Sacred Spaces...

The minute between the thought, and the bitter-sweet utterance of something you never meant to say….
The moment the drumbeat in the heavens warns you of the first feel, of better than diamonds, on your nose…..
The instant the whisper of the wind warns you, of an intimacy that could make you blush….
The minute before your eyes squint at the light of day, when Phoebus caresses your face….
The second between your fleeting glance at the face you were searching for, and your hasty turning away….
The fleeting instant before you realize someone you need is just behind you….
The intervals of anticipation, of hope, of the knowledge of the divine…..
My sacred spaces.

The hours between searching for that insignificant something, yet so significant….
The space between the last word in a letter long ago, and it’s full stop....telling more in it’s resigned emptiness…
The days between seeing the extra grey in your father’s hair, and now, ticked of feverishly on that wall calendar….an act infinite in it’s repetition….
The years between the hurt and learning to let go, to love the self better….
The immeasurable gap between three ages torn apart by forces greater than their reckoning….yet never giving in….
The ages between the search for your big act in the circus, and the curtain call….
The instant you realize those blurred faces, begging for an encore, will never get one….
My sacred spaces.

The intervals always stay
Haunting you, hurting you, hunting you down……
For words hastily said or never said at all…
For baseless accusations….
For endless expectations…all of them disproved meticulously…
For those wild and reckless things you thought yourself capable of doing…
For those you did….and regretted…
My sacred spaces.

The intervals always stay
Laughing at yesterday’s biggest tragedy….
Forgetting last year’s devastating heartburn…pushing you to move on…
Clearing your head after an innocent indulgence…
Forgiving you for convictions that antagonize the world at large…
Smiling at a momentary spell of lunacy…
Loving you for being you….
Noticing, the small kindnesses you bestow on people, when no one else can see…
Convincing you to look to yourself for strength…almost forcing you to believe in yourself….
Holding you tight when you’re not ready and you want to run away…
My sacred spaces.

The Lucky Pen

Dedicated to Sree Devi, who injected some excitement to my boring blogolife last week.:)

Today I found myself walking aimlessly about the stationery section at HEB, searching for that elusive article, the lucky pen.


The lucky pen, if not a self explanatory term, is that unusual piece of stationery, that besides endowing its owner with a legible hand writing, also manages to procure him/her an A grade in all the exams he/she writes using it. Not to forget blogs and novels, which become instant winners and best sellers.


Well, the lucky pen doesn't have any particularly unique characteristics. There is no way you can know of its remarkable properties till post-examination or post-blog, or rather, post-comments.

My earliest revelation of the existance of this unique article came after a 5th grade GK contest where I emerged a winner. It was a red Stic pen with a green cap and a Mickey mouse picture on it in black. It was an ink pen and leaked like crazy. My bony little fingers had perpetually deep, dark blue stains until I lost the pen in 11th grade. Even when my Dad used to comment at the dinner table that all the ink in my tummy would stain my innards blue, I just got even more defensive about the pen. What did he know about its magical properties? Huh!

I cannot explain adequately in words, the distress I felt when I finally lost it. I even suspected for a week that someone had stolen it to take away my luck. Highly unlikely, given that it had ceazed to write for intervals that exceeded singe digit number of minutes. And that too, only if you held it at a particular angle, which generally involved twisting your arm. Looking back, I feel my grandmother must have lovingly removed it, fearing for my sanity and the shape of my arms.

Soon after this episode my Dad gifted me a Parker ink pen which had these cool refills that you could just snap on. And besides, the refills were expensive. I mentally bestowed it the property of luck. Well, it did not have it. I royally messed up my 12th grade boards. Well not that bad, but not lucky pen worthy performance for sure.

When I first went to college, I decided that this time I could not afford to go wrong. Through extensive trial and error, I arrived at the conclusion that the blue jeans "HOKITA"(Made in China) pencil pouch that my mother gave me, the Parker pen and an Ajanta Scale were the crucial combination. Not to forget my grandmothers Pope John Paul II blessed rosary.

The rosary unfortunately did not last me till my VISA interview which must be the reason my name came stamped all wrong. I've been on the hunt since then.

Thankfully this sacred knowledge has been revealed to one more blessed soul. My room mate, Sree Devi. I am not alone in this holy quest.

And to all those out there, who think we are heretics, the truth shall be revealed to you one fine examination.

Medical College Blues

This is an unedited version of a letter my sister sent me. (Unedited except for the identity of a crush and yes, why I want to blow BIT up). She wrote it for THiNK, hoping that I would convert it into some sort of story. I didn't have time. She was 8 months into her MBBS course. The letter follows: Dearest Chechi, I’m sorry I was so late sending this thingy. How are you? Do you still feel like blowing up the place? Sometimes life is boring, you just have to bear with it.You asked me to describe the first few months in medical college. You know I ‘m not much of a writer or an observer, still. When it comes to memories, dissection table would be the most distinct. After the first dissection, we felt so sick. We had lunch break right after dissection. Most of us used to miss lunch the first few days…coz after spending time with the cadaver it was impossible for us to swallow anything. (Note that we are not allowed to use hand gloves so that we got over the disgust and we also got the real feel.) Its funny, coz nowadays, it’s dissection that seems to stimulate my appetite. Weird how things just become a part of your life I remember how we used to wash our hands with Dettol and God knows what else before we used our hands for anything, now who’s got the time? It was weird standing in front of a naked body especially after studying for 10 years in a girls’ school. Thankfully we had two classes to get accustomed to the situation. I guess our Profs sensed our discomfort. Tsk! Tsk! A guy was the only person who fainted in our batch. That shows the power of today’s girls! (Chechi, just some of my own feminist crap). The first day we opened our dissection box, the scalpel, the blade with which we mercilessly tear open the bodies (it’s real sharp), fell on a girl’s foot. Soon we got accustomed to these minor mishaps; most organs were not a problem. But when we did external genital organ, I still remember the guys gasping when the penis was cut. When we took out the testis from the scrotum, I felt really disgusted. I never took the trouble to hold it and find the anatomical position…n guess what??? I got it for my internals. I was forced to hold it. I guess a Doctor just has to know something of EVERYTHING.Nothing however would rival the shock I got was when I realized that we had to get our own real bone set, not plaster of paris, but a real person’s bone, and everyone was telling me about how difficult it is to get it. Why all the stressing on a real bone set you may ask. Apparently, every individual’s bones are unique and there are certain contours and properties of real bones that synthetic substitutes can never perfectly reproduce. Back to my story, sometime later this real scary guy came up to me, he looked real creepy. He was trying to sell bones on campus and was milling with the outpatient crowd to avoid being noticed. He was ready to sell a bone set for 1000 Rs. You should have seen the bones! They were fresh! I mean they had a little bit of flesh on them. Damn scary, real bones, like they just popped out of this horror movie show or something. And I, carried away by that new feel of being independent, guess you lose your senses in the battle to prove yourself, bargained for 800. But my friends told me not to buy it coz it was fresh or something like that. So after all that mindless bargaining I told the guy I wasn’t going to buy it…and the guy started crying. His soulless, grey eyes were actually filled with tears. Guess everyone has feelings. Later, my friends told me he was a grave digger. I was petrified-the real world of medicine exposed in all its gory details. To save a life, we take another person’s dear ones remains…sad…and I bargain for it. I felt like crap. It suddenly forced itself on me, like an immense burden, how man has to go to the extremes, just to survive. He forgets everything. Even I forgot in the heat of being a good medical student. I sort of hated myself then. But now, I have become insensitive to such things. I carry the bones of some person in my bag whenever I go for osteo class, sleep off with them on my bed. Guess it’s a part of being a doctor.Recently we learnt about the skull. And I was listening in class as usual, answering anything I knew (which was not often), when sir brought a foetus skull. You should see it, it’s so small. The bones are not ossified. You could really see what a delicate thing it was. It was so sad, a mother’s hope, her greatest dream…still-born. And here it is - a specimen for us at the embryology lab. There are all kinds of specimens here, kept soaked in formalin, for us to study. They are all so cute, you couldn’t possibly believe anything was wrong with them, but yes they were still-born. A mother’s 9 month long wait and just one of the many specimens in every medical college. It’s pathetic really. To save lives, for medicine to go on, we have to become so ruthless, so insensitive. But without it, there would never be medicine coz you can never understand without seeing. It’s just not about mugging up. It’s another one of those paradoxes in life that you can’t explain.But it’s not that bad. We get to see every guy in our batch bare chest, not something you get in every college. I still remember how shocked we were when the tutors asked us if any of the guys were ready to strip up to the waist for us to study. I mean we were like: What was she up to? And the worst was when she asked each one of us to come up and feel for the apex beat. It was really weird. It was like they get a free massage in exchange for stripping. But now whatever, every other person is just a subject. Who cares! (Except for the fact that I screwed up my percussion during the exams) It’s fun in a way.And you won’t believe it, every week I prick my finger more than three times just to get the blood and test it. I hated the idea. Pricking my delicate fingers. Some of my friends haven’t been able to get over it yet. You see, we even shed our blood to get through these five years and become the so called doctors. And as if that wasn’t enough, we need another ten years to be able to practice. But the good part is- it’s fun all the way. Why? Coz we deal with people. Real people. And you just realize how unique each human being is. Not just character-wise but also anatomically - the arteries, the nerves, the veins, the organs, everything is so different. No two specimens are identical. And you have to be so careful. It’s amazing. You actually start thinking: Can Science explain everything? There is something supernatural about life that defies comprehension.Whenever we go to the college there is a shortcut through the leprosy center. Most of the residents have recovered fully and yet no one has come to reclaim them. As we go by, they just look at us, passing through the center to the college, waiting, to see if someone would come for them someday, someone they can call their own. I’m so lucky to have everyone. And sometimes I think I am real lucky to belong to this generation, a generation without prejudices like the one before. Then again, I think maybe I’m fooling myself, maybe we’re just a generation with a whole new set of prejudices.The psychiatry and alcohol rehab center is another place we have to cross always on our way to college. I remember when Sameetha was walking by one day, one of its inmates called out "Hello sister! On your way back, get me a pack of cigarettes." They used to call us by all kinds of names when we walked by, hoping we would respond. It was like try your luck. If you hit, you get a girl to look back at you (mostly in fear / anger / annoyance), otherwise you have nothing to lose. For us, it was our silent zone. We used to be so quiet while crossing these areas. Now they know us by name, and we are the least bothered, after all, we are all humans. In fact, Sameetha got her first and only proposal from one of the inmates. It’s sad how life can just slap you right across the face. Whenever we walk, we get flattering comments like- you look so pretty, and I love you and what not. It must be so difficult to be stuck behind those rails. Only they know what they are going through, and boy! How desperate they must be. It’s sad and, I must confess, funny at the same time.The best part of my first year would be, when I finished just one month of MBBS and I went home for vacations, our domestic help came up to me with her lab reports, asking for my opinion on the case. I just stared at it the X-ray and the blood tests results. And I am like, what in the world is going on?! It was still Greek and Latin to me. Then I go like what the doctor said was absolutely right. (Sophisticated nod plus grave raised eyebrow) AND she surprisingly agreed, when I didn’t even ask her what the doctor said.It’s so funny how people think that less than one year of MBBS is more than enough to make me a super specialist in every subject in the medical world, even better than the super specialist he/she is visiting, who has spent more than 20 yrs dedicated to the subject.My first few anatomy classes felt like entering foreign territory –phalanges, superolateral, nasion, cerebrohematoma, shentons line. I never used to follow a word. It took me 2 whole months just to get used to the lingo. These days, I see how the interns come in the morning after working the entire day, just to see that there is no food left. And I keep thinking, that’s me in five yrs. No food! I can’t even imagine the situation. Oh well! From here to there there’s still five years. On the whole I am so happy where I am. I love my college, my batch, my friends, everything! It’s a profession I am sure I will love. It’s tough, requires a lotta determination and focus but I think its fun at the same time. You feel you’re doing something useful, important, relevant. And I hope that this belief stays for the next five years. Love Nandhu

Feeling the Beat

Exams seem to bring out the blogger in me. It seems the only means to dispel stress when my head is buzzing with an overdose of Quantum Mechanics. Somehow, today I find myself trying to remember when exactly was the first time I heard music, in the conventional sense, of course. Sonia reminds me that waves, rain drops, the flapping of bird wings etc etc too can be called music. But the Zog is at present solely interested in the organized cacophony that we homo sapiens insist on labelling with that term. The more I think of it, the more I am certain that my first musical experience was the song "Aayirum Kannumayi," sung to us by our mother as a single stop solution for everything starting from scratches, cuts, bruises, black eyes, ant bites, wasp bites, hard words, hard stares, hard whacks on our behinds. That was the one song she could sing without being off-key, even once. Besides, my Dad played it endlessly on our Fischer Price stereo. I must admit, other than the above, my first auditory stimulations were restricted to exclusively the ONV Kurupu lyricized or the ABBA, Michael Jackson vocalized variety. Of course, there was the occasional "Daisyeeeeeee! Daisyeeee!" Since I couldn't understand any of the rest, I was very taken up by this song. To this day, daisies are my favourite flower. Later, I learnt from a string of conservative aunts, sisters and grannys that the song was in some ununderstandable way profane. Even later, I learnt it was not the song, but the film the song was an integral part of, that was the issue. Hmmm. As I continued in this hopeless ingnorance, where even my dreams played out to the tune of "Dancing Queen","Dangerous" or "Arikil nee", my parents suddenly turned my world upside down, enrolling me at an American School. Here I was, two decades behind people my age. Disney music was the in thing, at the time. I found myself mouthing "When You wish upon a star", "Cruella D' Ville" and "Under the Sea" with a zillion other toddlers, one school spring concert after another, carefully making sure that not a sound escaped me. I didn't exactly have a melodious voice. I was terribly relieved when the whole Britney Spears, Backstreet Boys phase happened. No more concerts. You just had to listen. This was about the time my father gave away our Fischer Price music box to a newly arrived cousin of his. I felt an unexplainable animosity towards the poor soul from the minute he handled that sacred instrument. However, audio tapes had gone out of fashion and my Dad, forever the electronics geek, believed it was high time we had a CD player. Our sleek, black Kenwood, four speaker entertainment centre was exciting. But that ended listening to music for my poor mother, who was intimidated by all the complicated (she said) gadgetry. My Dad hated the boy band, "Hit me Baby" variety of music and he stopped too. Thus was initiated the Asianet News and Asianet serials era of my parents lives. I have a feeling though that the Tatu and Alanis Morisette CD covers made Daddy rethink his feelings for Boyzone.:) I have no qualms in admitting that college was by far the best era of my musical journey. It was no longer boring to like retro music and let your hair down to the tune of the Beatles. Pink Floyd was synonymous to cool and ABBA and the Carpenters were free flowing, integral parts of the lingo. Once again, it was safe to be me. Not for long. It seems the "me"ness in me also included a love for classical music. And classical music was a surefire means to get you trampled as social dirt. I listened to Tchaikovsky clandestinely when my room mate was away or when she was fast asleep. I re-edited my playlists when she was back. Phew! It was almost like being in the closet. I wish I was like the dude in the "Clockwork Orange." He liked Beethoven and it actually made him cool. But me, no way! Maybe I had to wear the weird white outfit and mask too. Right now, my playlist is a liberal mix of every genre known from here to Tahiti. I never discriminate. The ud is as beloved as the veena or the violin. The beat of the samba as appealing as the slow playing of the saxophone. My memories of music seem to be associated more with my growth and mood swings than anything else. Whether it was lying on the hostel lawn, looking at the moon, drinking coffee and listening to Pink Floyd, air banding with a passion on "I want to hold your hand" or playing "I'm a bitch" and "Girls just wanna have fun" when I am up to some mischief or the other or feel very aware of my feminity. Also it is strange how every person who comes or leaves my life has a song attached. Tanima-Cindy Lauper-"Girls just wanna have fun", Hathi-Pink Floyd-"Of your possible pasts", Jianni-Black eyed peas-"My humps", still remember the way she sang it on hostel night, Udita-Beatles-"I wanna hold your hand",my sister-Pearl Jam-"Ain't no mountain high", Ma-"Aayirum kannumayi", Daddy-Boney M-"Daddy Cool"(You should totally hear my Dad sing that song).....the list goes on. Funny thing is, in my dreams too, these songs are like theme songs, denoting their entrance and exit. Funny, the associations that our minds make. And yes, I do admit, like Sonia says, that sometimes, the only music you feel like hearing is the waves when you hold a conch shell to your ear, Whooo!, the wind rustle through leaves, Whishoo!, rain beating against a tin roof, Tdindintin!, the crackling of a warm fire, Kcklkl!, or the chirping of birds, Chipchr!, when you actually manage to wake up in the morning. Other music also counts. My favourite as I have mentioned before, is the sound of my dads key turning in the lock of our gate when he gets back from work, Kchick!, the sound of your mom taking a shower, all the time imagining how lovely she looks and smells when she steps out, RShhhhshr!, the sound of your sisters text book clamping shut after home work, Thdddt!, time to play, time to play! So many sounds, all so divine, Pity that none of it, is solely mine!

OUR GUY

It is difficult to be the only guy in a house full of women. Add to this inherent “maleness” an above average intelligence, and life can become almost intolerable. This article is to commemorate my Father’s surviving in such a defunct household for nearly a quarter century. Let me introduce you to the aforementioned women. My Mother-Saint in disguise, very spiritual, great cook, thriving socialite, hates to have anything to do with accounts. The Nandhu- Exemplary student, perpetually cheerful disposition, wildly fluctuating maturity levels. Me, the Zog- angry young woman, rebel without a cause, emotionally unstable, anti-social. The three of us together are a heady combination. When we were really, really small, I guess my Dad thought child rearing was a piece of cake. A steady, long stare from him was good enough to keep us at our best behaviour for hours together. However, the moment we developed a mind of our own, or rather, a mindlessness of our own, life became hell for Papa. It began late one September, when I developed the “Barbie doll” mania. It is a phase most girls go through. Suddenly, everything is pink, from their tiffin box to their shoes, and all over the place are pictures, accessories and plastic figurines of “Barbie.” This was not easy on my Dad’s pocket, or his health. The moment a doll or her accessory was denied me, right there, in the middle of the toy shop, I would pout, my face would swell and then, my tiny, frail form would vibrate with the most heart-rending sobs. My Dad just had to give in. In a matter of three years I accumulated every variety of “Barbie” on the market from here to Timbuktu. My Dad watched fearfully should my sister develop a similar fever. This time it was worse. For the Nandhu had developed a fetish for electronic goods, not dolls. Every time we crossed a showroom, she would throw a tantrum. Fridges, vacuum cleaners, irons, TVs, VCRs, she wanted everything. My Dad would try reasoning with her that we already had these things. She would shake her head. NO, she wanted this one. Of course, she was forced to see reason with a pinch under her arm or a whack on her bottom. But I must say, we have accumulated a lot of weird appliances, thanks to her. Some of them would include a pocket vacuum cleaner, an on-the-go waffle maker and a jumbo size deep-fryer. The Zog’s pre-adolescence was marked by a long series of slumber parties and an even longer series of sob sessions following them. Either it was “ABC said this...”or “XYZ said that...” However, not going and avoiding all the misery was never an option. Daddy would puzzle over it as his baby girl strutted off for the next party. Off course, infinitely worse were the days when it was the Zog’s turn to “host” the party. Besides an endless stream of girls of all shapes and sizes pouring into the house, the mess they leave in their trail, and the trouble of keeping them fed (very difficult), there was the question of listening not just to your daughter crying but at least 10 others (some of them with complaints about your little angel.) Meanwhile your wife runs around the house trying to get the younger child to wear at least one article of clothing besides her Stars and Stripes plastic knickers. Daddy begins to grey. Final year of prep school ushers in an era of relative peace except for the Nandhu’s occasionally taking the computer apart and being unable to reassemble it. It is, however, not long lived. One fine day, the Zog comes running home from school screaming “Blood cancer! Blood cancer!” Daddy is worried and his brow, furrowed. What was the matter? Was she alright? Is she really ill? He watches nervously as the girl’s Mother escorts her to her room. He listens to the occasional noises that emanate from behind closed doors. Screams, wails, sobs, whines, silence. An hour later Ma tells him that the Zog is growing up. Thus begins an era of female code language. Growing up? Of course he knew she was growing up! Women! The Mother proceeds to call her parents and sisters in India. Now the sun rises. Aaaah! The Zog is growing up. My Dad feels distinctly out of place. While my Mom is busy on the phone ruining my life, my Dad is given more to worry about- International phone bills. More grey hair. Soon the Nandhu is all grown up too. My Dad feels even more excluded from the family circle. There are days when all three women are afflicted by mysterious stomach aches and are cranky all day long. When my Dad volunteers that these things happen, and that we must try to ignore them, three angry women glare at him. The intensity of their stares could roast him alive. He sheepishly withdraws inside his newspaper. What my Father dislikes the most must still be grocery lists that run like, Bread…1 packet, apple…1 kg, Whisper….2 large cartons (with wings). Somewhere in high school, most girls develop the “save the world” syndrome. Their male counterparts however, settle for something far more realistic like forming a world famous rock band or joining the Indian cricket team. This period is marked by a string of youth groups, political parties and ideologies, that poor Dad too is forced to adhere to. Initially the idea was to save the environment. Besides being bombarded day in and day out with policies to maintain ecological balance and reasons to boycott U.S. goods, Daddy was bullied into total vegetarianism and no-deodorant-use (They release harmful CFCs into the environment- Green house effect dummy!) for nearly six months. The girls soon figure that saving the environment is futile if all humans did not get equal access to it. Thus followed a short communist phase. Thankfully, this had no practical implications. For the period of a year, it was fashionable to quote Karl Marx, have a crush on Che Guerra and claim that “The Motorcycle Diaries” is your favourite movie. The relief was short lived however. The next phase was the worst by far-THE FEMINIST FANATIC Phase. For Daddy it must have been nauseating. For a period of four years he symbolized all that was evil and disgusting in the world, for no fault of his own. (He was, and still is, quite liberal considering his background.) Things did not look pretty. Papa’s grey hair was running into three digits. As a final feminist statement, the Zog decides to study in Ranchi, a place most people back home still considered to be a part of Bihar, and therefore unsafe for girls. Three months later, as she trudged to E.D. class, neatly oiled twin plaits and mismatched salwar suit, she knew her statement was going to cost her. Meanwhile, back home, the Nandhu prepared for her 10th boards. Between the constant phone calls from Ranchi complaining about everything from the mess food to the Prof’s wardrobes (ISD phone bills! ISD phone bills!) and the Nandhu’s nervous attacks at home, the remainder of Daddy’s black hair turned grey. My Mother’s beating on her chest and praying did not help the situation. Three years down the line, the frequency of phone calls from Ranchi did reduce. However, this is overly compensated by phone calls from Mangalore. The Nandhu had joined medical college. She calls every half minute to tell her beloved “Acha” things other girls would have figured eons ago. “Dada, people drink in college!” “Dada, my friends have boy friends and they are only 19.” “Dada, people go clubbing in college. I am so scared! Why are people so bad?” Dad’s going from grey to white. What next? Could things get any worse? Well no prizes for guessing, it did. Oh no! The elders back home in Kerala want the Zog to get married. My Dad raises his eyes to heaven and asks, “Why me?” Dad tries to broach the subject with the Zog. To his horror, the Zog has finally developed the faculty of logic. Dear God! What did B.I.T. do to her?! She could actually reason things out (to her own advantage of course). Nothing her Daddy says can convince her. In fact, she has different plans altogether. “See Daddy! I will do my M.S., then my Ph.D. and in the meantime, I will free lance part time for the “TIMES” and “New Scientist”. When I have a tidy sum saved up I will invest in a studio cum library cum……..and then win the Nobel Prize when I am 25. Daddy, marriage is sure to interfere with all my plans.” “Yes, yes. I understand,” he says wearily. In his mind, he thinks, “Do I? What on earth is she talking about? And yet a minute ago she tore my argument into shreds, so she must have some sense. Besides, she is my daughter. That is not the point, the point is…..” Meanwhile my Mom sits at the hall table, her eyes fixed on Daddy, full to the brim with tears “I hate doing accounts!”

Supercalafragelisticexpialidocious!

So it happened like this!
She was eloping to Nairobi with her Alien boy friend from Sector X of galaxy Nova Beta and I just happened to meet her on the Calcutta Express.
Naaa! Not as dramatic as you would imagine.
Difficult to believe, but the following is the true story with all the murky details.

She was my geeky, Kajol look-alike, brackety-teeth, perverted-joke-master senior. I was the shy, introverted junior. ;)
Damn! This is beginning to sound like one of those love stories that I know I just don't want to finish reading. For the record, this is not a love story.
Yet anything I try, to explain the single most profound and at the same time perplexing?! moment of my adult life, looks cliche.
There she was in the midst of this chaotic whirl of sheets, books, files, paper, chords, more chords, was there more than one laptop? I am tempted to say laptops. The most insanely disorganized room I have ever seen. And on top of all this, and I swear, still very much in control, was this chubby figure in a grey t-shirt and navy blue shorts.
I was doing what a typical junior does:-bootlicking my recent United States-returned elder counterpart (by two days). I was going through the routine, vaguely intrigued, appalled, disgusted and at the very same time secretly admiring the fact, that after two months in the US of A, somehow the one thing she brought back with her was a very distinct memory of the cream cheese bagels and the brownies. After our session, I was terribly hungry, terribly fascinated and terribly waiting for another chance to bootlick.:)
Well it happened that my peculiar brand of bootlicking was a winner as far as this grey t-shirt wearing, on-top-of-total-chaos-perching senior was concerned.

I was soon to be become an integral part of the whirlwind that was Tanima Dubey's room.
The following months (years?) went by in a rush and the only mind numbing sensation that remains is that I want them back.

When I happened to feel low, a worn and battered copy of Linda Goodman was thrust into my hand, dog eared, highlighted, penciled and asterisked at the Aries section.

Do you guys know how fabulous we Arians are? You have no idea. We are by far the best sign in the Zodiac (no offense intended). All of us are so cool, so much fun to be with, I mean we're perfect!............

Yikes! Before all of you start throwing brickbats at me, I didn't mean any of that. Its just Linda Goodman makes us look so awesome. All you Arians out there, here's some sincere advice - beg, borrow, steal, tear the Aries section of Linda Goodman and keep it with you. It is a tue friend for life.

Besides the above infallable advice, Tanima introduced me to the mysterious rites of dietary hedonism. Her philosophy:The moment that you feel so completely full, you feel you can't breathe, at that point gulp another last spoonful of food. That extra serving indicates utter and complete satiation, the moment when you know you cannot possibly be more satisfied, your threshold- that euphoric point which is most appropriate for yet another act of hedonism- Unecessary rest. Snore!

The one thing about the female that baffles me to this day is the absolutely careless way in which she professes to love Govinda and Miles Davis at the same time? One of the most terrifying experiences I have had in hostel (I still have recurrent nightmares) was when two Banshee like apparitions with loose hair and crazy pajamas cornered me and performed each and every Govinda number ever released in what I think was chronological order. From "Aa aa ee oo oo ooo" to "Zshoom! Akhiyon se Gholin Mari!" there is no Govinda number I can honestly claim to never have heard before.

Sitting on the canteen mushroom, eating Pakodi and chai, cracking the craziest jokes, which were in retrospect not particularly funny, but we laughed anyway, and so heartily....like I have not laughed a long time since.

On our crazy, themed birthday parties, from "Amazonion tribes" and "Back to the nursery" to "Mochachocacaffeineshottaholic" and "Begging for Gifts", Tanima was our little vitamin pill, the Princess Xena, the one toddler who had too much chocolate cake and pepsi goes berserk, the caffeine in the coffee, the zing in the gifts that made them worth begging for, she was the unnacountable, mysterious X factor. The life of the party. The punch line of the joke. The unidentifiable twang in the Punch.

All the time I've known her, she always knew how to hold her head, no matter what on earth was happening around her. Solid as a rock. And yet so soft and vulnerable.

The female who can rewrite a six month project overnight if her hard disk crashed and yet get teary towards the end of "Pretty Woman."

The female who can go to her lab in her pajamas and yet loves to dress up in brocade saris and chunky ethnic jewellery, and to top it off, strut around the hostel corridoors in her favourite pied piper stilettos the day before the exam.

The female who can be demure, witty and sauve as the situation demands and yet crack the worst pjs possible when shes alone with her beloved hoggers.:)

We've been the best gal pals (cliche again) since that fateful day, and from crazy face packs to crazy crushes, we've been through it all together. Thats the thing isnt it? Being together. Two continents couldn't tear us apart. So then nothing really could.

There is the research, demanding bosses, the usual suspects-marriage,husbands,children-but somehow I know we will survive it all together, no matter how far apart we may be, physically.

She's there to watch out for me and I'm there for her, like those crazy sisterhood pacts during World War II. Prick your fingers and mix the blood and all that crap. We never needed any of those cocky rituals. We just were.

Both of us turn 23 this year. She called me up and remarked that she felt terribly old.

I feel that way too this year. As if a part of my life I once knew is morphing into a faint memory. When did I grow up?!Its like the in between part didn't happen. Im the giant bean stalk from Jack's magic beans.

I understand her feeling old.

The two of us are doing research. We don't party. We actually like to work as much as we can. (I can see a million index fingers pointing this way:NERD!) We like to knit and cook and keep things clean and see things are planned out in advance, way in advance. How much more boring can life get right?

But like Hathi once said, Tanima is that girl at the college alumni party, that everyone asks for- the hippy, whacky, amusing bundle of energy who always intrigued everyone back then, still fresh in their memory, morphed into the graceful 30 some-thing that every guy and girl in the party begs to be introduced to.

Aging gracefully is a gift.

And Tanima has it aplenty, what I like to refer to as her mojo.

Switching from the quintessential Kajol look-a-like "life of the party" lass to the "Sauve, sophisticated" Vicky beckham+5 pounds scientist took hardly a month. Mind over matter.

For thats what she is, a woman, phenomenally.

And so, here's to my most supercalafragelisticexpialidocious friend ever!

Hip hip Hurray!

Hip hip Hurray!

Hip hip Hurray!

Day 5....

Sorry folks... I didnt pay my interent bill and my connection got cut off for a day. (Blushing) Well lets get on with it then. 1. Name the world's oldest novel and its author. 2. Name Norway's claim to fame in the world of International cuisine. 3. Name the only surviving sanskrit theatre tradition. 4. Name a popolar war dance, the national dance of the largest country in the Arabian peninsula, performed annually at the Jenadriyah festival. 5. Name the first African Nobel leaureate in Literature. Where is he from? 6. Name the most world reknowned school of Australian indigenous art. Their work is often referred to as dot painting. 7. Avocado based relish or dip of Aztec origin. Name it. 8. The undeciphered glyphs of a volcanic island may be one of four independant inventions of writing in human history. The island is also famous for its Moai. 9. The northern most year round communities on earth are housed in this region of Greenland. Name it. 10. Name the national dance of Venezuela.