Education

Dog

That Blasted Piece of Silvered Glass

Mirrors were invented to delay you. To stand there placid, and somehow convince you that you’re not looking right. It’s the reason you have to change five tops till you’ve found perfection. It then proceeds to inform you that the jeans however, are the wrong shade of blue. Too pale for that white tee, it seems to suggest. So you try the black ones and take another peek. Your mirror glares at you reproachfully. “Really now, why don’t you toss in a bowtie and walk out looking like a waiter.” You give it the finger and plunge back into the cupboard.

Something radically different, perhaps. A dress. You shimmy into an emerald green shirt-dress and marvel at the beautiful fall for the millionth time. Tentatively, you step in front of the mirror. Your heart longs for approval. “Woohoo. Nice.” Oh yeah. According to that sheet of glass you’re looking like a hell of a chick. Just wait till the hair and makeup’s done.

The mirror gives you the thumbs up the whole time you’re braiding your hair, smiles proudly as you dust on funky green eye shadow and roll on heaps of gloss. And then you and your reflection exchange satisfied pouts as you slide in a pair of bead earrings. You go girl.

And then the phone rings. Your mum walks in in a salwar kameez (not sari) and that’s when you get a faint inkling that the mirror has misled you. She hands you the phone. It’s from your BFF.

“Dude, what are you wearing? The whole basketball team’s going to stick with jeans, and I’m thinking I will too. After all, it’s their party … you also wear, no? Don’t bother with anything too nice.”

Your world collapses around you. Ripping the dress off, you dive into the cupboard, desperately searching for a top. Every few seconds you run to the mirror. It coolly dismisses a printed shirt as too flowery, a black spaghetti as too Goth, a pink V-neck as too Barbie... your mom walks in every five minutes and says you’re running late. You feel like you’re going to cry.

“Give me two minutes!” you bawl as the mirror ruthlessly rejects a lacy yellow halter. Flinging the delicate fabric at the glass, you burrow in the depths of the closet, half hoping the parents will forget about you and leave. Then suddenly, your eyes fall on the white top you couldn’t find jeans for. You yank it on, shove your legs into a pair of jeggings, give the mirror a disgusted sneer and storm out of the room.

You swear you’ll pull a bedsheet over that blasted piece of glass. But of course, you know you don’t have the heart to do that. Mirror, mirror on the wall…

Barbiephobia

The Return of the Native—dude, the next time do us all a favour and just stay in Paris

So once upon a time, there was a bitch. Not Scarlett ‘O’Hara. The original bitch. Thomas Hardy’s Eustacia Vye. This feisty city girl gets bored in the depressing English countryside, so for entertainment she flirts with the only eligible man in the village—Damon Wildeve. Now Vye’s pretty damn gorgeous, so Wildeve is all like “Dude, life rocks”. But then for some inexplicable reason, he ditches the most darkly beautiful woman ever to walk the earth for this other female Thomasin Yeobright. Thomasin and Wildeve decide to get married, but the wedding doesn’t happen and T and her aunt Mrs. Yeobright are pissed. Wildeve’s like “Oops” and Mrs Yeobright’s like “Oh go screw yourself” and Thomasin’s like “He sucks, but it would be kinda nice to marry him anyway, na?” Disapproving Aunt is like “Whatevs kiddo, you’re fucking up your own life.”

So in the meanwhile Eustacia decides she wants Wildeve back so he goes trotting off to her place to assure her he’s still crazy about her but wants to marry Thomasin. Bitch is like “Freaking make up your freaking mind, yo!” and he’s like “Jeez, babe, chill.”

In a bit Eustacia hears that there’s this total Hottie coming to town and she’s all like “Oh man, he’s so mine. Who gives a shit about Wildeve anyway?” So she does crazy-ass things to get Hottie to notice her, and starts hanging out with him. Clym Yeobright is from Paris, rich but boring. Eustacia’s all like “Ooh France here I come... let’s get the hell out of here, Clym, baby.” But Clym’s like “Hey, sweetheart, actually I’m gonna marry you but stay here and educate poor little village children cos who wants to be rich and living in Paris.” Eustacia’s like “WTF dude!” as is his mom. Mrs Yeobright doesn’t get why the kid would throw away a fancy life for the local vamp and a village school so she’s all like “Leave, leave and do not return so long as you disobey my orders.” And Clym’s like “Sure thing, mom,” and he vacates his home space.

So by now Thomasin is married to Wildeve, Eustacia is married to Yeobright and they’ve all figured life kinda sucks. Wildeve likes Eustacia, Yeobright reads so much that he goes blind, and Eustacia figures she ain’t never going to Paris. Thomasin’s just plain bored.

Eventually, everybody gets sufficiently pissed to start with the dramatic tragic climax. Mrs Yeobright says ’nuff of life, Eustacia and Wildeve plan an elopement but fall into a river, Clym jumps in right after them, a couple of people die, one becomes a sucky preacher, another one marries a guy who sells red dye and they all—finally—live happily ever after.     

Crush

The Insufferable Sibling

“Who’s that Liverpool player you were talking about? Gerard Butler?”

“No. Steven Gerrard. Gerard Butler’s an actor.”

“What’s he act in?”

“I don’t know. Nothing you’d have seen him in. Oh, wait, he does the voice for Stoic in How to Train Your Dragon”

“Oh. But where would I have seen him?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t act in the kind of movies you watch.”

“What kind of movies does he act in?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in anything, really”

“Then how do you know I haven’t?”

“Jeez, dude. I’m assuming that you haven’t been watching Gerard Butler movies on the sly of all things!”

“Why? Does he do dirty pictures? Like really x-rated ones?”

“No! Yes! What do I know and what the fuck do I care!”

“Show me a picture.”

“What!”

“Not a dirty picture. A picture of Gerard Butler. Or Steven Gerrard.”

“What the hell for?”

“If I see him in anything I’ll know who he is.”

“Why do you need to know who he is!”

“I’ll know he’s not Steven Gerrard then.”

“Shut up shut up! You’re not eve making any sense!”

“Why—”

And that’s where I give up and die.

Ditto

K.Naresh et al. (2013),The Male of the Species: An Extensive Study of Categorisation Possibilities within Human Males.

Type 1:  Stud, flirt, macho, hot. Casual and easy-going with a general air of nonchalance. A tendency to swagger rather than walk. They dislike hard work and thrive on partying, lounging around, and making flippant yet witty comments. This last is found to be particularly attractive to the opposite sex. Otherwise normal females undergo drastic changes in behaviour (breathless giggles, fluttering eyelashes, excessive use of the phrase “shut up!”) around males of this category.  It is suspected that Type 1 males are well aware of this fact, the primary piece of evidence being the frequency with which this preening and strutting is observed in the presence of girls. Identifying specimens is relatively easy—just look for the inevitable dazzling smile. Preferred reading: still a subject of research. Music: they actually relate to song titles that go ‘Papyrus containing the spell to preserve its possessor against attacks from he who is in the water’ and also Indian classical music.  Slightly disturbing.

Type 2: Wooden. Poker faced. Non-expressive. No display of emotion. In popular terms referred to as the “Strong and Silent type”.  They have, however, in some cases been seen laughing in response to a remark of a particularly humorous nature.  Occasionally we are made aware of violent likes or dislikes and are taken aback by the absence of characteristic neutrality. It is rare to see specimens of Type 2 voicing romantic feelings for a girl, though this is not to say they don’t entertain such thoughts. Generally likeable/charming owing to pleasant smile and lack of anything to hold against them. Preferred reading: poetry or non-fiction, the latter usually on subjects as random as quantum physics. Music: classic rock and rock and rock and roll, and please, nothing after 1980.        

Type 3: The specimens in this category are frequently referred to as ‘sensitive’. They are very polite and engaging in conversation; their social skills are reportedly excellent. They are characterised by their tendency to form very close attachments, and a predisposition to sentimentality. These features, displayed most starkly in the ease with which they cry, lead to labels such as ‘sensitive’, and ‘senti’. They have also, on occasion, been described as good listeners, owing to their tact and understanding. They have an affinity for romantic poetry and instrumental music. They are much loved—not necessarily in a romantic way—by the female of the species.

Type 4: Classified as brotherly. The specimens from this category can seldom be viewed by females as anything but protective and loving siblings. On rakshabandhan you’ll find this type covered from biceps to wrists in rakhis. Type 4 males have a tendency to be goofy and comical. They possess characteristics of Type 3 males to the extent that they are comforting and sensitive about emotional matters; there is also a large overlap between males of this category and males who are treated as confidantes (by females). There is a rough trend in physical attributes: smaller build than Types 1, 2, 3; particularly untidy/unruly head hair. These cannot however be treated as fail-proof identification criteria. Preferred reading: thrillers and science fiction. Music: punk rock, David Guetta and boy bands.

Type 5: Type 5 males are commonly known as the Eternal Ten Year Olds (ETYO). The characteristic which has resulted in the ETYO classification is the immaturity of these males. It is displayed in their passionate liking for toilet humour, and their unwillingness to acknowledge the existence of matters of some emotional depth. They also retain the pre-pubescent attitude towards females i.e. the Allergic to Girls Syndrome. Identification is something of an issue with ETYOs, as they only reveal these unique qualities when engaged in conversation. Their external appearance may correspond with that of a male from any of the categories mentioned above. Preferred reading: the Wimpy Kid series. Music: hip hop, rap and anything else the other guys are listening to.

Type 6: Geniuses. Academically brilliant, high IQ. Sometimes also musical prodigies. Affinity for the natural sciences and non-fiction, but one can be sure that they have read most noteworthy literature as well. While Type 6 males don’t deny the importance and indeed the existence of an emotional life as 

Type 5 males do, it is likely that they will try to explain these in terms of philosophy or physics or hormones and neurones. They are walking encyclopaedias, their reading being wide and varied. They are also likely to hold and voice very informed opinions regarding almost everything. Often, this trait leads to their being perceived as pompous and unattractive. They may possess a very sophisticated sense of humour, but may also find immense solace in immature or vulgar jokes. This last is perhaps the only respect in which they depart from the Genius image. There are no general physical trends that can be used to identify Type 6 males. Music: Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Bob Marley, Simon and Garfunkel. They’ll frown upon anything that had a computer within a ten mile radius of it when it was being recorded. Also Indian and Western classical.

Mother

Rant

I just read an article in a magazine on how more and more kids are beginning to cook these days. It’s kind of nauseating, what they’re rustling up. The mag and the kids. First of all let me tell you I hate kids. Unconditionally. I think they should be seen and not heard. Maybe not seen so much either. Hidden away would be real good.

To come back to the article. Apparently there’s a whole bunch of very young enthusiastic cooks bustling around kitchens these days thanks to Masterchef. And what are they whipping up? Cakes and cookies and éclairs and such like. Dudes, how’s that cooking. That’s just baking. And the biggest joke is that there are all these pictures of them all attired in chefs hats—or shower caps—and aprons and shit like that and posing with all kinds of cool gadgets and paraphernalia, confident gap toothed grins in place thinking they look so fucking cute. First of all, who wears that kind of stuff in the kitchen. And second, how about they try making real food—the kind you and I eat at mealtimes. I think the programme is creepy and if we don’t watch out all that hearty feel-goodness is going to have us all insulin-dependent for life.

And before you ask, I don’t cook. Yes I bake. So does Ditto. We’ve been doing it for ages and nobody put us on any magazine cover, though Ma put me on a t-shirt come to think of it. What kind of a kid was I? The over-confident and irritating kind. Is there any other?

Indu

The sun is setting over Grand Canyon and here I am, on a bench with Indu. My life at its romantic best.

She wants me to help sort out some chemistry doubts. “See Kavya, I’m a little confused. See, the ions bond ok? Then… wait one sec, I’ll remove my notes and show.” She picks a notebook out of the pile beside her and flips it open. Among a few pretty diagrams of water molecules are various doodles and scribbles in about ten different people’s handwriting. She slows down to read the little notes. She smiles with fond remembrance at the page and I know I’m losing her.

“Ok, if an atom loses an electron, does it have a positive charge or a negative charge?” I ask quickly.

“Um…ion…hey Kavya, see this, ok. There’s one guy called Yuvraj in my class, ok? He keeps on asking for my notebook, and when I give it, he writes messages and passes it back. I keep thinking he wants notes or something, but he just wants to ask me out. He writes the same thing every day. Doesn’t know to be creative. He’s so boring,” she points to a scrawly ‘Will you be my girlfriend?’ on the corner of every page.

“The net charge will be positive right? Because there’s one less negative charge. You know each electron has a charge of minus one. So…”

“And my friend Devanshi sits on this side of me, and her boyfriend Deepak sits here, this side. So in class if they want to talk, they pass my book to each other and write messages. I’m like their messenger!” She giggles and turns the page.

“And now suppose you had an atom that could achieve a stable electronic configuration by losing…”

“See this girl Antara and this boy Mustafa, their relationship is not stable at all. I keep telling that they should break up, they keep fighting and all. So unstable.”

Clever, but I keep my footing. “Indu, we were talking about your chemistry…”

“Chemistry is so boring. I only like chemistry with boys. Let’s talk about biology no? Especially the reproductive system!” and she bursts into rapturous peals. I’m clearly fighting a losing battle. “Or we can do physics—you know, like, getting physical with boys?”

And with that, she is beyond the point of no return. I leave her on the bench mooning over her notebook and mobile phone. I take back with me profound new ways to interpret science.

  

     

    

Being. Belonging

You know how they make teenage out to be this whole experience of discovering yourself, and establishing an identity, finding who you’re supposed to be? Taylor Swift is saying it. Chicken Soup is saying it.  And you roll your eyes because at one level it’s shit. Cheesy shit. But at another level, it’s not so far off the mark.

You want to start having your own opinions, not just agreeing with the nearest adult. You want to develop your own way of dressing, your own tastes in music, figure out what quirky hobby gives you kicks, get a funky haircut that actually fits, find the fiction genre that you love to bits (that was not intended to rhyme). Suddenly you have a distinct way of talking, you dish out insults that scream originality (if you’re popular enough you’ll even have people picking up your mannerisms), and you’ll figure nobody says the f-word in the exact same way that you do. You are you. The guy that falls for you likes you, your friends all hang out with you and laugh at the particular kind of joke that you make, your ridiculous nickname could never belong to anybody else, and though you pretend to hate it, you actually really love it, it’s a part of that identity you’ve worked so hard to set up.

Your you-ness is the most important, most fragile thing in the world. You bubble wrap it, duct tape it, roll it up in gauze and cotton and seal it away in a cardboard box lined with velvet and wet wipes. You can’t deal with it being disturbed. You’d hate to go through the disorienting process of having it shaken, of having a part of you questioned, of modifying a fragment of you. Every element of your persona needs to stand firm, hold fort. Or else you’re a screw up. You label the box: DON’T MESS WITH ME.

And then, as you’re stepping back and admiring your handiwork, contemplating a career in firewalling and security, you see the millions of other kids in skinny jeans lined up near you, stepping back from identical boxes and you get this warm fuzzy jacuzzi feeling. I believe it’s called security.

And there’s the big contradiction. What happened to all that spiel about you-ness? Originality? Unique identity? How can you find such solace in belonging to a group? In being surrounded by friends with the same tastes and opinions? In fact, you’re scared to stand out too much. If you’re too different, you’re weird. So you play it safe. You’re only quirky within established boundaries. Conformity is all important.

So there’s a standard blueprint for everybody. Superficially, everybody’s the same. You belong. And yet, security is elusive. If you’re all the same, why did she get that and not you? Why are you not good enough? Where do you fall short? The fault’s with that identity you’ve nurtured and protected so carefully. Damn.

There’s not much anybody can do to help untangle that mess of thoughts and ideas. You live with the paradox. Not that it isn’t fun to wallow in it sometimes, but it may also be a good idea to keep this Dr Seuss quote tucked away somewhere. “Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”   

      

      

Jobless clueless reckless

Jobless: is when you have a bunch of things to do but dude, that’s why god invented postpone.

Clueless: er…that would be your parents?

Reckless: what’s that? Man I don’t give!