully. "She's so stuck up. When does she ever care about anyone but herself? I mean... I miss our father too but... you wouldn't be king if he was still around." Her voice changed to a silky soft purr. "And you are so good at being king."

"Baby, you got that right." Ginger smirked.

That night, finally alone, Valerie stretched herself and started grooming. Ginger must have gone by now, but she didn't want to be anywhere near other cats. Ever since Ginger got control over the turf, Odie had been treating her like she was a second grade citizen. Odie never missed a chance to rub it in her face that he had chosen her to be his queen and not Valerie. Yeah right. Valerie scoffed. Like I ever wanted to be wife to that smug, ugly...

She was alerted by a thud just a few feet away. She sat up, cautiously surveying her surroundings. A tomcat appeared before her, and she was immediately blown away by how handsome he was. He had a long, bushy tail, thick grey-brown hair and a very masculine face. He smirked at her and said,

"Hi, I'm Greyson."

To be continued...

The Stages of Writing a Book

My debut novel, Home Safe Home, released today (26-3-17, Sunday).

 

A lot of people were confused as to what goes on before a novel hits the shelves. Hopefully, this blog post will clear that up.

Writing a book consists of many different phases. Here, I am listing all the phases I went through before bringing out my first book.

1. The Pre-writing phase - This is the very beginning; the conception of an idea. It happens over a period of time; from when the idea first hits you to it slowing taking shape inside your head. Once the idea shows potential to be a story, the next phase begins. 
2. The Plotting phase - This is the phase were I find myself desperately searching for a pen and paper to jot down an idea before I lose it. This is also the phase where one completes the story. A rough outline is made, describing the story from start to finish. Character profiles are made for all the main characters. This is the phase where we tie them all together. 
3. The First Draft phase - A first draft is nothing more than a glorified outline. It's just a big messy draft, including all the scenes and dialogue one has planned for the book. Personally, I think it's the most exhausting phase, as one has to set their sights on completing it, and not on the quality of the piece. 
4. The Drafting phase - This is probably the longest phase in writing. Basically, it is the act of stretching out the initial story like a rubber band; stretching and stretching until its breaking point. With each rewrite, it gets bigger and better. So, naturally, that takes a lot of time. After about 4 or 5 drafts, I am ready for the next phase. 
5. The Beta Reading phase - This is the phase I'm most excited for. Once I'm done with multiple drafts, I send the latest one to a few handpicked beta readers, who read and review the book. Then we do a 20 to 25 question interview, where they tell me what they liked and didn't like about the book. My beta readers are awesome, because they give extremely helpful constructive criticism. 
6. The Rewriting phase - Once the beta reviews arrive, there will most likely be scenes that stick out like a sore thumb. It is in the rewriting phase that we address all those major and minor flaws. After another couple of drafts, it's ready for the next phase. Almost there. 
7. The Critic phase - This is where I send my draft out for critic review. A critic is often a person with a respectable background in literature and language; teachers, scholars, professors and other writers, who read the manuscript and write a critical review. A critic reviews from a professional standpoint, while beta reviews are from the perspective of readers. 
8. The Final Drafting phase - Critics may or may not give suggestions for improvement, but this is the phase where we correct all the mistakes we can find, and make small changes wherever necessary.
9. The Publishing phase - I chose to publish traditionally, as opposed to self-publishing. Once the publishers accept your manuscript, there are a couple more stages of proof-reading, and the book goes in for printing. 
10. The Post-writing phase - This phase includes the official release, marketing, etc. It's all about spreading the word. 

Home Safe Home will be available on Amazon soon.

Click here to buy my book.

Writing is an extremely personal and intimate journey on the road to discovering yourself. We write to tell stories and to have our voices heard. It's what I live for. It's what keeps me going. I write to live, and I live to write.

Scaring Children into Praying

Eight year old children are generally curious; and I was no different. My dad was watching a movie on his computer one day when I, naturally, peeped in to watch. If I knew what I was about to see would haunt me for weeks to come, I would have left just as quickly as I had come in.

A man was in an interrogation room with 3 other men in suits standing around him. They have a conversation and suddenly, the man's mouth literally seals shut. The men in suits seize the helpless man. They rip open his shirt as he is kicking and squirming, unable to scream. One of the suited men pull out an electronic device with long tentacles. They released the device, (or should I say creature, as it bore an uncanny resemblance to a shrimp in its movement and behavior)  over the struggling man's bare stomach. The thing crawled forward and then, to my horror, went inside his body through his belly button, just as the man awoke from what appeared to be a dream.

8 year old me was utterly petrified, as I quietly slipped out of the room. What I saw shook me to the core, haunting me for days; for weeks.

Fast forward to five years later. I was 13 when I first saw The Matrix. The scene where the Agents implant Neo with a probe through his navel in the interrogation room brought back so many memories. I was amused by the memory of how much this scene had affected me as a child. Now, I watched, unshaken, enjoying the movie for what it was.

Fast forward again. Tenth grade. I was 15. Every year, our convent-run school arranges a two day retreat for Catholic students from classes 5 to 12. This year was no different. Personally, I hate retreats (why? The list of reasons are a blog post for another day). I only turned up because it was mandatory. This year, they just gave me another reason to dislike it even more.

We walked into the hall and saw a projector screen set up in front. It was pretty common for the priests and brothers leading the retreat to show us clips, short films and devotional music videos. I was definitely not expecting what they were going to show us that day.

As part of a "prayer", they played a compilation video of the most gruesome and gut-wrenching scenes from the movie The Passion Of The Christ. And when I say gruesome, I mean raw, unadulterated, R-rated violence and gore. They played it repeatedly (5 times, to be precise, as we recited the Mercy Rosary) in a school hall with children as young as 9 & 10 watching right in the front row.

By the age of 15, I had seen my fair share of R-rated movies, and was not one to be easily put off by violence or sights of blood. But this movie (or rather, these scenes) were unwatchable. I found myself looking away more than once. If it was this hard for me to watch, I can only imagine what the young children in the front must have been going through.

Movies are given ratings for a reason. As evidenced by my little Matrix incident, age matters a lot. It's when you're young, that such scenes affect you the most. R-ratings are given to movies to protect children from things they shouldn't be seeing at their age. These people (the priests and brothers) completely ignored that when they showed the video at a school retreat. They made 10 year olds sit through severely uncomfortable and nightmarish scenes, all in the name of prayer.

What they did was unnecessary, and I was not in a position to protest. This was not prayer. It had nothing to do with spirituality. By forcing children to watch something this harrowing, they were implementing religion in young minds through fear. Their lack of concern shocked me, perhaps, more than what I saw on screen.

This incident is something I'll never forget, because, to some small extent, I understood what it felt like to watch something horrendous you can never entirely get over. All that shock, fear and confusion... it doesn't go away easily. At such a young age, it cuts deep.

Movies are given ratings for a reason. And using such a violent movie to scare children into praying? Bad move, brothers. Bad move.

Holiday hobbies

With eleventh grade coming to a close this Wednesday, hopefully, I get a week of holidays. And after the disaster that was the finals, I've been determined to enjoy this week to the fullest.

For me, a fun vacation equals a productive vacation. There's nothing worse than the feeling of emptiness of not having achieved anything, that seems to creep up as the reopening day draws close. So here I am, trying to accomplish as much as I can in the little time I have.

I pulled out my knitting needles the day school closed. Oh, how I missed the calming monotony of the needles as it repeated each stitch! A couple of hours were all it took to make a small yet useful neck cowl.

Day 2. I looked down at my hands and saw my barren nails. For some odd and rather unfair reason, our school does not allow painted nails. I spend the day giving myself a manicure. I used deep pink as a base, over which I applied a coat of Claire's fluorescent pink glow-in-the-dark nail polish (my nails actually glow in the dark now). Onto this thick coat, I stuck on some sequins, because why not? I topped it off with a clear coat for that all important finish.

Day 3 and I was running out of things to do. That's when I noticed whole boxes of paint that had been drying on my shelf for the past few months. Brushing off the dust, I sat down to paint. An old plate served as the perfect site. I can now use this as a wall hanging. After a whole afternoon of painting, this was the result:

I'm halfway through the holidays. As excited as I am for school to reopen, I don't want to go back without having done anything. These little hobbies are what make each day a little better, and a little brighter.

5 Reasons Why Old Books Make Perfect Gifts

 

Looking for the perfect gift? Look no further than your cramped up bookshelf.

Here are 5 reasons why old books make exemplary gifts...

1. Old books smell awesome: There is no denying that the magical smell that emanates from books is how nerds get high. You know you're an ardent bibliophile when the first thing you do after getting your hands on a book is open the pages and bury your nose in it. There is a clear cut difference between the smells of new and old books; each of them are engaging in their own way. But old books own a smell that's utterly intoxicating. And the older the better. Which is why the aging books in your shelves would make a priceless gift. 
2. Save yourself some space: Your bookshelves are overflowing with hardbacks and paperbacks, and the new set of books are homeless. You stare at the shelf for an hour or so, before acknowledging the hard reality that your perfect arrangement has to be changed to accommodate the new comers. And most of the time, they end up getting squeezed into whatever little space there is between the old books, because we can't seem to part with any book that has made our bookshelf its home. We've all been there... right? Or is that just me? Books make brilliant gifts, no matter the occasion. And by choosing to gift a book from your collection, you're freeing up space for more books to come.
3. Adds meaning to the gift: An old book from your shelf has much more meaning as a gift than a new book you picked up at the store based on a one-line review on the back cover. You've read the book. You've experienced it. You know how good it is. And now, you're sharing that experience with a loved one. You are opening them up to the same experience that you've had. That adds great meaning to an otherwise normal gift. 
4. Receiver values it more: To them, it isn't just another one of a million copies. It is the book that has seen the tears and smiles of another reader. It has a history. And that makes it an invaluable possession for years to come. 
5. Letting go: It all comes down to how much you welcome change. Its about letting go of the past, and making room for the future. By gifting an old book, you are giving it new life, in the hands of someone else. It is time for it, and you, to move on. 

 

Books are not like any other gift. Books are eternal. And they only get better with age, like fine wine. Make someone happy today with a gift that will always hold a part of you, a book that tells more than the story within its pages. Books are precious, intimate and deeply personal. It's more than just a gift. It's a shared experience. It's a lifetime of memories. 

Following - A profound neo-noir

Nolans make great movies; right from Memento to Interstellar, we can always count on them to take our breath away. Among these widely acclaimed movies, however, it's easy to forget this little gem, Following. Where it all began.

[Note: This blog post may contain spoilers for Following.  Proceed at your own risk.]

Following, Christopher Nolan's first feature film, tells the story of a young man, aspiring to be a writer. He meets Cobb, a charming, well-groomed burglar who takes the protagonist under his wing. The premise seems innocent and straightforward enough, that is, until you start watching the movie. This is a story of lies and deception.

There is a sense of foreboding right from the start. The music is haunting. It looks dark and mysterious, as we try to understand what is happening on screen. There is not much of a context at the start; only scenes that we must watch carefully, absorbing every detail, because we know we will need to remember them later in the movie.

The use of a non linear narrative is exceptional. As time elapses, the story develops. But still, we are, more or less, kept in the dark. The movie teases the audience; advancing the story by revealing a plot point, then showing us an entirely different scene.

The movie requires us to focus and watch carefully. Slowly we are given certain clues and pieces of the puzzle. And we are trying to put the puzzle together in our head.

The last act turns everything we thought we knew right on its head. In those last ten minutes, the whole story comes together. All those scenes interwoven throughout the film ties together at the end. And the final result is nothing short of mind blowing.

It's brilliant, how all the pieces fit together, and everything makes sense. Though I was watching keenly and closely, the ending still caught me by surprise. One doesn't even see it coming.

That's the beauty of it. The brilliance. It's a hell of a twist that we don't even know is there.

I was still in awe as I walked away from my screen after the movie. It was brilliant - there is no other word for it. It was stunningly brilliant. It was more than a movie. It was an experience.

Following, like all Nolan movies, demands attention from its audience. It urges people to think and explore. We are never spoon-fed details. We have to discover them for ourselves. It's thought-provoking. These movies respect their audience. They leave you thinking about them, long after the credits roll. That's what makes Following an experience of a lifetime.

If you haven't seen it already, click the link below and watch it right now.

Following (1998)

Enjoy. 

A love poem - Valentine's Day Special

"I'm better off alone, it was never meant to be,"
I keep telling myself that; but it's hard to believe. 
Because every time we talk, I'm swept off my feet,
Dropped head first into that fantasy. 

Once in a blue moon, we would
Bump right into each other
Those glimpses of you, so fascinating...
Etched into my thoughts, and created a longing
For you, to see you, to be by your side
They haunted my day, and most of the night
All I could think of was you. 

That we rarely met or hardly talked, it did not matter
It were the texts that drew me in
Into a dream, into a fantasy
Where anything could become a reality. 
Changing my perception and opening my mind, 
You showed me what I failed to see. 
Teenage spend on celebrity crushes
Were nothing more than a child's folly. 

It might never work, you and I 
But how do we know if we don't try?
Let's give it a shot, and create memories
To last us all our nine lives
Just you and me...
How thrilling would that be?
And thus I ask, this one time
Will you be my Valentine?

In too deep

My eyes burned as I glanced at the page. I went over each line at a steady pace, so engulfed in the story that I was aware of neither time nor place. I read the last line of the chapter and looked up, in awe of what I had just read.

Everyone had just gone to bad. The only light in the house was the one in the living room, where I sat on the couch, hugging the paperback in my hand: Harry Potter and The Order of The Phoenix.

I can't stop. Not now. It's only 10:30. There's still plenty of time.

I read the next chapter, and then two more in quick succession before I looked up again. It was past midnight. But I couldn't stop now. Not when the last chapter ended in a cliff-hanger. I need to know more....

And so I kept reading. It did not matter that my entire body ached from uncomfortable sitting positions. It did not matter that my butt was sore from not having stood up in a while. It did not matter that it was way past my usual bed time. All I cared about was the story.

I got up after that chapter and took a walk around the house. My parched mouth thanked me for the large glass of water I gulped down. But I was far from done. Sleep is for the weak. I need to get back to the story. And so I kept on reading.

The story developed, pulling me in deeper and deeper until it became my reality. The silence of the night was broken only by the monotonous ticking of the clock; that and the voices of the characters I heard in my head as I read eagerly.

As another chapter came to a close, I realized what was happening. I had gotten in too deep. And now I couldn't get out. This is exactly what I was afraid of, right from the start. This is why I had limited myself to just one chapter a day.

Now I had broken my own rules that I had set up only for my own good. I tried not to care. About any of them. But it had become increasingly more difficult as I had broken the one rule that was set up to protect me. I care a lot. And as much as I know I will regret it, I care about all those brilliant characters I know wont make it. Dumbledore. Lupin. Snape. Fred... and most importantly,

Sirius. 

I've been dreading reading this book ever since I found out that my favorite character would die in this. But I can't stop reading. I know with each page I'm getting closer to Sirius' death. But I can't stop. I can't stop now. I thought I could just... not care and emerge unscathed. But now I see that its too late for that. I'm in too deep. And the only way out is down.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to reading.

To drink...or not to drink..?

Thursday morning started off as a pretty normal school day. So it was a surprise when we were quickly and inexplicably called down from class. My Eleventh grade classmates and I exchanged confused and bewildered looks as we filed down to the assembly ground. There we found all of Ninth grade waiting, looking just as puzzled as us.

Our Principal beckoned us closer and explained, "We're going to protest."

We were brought out of the dark soon enough. A Beverages Corporation (BevCo) outlet was just opened outside our school. We would be protesting, alongside the residents, against that.

A government-run liquor shop, smack in the middle of a residential area. Just a few meters from an all girls' high school. Right next to a children's daycare. Between two apartment buildings. Opposite a bank. With churches and temples nearby. I mean... this is outrageous!

What were they even thinking?

Now, what's so bad about a liquor shop, you might ask. Nothing, really, if not for the drunk old men standing in long lines day and night, constant traffic jams, irresponsible drinking on the streets and overall disruption caused to the peaceful lives of nearby residents. Most of these men are spending a good part of their life earnings getting wasted, only to stagger home and beat up their wives and children. Alcohol in the hands of such people destroys lives and families.

That's what's wrong with most people here. They don't know how to drink.

Or rather, they don't know how to drink responsibly. There is nothing wrong with the occasional glass of beer or shot of vodka. Things get nasty when it goes overboard. And more often than not, that's exactly what happens. There wouldn't have been much of a problem had they maintained civility in and around liquor shops. Problems arise when they start drinking right then and there, and it often leads to indecent behavior, drunk driving, and obscene exposure in public. Just buy a bottle and leave. It's that simple.

People see the act of drinking an entire bottle in one sitting as a magnificent feat to be proud of. They couldn't be more wrong. It's nothing to be proud of if you throw up after one too many drinks, knock yourself out and then wake up with a hangover. It's disgusting, and pathetic. Seriously. Stop.

But you know what is something to be proud of? Self control. Knowing where to draw the line. Never losing control of yourself. Restricting what may cause harm. Because responsible drinking is classy. And that classiness, ladies and gentlemen, is hella attractive.




Our school's strong protest against the liquor shop in our vicinity was a huge success. Although there were a few attempts to open shop and conduct business, the consistent and powerful voice of the people was heard. The shop has now closed, hopefully, for good.

Girl students' protest force closure of Bevco outlet in Kerala - Times Of India

Here's hoping there will be change in this society. It all starts with education, and instilling a sense of responsibility, for oneself and his/her actions. Here's to drinking, but never going overboard, for our good, and the good of everyone around us. Change starts with each of us.

Cheers.

Fangirl Problems

Being a fangirl in a mostly male fandom can be... challenging, to say the least. Life as a fangirl can be tough, when you're the only girl around who is really into Marvel/DC or Star Wars.

Here are just some of the problems we face. I'm sure some lonely fangirl in a distant corner of the globe can relate to this.

1. Shopping woes: Tell me if this story sounds familiar. You are shopping for clothes... Girls t-shirts - glitter, flowers and some random quote about love that makes absolutely no sense. Boys t-shirts - official comic merchandise that is every fan's dream. If you're going to look for Avengers t-shirts in the girls section, you might as well look for water in the desert. I would say I have gotten used to the strange looks the store employees give me as I try on different boys' t-shirts. But then, what choice do I have? The world we live in is anything but fair. 
2. Forever alone: The geek stuff is not something you can talk about with your clique. The girls in my clique don't care who played the best Spiderman or that Aquaman has got a sick new look. Finally finding someone to geek out with is like finding a needle in a haystack... that one, rare, precious needle you never want to lose. 
3. Watching in theaters: I am jealous of how guys can just grab their buddies and go to the cinema every time a new comic book movie hits the theaters. Not having fellow fans to go with really sucks, and crippling social anxiety prevents me from going by myself. So, in the end, I'm left stuck at home, missing out on so much. 
4. Blatant sexism: "Why do you like that? It's for boys." "You like superheroes? Are you a boy?" "That's not very lady-like." *deep breath* Why don't you do the world a favor, and shut up?
5. Certain misunderstandings: This has happened on more than one occasion. Some distant relative or cousin brings a present that is clearly some pretty cool merc, and gives it... wait for it... to my brother! NO! I'm the one who's into it! Me! Not him! He's into pro wrestling and pokemons. I'm the one who's collecting Marvel merchandise! Give it to me! What follows are two hour long negotiations with my brother, discussing what I would give him if he were to give me the stuff. I have to fight for merchandise every single time. 

 So, there you go. Just some of the many problems faced by us fangirls. Sure, life is tough. But we'll get by. Right now, we're just counting down the days left for Logan.

Just 35 days to go...

 

Pulled into a book

Every successful writer has a writing style that they have made all their own. A style so complex, advanced and evolved, that they are truly its masters and creators.

I was asked who my favorite author is; I didn't really have an answer. I am an admirer of different styles; styles that evoke entirely different moods and emotions.

On this occasion, I must admit, that it took me a long time to finally get started on the Harry Potter franchise. It is something that I've, rather embarrassingly, missed out in my childhood, and, as of now, I am yet to read the last three books.

Thursday night, I finished Goblet of Fire, and that book left me in a puddle of my own tears. I was depressed all night, as though a Dementor had been in my vicinity. It was not a pretty feeling. But it was a great book, as only the great ones manage to squeeze out a tear from the reader. And it's purely due to the way J. K. Rowling has paced the story, and her style of writing.

It is soft, sweet and emotional. Vulnerable. Moving. Engaging. Like a river, soft in itself, but able to cut through mountains; cut through the hardest hearts. With this style of writing, she had me at her mercy by the end of the book. I was lost, saddened, confused... I was an emotional wreck.

I needed comfort. I needed solace. I turned to books that I trusted to wipe my tears. Those of Lee Child.

I grabbed my copy of Never Go Back to pull myself out of my misery. And it worked. Partially. It was like crying on the shoulder of an old friend, over a lover who gave you an amazing time and then left you with a broken heart.

Reading Lee Child was like getting the big warm hug I so badly craved. There was no pain in this. No slow, soft stabs with deaths of beloved characters.

Child's writing is more or less the opposite of Rowling's. It's hard, unemotional, sharp and edgy.  It's very technical and has got a certain mechanical smoothness. Cold. Relentless. Unapologetic. The kind that translates to, "Stop crying and get over it."

That is what I love about these writers and their specific styles. They have the power to engage the reader with their writing. To grip us by the throat and pull us into the deepest fathoms of their imaginations, until we are one with the characters. One with their journey. One with the story. They are more than just words on a page. It is an experience, forever remembered and cherished.

So many different styles; all so powerful; incomparable. I will always find peace from this busy world, between the pages of a good book.

Stop Waiting

Time flies.

Here we are, at the beginning of 2017. The previous year flashed by in the blink of an eye. There is so much each of us have to do. And we are running out of time.


There is nothing as harmful and destructive as waiting. What are you waiting for? Waiting for the exams to finish. Waiting to get out of school. Waiting to get out of college. To get a job. To have a home. To start a family. Waiting for your life to finally begin?

If so then, buddy, you'll be waiting all your life. Waiting for nothing but sad, pathetic little excuses to keep you confined to the bland, boring normalcy. You'll be watching from the sidelines as your life rushes past you. Because you cannot pause time. You cannot pause your life so you can make a living. Because life goes on.

This is 10th grade. Don't go about writing books now; wait another year. They said.
This is 11th and 12th grade. Don't do anything but studies for now. Wait a couple of years. They said.

There was a part of me, screaming from the inside, suffocating under the stress. There was a part that wanted to be let out, to be heard, to be free. Every moment was precious, and I was done waiting.


Passion is like a fire, burning inside you. How long are you going to ignore it? Your dreams haunt you, making their presence known. How long are you going to keep setting them aside? All that gives life meaning, makes it beautiful, is rejected, disregarded and replaced by the chase after success as defined by society.

Life is too short to keep waiting. To live someone else's dreams. Your time is valuable. And it is limited. You have just one life, and you have to make the most of it. This is your life, and it's ending, one minute at a time.

Stop waiting. Go out there, and do all that you need to do. Take risks. And live life to the fullest.

Have a great year ahead.