RANTS OF A POSTGRADUATE STUDENT

The alarm goes off at 6 in the morning. I peep out of my covers. It is still dark outside. I put one toe out of the quilt. It is cold too. I pull my toe back into the safe confines of the warm jaipuri razai and start on my guilt trip. For what, you ask? For the fact that I just laid to rest my plans of working out early in the morning. Again. But this is a guilt trip which won’t last long. Before you can say the work oink, I am back into that sweet sweet world of dreams. Only, the next hour of my sleep won’t really be filled with sweet dreams but with morning terrors of contemplating the day that lies ahead.

The alarm goes off again at 7. I put it on snooze and start the task of getting myself, body part by body part, out of bed. It is not easy. Every second my conscience keeps questioning the purpose of my cruel intentions of getting out of bed. It keeps raising eyebrows at my attempts to smother its oh-so-powerful voice. I keep duelling with my inner self which has suddenly decided that going to work like a regular person is so passe. And just when I think I’m winning the battle against these monsters, they bring out their most powerful weapon “what if”. what if sends out a thousand soldiers. What if I had taken history over science in 11^th grade?  What if I had taken engineering over dentistry in college? What if I had decided to not pursue a postgraduation at all?

What if is soon followed by WHY? Why am I doing this? Why did I ever agree to move to this city? Why couldn’t I just be content with my life back home? Why did I want more? And the biggest question… why couldn’t I have done a little research before joining a god-forsaken course in a god-forsaken college in a god-forsaken city? These are followed in quick succession by unhibitedness, the soul sister of stupidity. And I decide “to hell with the world, I am going back to bed”

Just moments after I make this momentous decision, reality comes out of the closet, slaps me hard in the face and pushes me to get a move on. With a rush of hormones like in a fight and flight situation I throw back the covers, and jump out of bed only to realise that the floor is brrrrrrrrr cold. But no! I am not getting back in there. The best thing to do is step into the shower. Before we proceed further let me give you a little nugget of information- the human brain is not at its best in the morning, specially when it is still asleep. It can make you do stupid things, like getting into a cold shower on cold freezing morning by making you believe it’s the healthy thing to do.

Moving on. After I almost die in the shower, of two heart attacks and innumerable electric shocks, I come out to probably the best part of my day- the five minutes where I’ll look into the mirror adjusting my hair while gaily sipping on a cup of piping hot sugary-milky tea. Did I mention I am quite the narcissist?

Before I know it, it’s 9 and I find myself in a dinghy old crumbling at the seams building, even the paint is peeling off the walls. It looks tired and sick of life. Ah. If only euthanasia had been legal! I would have been more than happy to pull the plug on this old thing, give it the respectful death it does deserve. I read about the traits of a scorpio zodiac in a book a while back and somewhere in the fine text it mentioned that these insanely awesome signs can make great murderers. It is only after moving to this place I realised that truer words have never been written. I am so adept at this planning of a murder that I have already killed them a thousand times in thousand different ways and buried them(*in some instances, alive*) while maintaining a calm and cool as a cucumber exterior. Allow me to let you in onto a little secret….or maybe in my next post? Because right now I’m busy coming up with plans to do something I should be doing but I probably won’t do….

OF ROMANCES IN THE RASOI

The orderly chaos of a typical indian rasoi and the work of art that everyday cooking is, brings to mind a very vivid image of beautiful fingers gently picking up a handful of chopped onions and putting them ever so lovingly into a kadhai on the stove, and then that fluid movement of the green bangles-adorned wrist sauteing those onions into a beautiful golden brown colour. Not that the onions did not put up a good fight; they spattered nad hissed their way down to the bottom of the pan.

The dough of aata on the slab has a story of its own to tell. While expert hands create beautiful circular motions with the rolling pin, what starts out as a thick round ball of dough and ends up as a beautiful thin perfectly round roti, is a journey in itself.

The perfectly symmetrically cut vegetables cooking over the flame and then experienced hands putting that absolutely correct amount of salt and other condiments in it, to make a way to the man’s heart, is perfection.

And whilst these scenes play out, the pressure cooker makes its presence known with its occassional whistles, like a roadside romeo teasing a beautiful tall fair as milk girl dancing in the house with glass walls. To this blatant teasing, the milk turns a blind eye and continues its fluid magic in the mixer. The curd looks on woefully at this spectacle from the corner of the kitchen slabs and reminisces those days in the pre- bacilli era when it used to be the object of affection of the dal- its days as pure white milk.

Chai has gone unnoticed for a while and it decides it’s high time the lady of the house pays attention to it. As it threatens to boil over the rim of the pot, the roti has reached climax in its salsa with the flame and any moment now, the crescendo would reach its peak and the roti would collapse from this heat between them.

Going over to the other end of the kitchen, in stark contrast to these budding romances between the cooker and the milk while curd turns sour with regret, and this very vulgar display of affection between the roti and the flame, the utensils are recuperating from a fleeting one night stand with the delicacies that were served last night at the party. The ladles were merely pimps leading hungry hands into the brothel of good food that the lady of the house churned out from her cauldron last night, and it was the cauldron which had the worst night ever as it was separated from the last of the kesar-tinged biryani. The glasses with their beautiful slim bodies are giggling in the corner, sharing their stories from last night when they were kissed and gently caressed in the fingers of the guests.

It is time to give them some privacy now…….And give these relationships time to mature….

Musings Over Chai.....

It is past midnight. The tea is brewing in the age-blackened teapot on the stove. The nights are getting a little nippy but the window is still open. The night watchman was on his round 15 minutes ago. The night is still, devoid of any breeze. The dogs barking in the distance have now settled down for the night or till another car comes zooming by. There’s the streetlight casting a warm mellow yellow glow on the dusty footpath where one can see the dhobi and his wife sleeping soundly after a hard day’s work. The warm white bedsheet with tiny cool blue flowers looks inviting but it has to wait. The tea has just turned the right shade of sepia red and now needs that slight touch of the warm cream milk to have that beautiful marie-biscuit-colour of chai. Leave it on for a minute and and then pour it out in a big blue cup and you are set for the night. You may finally be able to get your head around one of those beautiful new-book-smelling paperbacks that you bought at dariyaganj. Of course, they are not brand new, straight out from the press. They have been scribbled in, some have little notes in hearts on top of the pages, some have been bitten by rats, and some have an old rose stuck between their pages. But they all have stories. Not just the stories dreamt up by their authors who penned down their imagination on paper, but they also tell stories of people who touched it, who had these books in their possession, who maybe once fell asleep with this book on their bosom, or who once balanced a cup of hot chai on its cover( thus explaining that perfect round brown coloured mark). and then your eyes fall on that blue cup of chai resting on that beautiful red paperback……

PAPA AND THE SANSKRIT CONNECTION

The bathroom door creaks open...there’s the sound of running water....someone’s gargling loudly.....I put the pillow over my ears and try to go back to sleep.....but I know it won’t be long now....and sure enough, in a second the bedroom door is thrown open....and I hear the familiar and the now almost irritating strain of "gagane udit bhanu"....YES!!!! My papa wakes me up in sanskrit ,the almost extinct language. Being quite stubborn myself  I try my  level best to ignore my human alarm and stay under covers but by that time he’s already switched on the television and  is probably working out while listening to Rocky and Mayur elaborate on world cuisines.

Papa is a multifaceted personality.....he cooks, he sings,he is a whiz at mathematics and physics and at the same time has a great hold on history and political science. He can recite poetry with as much fervour as he lashes out at some politicians on t.v. When i was growing up, i used to dread Sunday mornings...that was the time papa would actually make me  recite 1000-1 backwards and if i faltered...well, you started again. My mind used to wander all over the place while he sat explaining maths problems to me and I,for the life of me couldn’t understand why he got so annoyed when I didn’t reply.Afternoons were another story.....the lunch table was almost a battlefield with me on one side and the enemy comprising my mom,dad and the plate of food.I don’t remember this but I have been told there were times when I would draw my imaginary AK-47s out.Evenings of course were more relaxed.While some sundays were spent thus, the ones I remember most were when papa used to arrange his cassette collection. He would look at the handwritten covers on the recorded cassettes and then sing “lucy in the sky with diamonds” or “the yellow submarine”....probably the reason why i love Beatles and Eric Clapton more than the Westlife guys. I am not exaggerating when i say all good things in my life have happened because of papa. I was never academically inclined but i did really really well in school because of the hours of efforts my parents put behind me.Sometimes papa and I would be learning our poems together early in the morning on the day of exam.I managed to get a more than repectable score on maths and physics because of papa.and I also managed to learn to drive because of him.(because he was willing to let his car be damaged a little.)

My father is an adventurous man. He can be dormant for long periods of time and then suddenly take us out one morning to rajasthan. He is a strict disciplinarian but he is also my go-to guy when I’m in trouble. He wants to write, he wants to act and he wants to travel the world..he also wants to learn how to play the guitar.....but for so many years he has been going to parent teacher meetings, taking us to and fro from tuitions and school,teaching us how to drive(while wiping truckloads of perspiration off his forehead, I might as well add) and basically being our driver, our teacher, our breakfast cook, and of course our ATM, sometimes also my hairdresser.

I have the strength and the courage to face any situation because I know if I falter, my papa will always have my back.I go around acting like I don’t give a damn only because I have such a solid man to fall back on. And i hope  that one day papa and i can take those guitar lessons together...