2012

Happy New Year to anyone who reads this.

I celebrated New Year with my family friends. They're both younger than me. Also, we had two kids with us: a four year old an a nine year old. Our parents were in a house together, trying to dance but failing every time. We were in a different house. We actually danced and sang and ate. Mostly ate. 

But, the idiots that we are, we celebrated 2012 an hour earlier. We screamed out "HAPPY NEW YEAR!" from the window of the house we were in to the window of the house our parents were in. A few minutes later, I checked my phone. I turned around and say to my friends, utterly confused, "Why does my phone show 11:05?"

One one my friends said, "Hey! My watch says 11:05 too!"

As we both stared at each other in bewilderment, everyone else burst out laughing. 

Even though we felt stupid then, but my friend remarked that we'd remember this New Year's Eve for the rest of our lives. And just like that, a memory had been created. 

Dealing With Baking Disasters

It is hard. Very hard.
I wanted to make cupcakes for everyone this Christmas. I got a recipe and got the ingredients out. And I don't know how and I don't know why, but I put in THREE TIMES THE AMOUNT OF BAKING SODA IN THE DOUGH!
And then, it was done for good. I tried making three batches. All of them overflowed from their tins.
I lost hope. I cried and cried and my father advised me to make a new dough. This time it came out well.
I realized only when I went out to give the cupcakes to all my neighbours that I was short of cupcakes. This is because the second time, I had used half the amount of ingredients.
My grandmother told me to try making cupcakes out of the old dough again since the effect of baking soda wears off after some time. It did. Too much. I made two batches of cupcakes and they were all sunken in.
The last time, I put all of the dough that was left and put it in a cake tin with more baking soda. Unfortunately for me, I had filled the cake tin too much. Now, my oven is filled it the half-cooked cake.
I have to go and clean it now if I don't want to get grounded. *sigh*

Hello

Sometimes I feel like I'm projecting my thoughts into this big huge empty void, where no one will ever read them, and they will gather dust like the pile of books in the corner of an old library. But then again, do I need to make myself heard? If I write something worth reading or say something worth listening to, it will be recognized anyway.
That just makes me think about how much people want to be appreciated. People who write blogs need followers. People who upload their pictures on Facebook need comments and likes. I wonder why its so important for people to feel liked. It just makes you feel bad when you don't get the attention you expected. You get demoralized and slip into Depression, its claws pulling you in. All that while you had been resisting, but now, at the slightest hesitation, it pulls you in. And its a tough way out.
SO, I think its better not to care at all. Let this world hate your pictures. Let this blog post be going out into the emptiness where no one will ever read it. Let there be zero comments on your status, which you spent hours thinking about and days planning. Who cares?!
I have done my job.

The Interview

I splashed the cold water on my face and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. I wanted to look as fresh as I could for the interview. 

It was my first formal interview and I was so  nervous about it that I couldn't sleep the night before. I was shaking in my boots when I reached the place of interview and my name was called. My mother whispered in my ear, "Don't worry. I know you've already got in. Just be yourself."

My father showed me a thumbs up smile. 

I give them a feeble smile and walk inside where my two interviewers wait, wait to intimidate their interviewee. With a polite "Good morning" and two cold handshakes, I sit down on the single seater couch laid out for me. In front of me, the interviewers sit on two similar couches and there is a coffee table between us. On it, I see a stack of files. 

The woman looks middle-aged, about thirty-five. She has big brown glasses and short hair. Her eyebrows are slanted inwards, making her look almost evil. Her hawk like nose and the way her teeth stick out when she smiles adds to this. She is about five-three and slender. 

The man is tall. He doesn't look Indian. Probably British. He wears a pink shirt and a white trouser. His blonde hair, which has a little grey in it, is swept aside by the neat strokes of a hairbrush to expose his forehead to the fullest. He sinks down into the couch and his long legs stretch out under the coffee table. He supports his face with his arm, his elbow being on the armrest of the couch and his thumb and index finger near his face. It makes his face look a little deformed, and I bit my lip so that I don't laugh.

The two interviewers stare at me. Moments later, the man speaks: Why are you here?

I think, didn't you invite me?

But I say, "Well, I have always wanted to study in an IB school and since yours is one of the best IB schools in India, I was hoping that I could get in."

"Why not ICSE? Why only IB?"

"Indian systems like the ICSE, CBSE and HSC systems have a lot of rot- memorizing involved and I don't think I want to spend another two years of my life doing that. I would rather learn the real stuff in IB."

The woman smiled. I wondered why. Then, "Well, how far have you been able to learn something till now?" She stressed on the 'learn'. I think now it must have been sarcastic.

"I would like to learn. Its not something that I have been able to do at my present school because, honestly, the teachers we have are not very good. I think my academic record shows…"

The man interrupted me, "Yes. It does show a lot." I see him rub his eyes. Maybe I'm making him sleep.

Ok. I know I don't have a very good academic record but there was no reason for him to be so rude.

The woman continues. "IB is very learning oriented. How much is the teacher's role in this? Do you think you'll be able to handle it?" She snickers. 

"Of course! I will choose to study the subjects that I like and I don't think that it will be a problem then."

The two of them looked at each other and smiled. They turned back to look at me almost simultaneously. It looked like a scene in one of those well-coordinated movies.

And they went on and on for what seemed like an hour but was in fact, only twelve minutes. They asked me about my hobbies, the sports I play, how I manage my time, how I organize my study, how much time I spend on Facebook and my cell phone, how I spend time with my family, etc, etc. 

I answered every question truthfully. Except for the one when they asked me if I have ever cheated in a school exam. I lied, saying that I don't know how to cheat and am scared of what will happen if the invigilator catches me. M friend Sahana was my inspiration for this. 

At the end of it, the lady says, "I am still not very convinced…why should we take you?"

The peered at me through their scrutinizing eyes and raised eyebrows for what seemed like a long intimidating minute before I could find the courage to answer.

" Well…I uh…think that I'm very..uh…confident. I know for sure that I can do much better if I am accepted into your school. I am very sure of myself and I know that I can make your school proud if you take me in. I am very ambitious and I dared to dream that I could be in this school and I'm going to do everything I can to accomplish it."

The pink-shirt giggled at this. Probably because the school motto was "Dare to dream…learn to excel." 

He stood up, which was a cue for both the woman and me to stand up too. Another cold handshake from the man and a surprisingly warm one from the woman and a "it was nice meeting you" from the man and a "good luck" from the woman later,  and I was out in the hall again. 

Finally able to breathe, I breathed out a sigh of regret. My naive days in middle school when I had never touched my books and scored average marks were showing their results. 

My parents asked me about the interview, but I didn't say a word. I was too scared that they would also think what I thought would happen: that I would not be accepted. So, I let then hope. 

I came home thinking of all the things that I could have said. Its funny, isn't it? The things that come to you after you have finished a discussion with someone?

Now, I live in the hope that something, anything will get me through. And I sit and wait for the letter.

Umbrella

I wrote this for an assignment in school. I kinda like it. My English teacher liked it too. Except for the fact that it has a negative ending. Sorry. 

Tears stream down my cheeks, but to a passerby, it probably looks like the raindrops falling from the sky and onto my face. Even though I can't bear the rain, I feel too stiff to open the umbrella in my hand and shelter myself under it. Only my legs move mechanically, walking to my mother's funeral.

The umbrella was my mothers. It is beautiful. Almost like a work of art. Even though it is plain.

It is blue. Bright blue. My mother used to say that blue makes her feel calm.It doesn't help me much now. But it was her last gift to me. She gave it to me two days ago, just twenty hours before her heart attack; and no matter what, I will never let it go.

The drizzle turns to cats and dogs, and I have no no option left. Somehow, I manage to move my hands and open it. I continue walking. The blue shadow that falls on my face does make me feel calm. In a funny way.

Suddenly, the wind blows and the umbrella is jerked out of my hand and it falls to the floor. I scream. I can't let go of it. I run out to it, but before I can reach it, the wind blows again. No matter how fast I try to be, the wind is always faster. It is as if he is teasing me; trying to add to my anguish. It is as if he had a bet with the clouds, vowing to separate me from the latest memory of my mother, just to prove its superiority.

The wind, which I have loved for the fifteen years of my life has turned evil in my eyes. 

I go further and further away from the road I am supposed to take. I am worried I will get late for the funeral. But I try to beat the wind. Not only does it blow away my mother's gift, but also puts resistance in my way, blowing my hair across my face and slowing me down.

The umbrella reaches the end of the valley and gets stuck on a rick. I sigh with relief. The rock won't let it fall. I reach for the handle and as before, the wind gets there earlier, blowing it off the edge. Without another thought, I leap forward and grasp the handle. A leap of faith. And I fall, joining my mother for eternity.

The Umbrella Man

"He was polite. He was well spoken. He was well-dressed. He was a real gentleman. The reason I knew he was a gentleman was because of his shoes."

-Roald Dahl

The Postmaster

"We cling with both arms to false hope, refusing to believe the weightiest proofs against it, embracing it with all our strength. In the end, it escapes, ripping our veins and draining our heart's blood; until, regaining conciousness, we fall into the snares of delusion all over again."

-Rabindranath Tagore