Holi hai!

Living on the third floor of a building, with access to the terrace has many advantages, especially so on Holi. It was the only day where I would wake up early willingly, without any excuses or tantrums. Only because I had an evil plan in my mind.

I would be up by the chilly dawn (it used to be pretty cold during Holi before global warming hit us all) and get set to prepare my ammunition. I would start filling water balloons, forgetting in my excitement that I hadn't yet learnt how to tie them up. So I would wait, quite impatiently for my brother to wake up and help me tie up the water balloons.

Once a couple of buckets were filled with water balloons, we would go up to the terrace or sometimes the balcony to target unsuspecting passers by. Quite a stupid thing to do, in retrospect. Thankfully I had, and still have, very bad aim and would have a success rate of about one in a hundred. My brother was an easier target being at close proximity, so at the end of it, we would end up hitting each other with water balloons and make a mess of the terrace.

Well, making a big happy mess is what Holi is all about, isn't it?

Bubbles in the balcony

Kids have a fascination with bubbles, and I've seen that with my little niece, who becomes an even more bouncy version of herself when she sees bubbles. I still love bubbles and once in a while end up buying those small bubble kits from street vendors. And I blow bubbles and stare at them till I realise my fingers are all sticky and my feet are wet.

As kids, we didn't have the patience to go and buy bubble kits, so we made them at home. The timing of our bubble play would coincide with my mother's stitching projects. As soon as a thread reel would get over, it would become a bubble blower. Laundry detergent mixed with water in a little steel bowl from the kitchen - that's all we needed for an afternoon of lazy fun.

Sometimes we blew air into the bowl till multiple bubbles would overflow all over, and the bubble-y sound was a bonus. I'm sure you've done that with the last bit of some milkshake and a straw.

The bubbles from laundry detergent were not as great as those you get in a bubble kit, but it was good enough to keep us occupied as we watched them slowly drift down three floors. Shaking and wobbling, sometimes touching a wall and bursting quietly, sometimes reaching all the way to the ground, it was quite amusing to watch those bubbles shining in the afternoon light.

Fall

That last chance to make a presence felt
Before going off on a long dream
A final attempt to soar and shine
As the sharp winds clip your wings
Leaf by leaf
Like a candle that burns
Violent, grand, desperate
Just before it fades into smoke
And all that’s left are the dry, burnt out insides
And as the sky turns grey
You glow even brighter
From a blazing gold to a smouldering red
A glimmer of warmth in those fiery hues
Before the long night of winter
Envelops you in snow
Cold, quiet, complete.

The gift

Note to self:

Happy Diwali

Our roles and responsibilities were very well defined at Diwali. I would be in charge of making Rangoli and my brother and I would put up the lights and decorations. Puja was dad's department and food was mom's. I would intend to wake up early to start off the Rangoli, but it being a holiday, I would always end up oversleeping. Then I would start planning an ambitious, elaborate design, the rough sketch of which would take up half the day. The fun part began after that - painting in the design with bright, thick poster colours. By this time, it would be late afternoon and slight panic would creep in.

In the meantime, we would remember that we should put up the decorations before making the rangoli, not after. But since I wouldn't have really made much progress with my rangoli, the day would be saved and decorations put up. Our favourite ones were those colourful paper-accordians with colours that never seemed to go very well with each other.

By early evening, everyone would pitch in to compete the rangoli, just in time to get ready and start the celebrations. Somehow we managed to repeat the same sequence of events every single year. What fun it was! 

Moody blues

Moderation is the key.

A little to the left

We got a television when I was about three years old, and as I grew up, I saw it change from one channel - Doordarshan, for a few hours in the day, to countless channels playing non-stop on cable TV. Of course, I had to wait till the last day of my 12th Board exams to get cable, but till then, we had DD 1 and DD 2, and an antenna.

Now, this antenna would wobble and turn in the wind, losing signal at the most crucial moments. And then the task of adjusting the antenna would begin. It would take some brilliant co-ordination from the entire family - one person checking the TV, one in the balcony, one at the terrace and one adjusting the antenna - relaying messages and instructions. Some back and forth and a bit of precision, and the signal would be back. Sometimes as soon as we would get back to sit and watch TV, the signal would go again and off we'd go to our respective places to fix it again. What patience we had!

Fast forward a couple of decades and I can't even sit through a twenty minute show without my phone next to me; you know, just in case there is a ten second boring scene. But I feel lucky to have been born at a time that I could see things changing, to have had a childhood without the distraction of smartphones and a world of information at my fingertips when I'm old enough to handle it. We might just be a most unique generation.

My favourite time of the year

When the air starts to feel
Just a bit cold on the skin
Along with particles of a
mysterious energy bouncing all around
When there are no more puddles under your feet
Instead, fairy lights twinkle above you
When you know you’ve done
what you could have done
And it’s time to sit back and watch it unfold
A mix of optimism and closure
Of the next few dreams
and a wash of nostalgia
The colours of the sky deepen
Vivid pinks dance with flaming orange
And nights become darker
Quieter, yet livelier

As the year prepares to go to sleep
My soul becomes awake
The season of festivals is here.

The mind is a vessel

Just some random things

Charger, lip balm and my house key
These things I always bring with me.
A notebook, for inspiration can strike at any place
Some crayons (of course) and a bag of glitter (just in case)
Strangely a torch, cells and a magnet
Some safety pins for my gaping placket
A spork and straws from that time I ate out
Band-aids – I’ll need them, without a doubt
Not one pencil but there’s a sharpener
And for my clumsy fingers a nail cutter
A handkerchief I never use
A lens to read the news
Pen drive and a measuring tape
Just some tools of the trade
Paper clips are always handy
And instead of change, here’s some candy
A toothbrush for last minute plans
Some bells for my fidgety hands
Buttons from an old shirt
Tea that tastes like dirt
An unsent letter
A beautiful feather
In all this clutter, and all this madness
Is a quiet world of my own little mess.

Sleepy sleeperson

Being Goldilocks.

Puddles and paper boats

Anyone who is old enough to have experienced climate change would know that it doesn't rain like it used to. At least two or three times every monsoon, it would rain so heavily that water would fill the streets and we would have to wade through almost knee high water while coming back from school. Sometimes the water would come all the way inside the apartment buildings, getting into the scooter garages and even going up a couple of steps.

The water would be muddy with all sorts of debris floating in it. I distinctly remember getting tiny Gulmohar leaves stuck to my legs as I would make my way back from the bus stop to my house.

But the dirty water never stopped us from playing in it. The building entrance with the garages would give us shelter from the rain, while also giving us easy access to water to play in. We would tear off pages from old notebooks - the rectangular shape of those pages was perfect for making paper boats - and float the boats in water.

Paper boats are probably the first thing I learnt to make by folding paper, maybe even before I learnt how to make paper planes. I'm sure anyone who has experienced heavy monsoon rains would definitely know how to make a quick paper boat. 

Fun(ny) Run

Sometimes I go to the park for a walk / run. This is how I look. :P 

Double Standards

Ok, so I know I'm going to get some negative reactions on these drawings, but I'm here to say what I want to say.The fact that men and women are treated differently for the same thing is so common that it seems almost normal. That is, until you put some logic into it and think. We are victims of double standards created by society, and we cannot put all the blame on men. We judge other women for wearing the clothes they wear, or looking "too sexy", because maybe, it makes us insecure to see another woman with more confidence than us. I feel that the labels of "slut", "whore", "easy", all these are given to women by both men and women. Instead of pulling each other down, why can't we stand by each other and really, not care about what we wear?Probably social media brings to our notice things that we didn't know or care about earlier. But that could be a good thing, because awareness is the first step for change.Let me show you a few scenarios where the rules are different for men and women:Scenario 1: At the beach. A man can jump around in the water in his underwear (not swimming trunks, but underwear, complete with the little slit in front) but if a woman dares to wear a bikini, all eyes burn into her skin. In a place like India, you have to go to the beach fully dressed or learn to ignore the lecherous stares and obscene comments.Scenario 2: On the street. This is something I have noticed in South India, here the men wear lungis (a cotton sarong-like cloth) because is keeps them cool in the tropical climate. When it gets too hot, the lungi is folded up and trust me when I say this, I have seen things no one should ever see! :PObviously, little boys aren't taught to stick their legs together when they sit, so when they grow up, they treat the lungi as a pair of trousers and spread out like nobody's business. But when a women dressed in a short skirt is on her way to work, I can guarantee there will be at least one motorcyclist who would whizz past within inches of her, or a pedestrian would "accidently" bump into her. It has happened with me when my skirt would reach all the way to my muscular calves. Maybe it's not the length of the skirt but the fact that a nicely dressed woman is on her way to make an independent life for herself, that attracts such negative reactions from people. But I am guilty too, of judging other women who dressed up "inappropriately" to work, maybe because they were way hotter than I can ever hope to be. Who decides what's appropriate and what's not, anyway?Scenario 3: Visible innerwear. Those Hip-hop baggy jeans guys with flashy underwears are met with curiosity, or a bit of disdain at the most. Can you imagine a man suddenly reduced to a sex object as soon as a bit of his underwear is visible? But a woman's bra is like Medusa's hair, it must not be seen by anyone. You know what, sometimes we wear colourful bras and show them off because they are ridiculously expensive! Deal with it.Scenario 4: At the temple. A bare chested priest walks around in a flimsy piece of cloth wrapped around his waist, but I can see his dark brown underwear through the thin white muslin. But is wearing flimsy clothes in a temple wrong? Not for men, it seems. Women have to cover themselves up as if they are going to a mosquito infested battlefield; not an inch of skin should show. Does God even care what we wear?Scenario 5: Public exposure. If I kept count of how many times I have seen things no one should ever see, I wouldn't be a normal, functioning person by now. But I've had to walk inches away from men peeing on the walls near crowded streets and pavements. Cover your nose, look away and just keep walking. But have you ever seen a woman being able to breastfeed openly in a restaurant or on a park bench or a bus stop? No, they must cover those evil breasts with layers of suffocating cloth, or else the society will get corrupted. Shove those breastfeeding women into the dark recesses of stinky bathrooms so that we can sit comfortably with our dirty jokes and political opinions.Phew! I'm sure many of you can relate to these scenarios and many or you probably hate me for being "over-dramatic", a quality associated with the "weaker sex." But whatever, I like to draw and here are my drawings. 

Mystery of the missing chappal

Pia and I were inseparable. We lived in the same building and would spend our entire time together, right from coming back from school, till dinner time. We would refuse to go back to our houses and sometimes we had to actually be shoved out of each others' homes at night. When I would go to Pia's house and stay for too long, my mom would send my brother to fetch me. And being silly kids that we were, Pia and I would devise different games so that I could stay a bit longer.

(I can't stop laughing as I write this and I laughed throughout drawing too)

Sometimes, we would hide my slippers and pretend to look for them, just so we could spend those precious few minutes having fun together. Eventually, my brother would lose his patience and find my slippers, and then I would have no more strategies to stay back. Until the next day, when I would be back at her place or she would come over to mine, for another day of fun.

Brush off

Just another doodle.

Street Ramayan

When I was growing up, there were not many programmes on the TV and there was only one channel - Doordarshan. DD2 came a few years later and we finally got cable the day I gave my last exam of 12th standard. Anyway, the one show that was really popular was Ramayan. The whole family would watch it together on Sunday mornings and us kids would re-enact it later in the day.

During Durga Puja festival, there would be stalls which sold toys at the pandals - plastic maces (gada), cardboard swords, cane bows and arrows, all covered in shiny paper. Add the Ramayan fever and you get some really spirited re-enactments of the fight scenes from the serial. Our neighbour kids, along with my brother would re-create scenes from the battle between Sugreev and Bali, complete with dialogues from the serial. I being the only girl had to play Sita, so I had pretty much nothing to do but get bored, waiting for my turn to play with the "weapons".

Embarrassing and endearing at the same time, childhood memories always make me smile.

Bad poser

And here's proof:I stitched a skirt for myself and was feeling particularly proud about it, so I decided to take some decent pictures of it. But this is what happened:I guess I look better in cartoons :P :P

Mindsweeper

My state of mind lately.

Chai chai!!

While every generation feels that kids of the next generation are perhaps more spoilt than they were, I am no exception. But I do feel that we had the most fun when we didn't depend on toys, but let our imagination play the game. I've always had an affinity for tiny, closed spaces and loved to hang out in this little niche in the wall where we used to keep our blankets, quilts and other such things. The higher the better. And when my brother and my friend, Pia, would join the fun, we would act as if we were in a train, taking turns to be the tea vendor, calling out "chai chaiiiiiii!" We all had very funny ways of saying "chai chaiiii" and thinking of how Pia used to say it still makes me smile.

As we grew up, a cupboard took up the space in the niche, but just as well, we were perhaps getting too old for those silly games.

But give me a pile of blankets and razaais in a cramped up space any day - that's where you will find me, with a book or a sketchbook perhaps. I'll still give you the best chai-chaaiii sound. :)