Death Is A Cloud

Death is a cloud.

A heavy, grey rain cloud.

One that shadows us as it passes.

It sits there, still, until its job is done.

We feel its weight as it hangs above.

We spend each day in its fragile glove.

Death is a cloud that we cannot escape.

One we do not see coming.

It blows in suddenly, disrupting our days,

Until satisfied, light, it blows right away.

But death- is not a happy cloud.

It bears no rainbows or mildew.

It bears memories, anecdotes, moments,

It bears nostalgia for those it fails to strike.

It takes from them a sweetness and warmth,

It takes from them the comfort of love.

For to sustain itself and to blow forth once more,

It must steal with pain and intended gore.

Death is cold. It’s stiff. It’s hard.

It’s that icy chill in my pounding heart.

It’s a touch of realization and loss.

And of unsaid words and of silence.

It’s a numbness, an ache, a relentless ghost,

One that never loses, seizing its unwilling host.

It leaves behind an empty shell,

It leaves behind that characteristic smell.

A gaping hole with no piece that fits,

A trove of memories no one dares visit.

A path filled with anecdotes and smiles,

Now littered with tears and unfair trials.

Death is that hollow shudder in my nerves,

It is the pain for us that nature preserves.

Death is a cloud.

A dirty, hungry cloud.

One that shadows us as it passes.

It sits there, mean, until its job is done.

We feel its blade as it hangs above.

We spend each moment in its cruel glove.

Boredom Inspires

Little is as annoying as a professor who preys on your every free moment to squeeze in some more information into your saturated mind.
We had a rather long extra lecture in class today- after a rather long regular day of lectures. Suffices to say, I hadn't the mind space for it.

So, I wrote this.

Neuro: The Extra Lecture

I sit here as she rambles on,
About neurons, brains and ganglion.
She hasn't permitted the writing of notes,
Oh how upon that neuro she dotes.
Greater than my amazement for this intricate science,
Is the knowledge she carries of it with no defiance.
Oh how she spews out words a-bundle,
How don't they form in her brain a muddle?
Yet, somehow, I'm relaxed, unfocused and lost,
I'm thinking of Rise of the Guardians, Jack Frost.
It's winter now and we really should be,
Out of this city where zero pollution we see.
I don't want to talk about my diencephalon,
I want to read about eagles and their ferocious talons.
What fun to go and knock on her head,
And whisper, "Gee, Ma'am, I'd rather be in bed."
Don't get me wrong, I think neuro is fab,
But on a cool, sleepy day, it's nothing but drab.
I'm going to wrap this up now, with much displeasure,
I wish, like my poem, this lecture soon turns to closure.

Diwali Dadar Photo Walk

A Poem. (Because titles are so mainstream.)

Eighteen men strapped on their large boots,

They'd been working and now demanded their fruits.

Barefoot they trudged in forests dense,

They stared at leaves 'till they ceased to make sense.

Why are they green and moist and pointy?

Why aren't they crooked and brown and jointly?

Onward they trudged, on moss-laden ground,

Their leader stood firm, "I gently expound,

This mound on the ground that I have found,

Is browned and crowned and bound and round."

The seventeen other barefoot men,

Looked up above and sighed, "amen".

For whenever this leader stood tall and firm,

They cowered alike until forced to squirm.

"This is no mould or mushroom bleak!

This is the child from a frog and a freak!"

This perplexed them all, they stood astounded,

At this man's brain- man, were they confounded. 

 How could a frog and a freak mate?

Surely, their privates did not equate.

And if they did, would they have produced,

A weakling, a blob, in need of a roost?

Each one of them pictured a beast confused,

One with small mucous pores that oozed.

Slimy skin which squeaked when touched,

Disfigured ears which to its green legs clutched.

What was this lump lying on the ground?

Pathetic-looking, unbreathing and sound?

"It's a new species, we will be rich!

Maybe it could cure an incurable itch!"

'This man is off his conkers', they thought,

But argue with him they simply could not.

So, with excitement ringing in their artificial voices,

The collected this "species" and buried their vices.

They returned to their tents with sores on them feet,

Where their boots stood proudly in their cozy retreat.

They put them on and sunk into the mud,

And silently hoped to cool off their hot blood.

I'm Your Affectee.

Why do books, movies, music affect us so much? Why do we let them seep into the crevices of our brains- festering until they make us numb with wonder and emotion? Are we all romantic fools, or is there more to it?

I like to believe that it's more than superficial. I think stories penetrate- they penetrate our minds, our eyes, our lives. But they affect everyone differently. We take back from an experience, entirely based on our past experiences. We're constantly drawing parallels between what we're perceiving in the moment and what we've perceived and stored away. So, when I tell someone, "This movie made me cry." and when that person says, "I know what you mean." in response, is it true? Maybe many people cried watching that movie, but I'm not sure everyone cried for the same reason.

I recently read "To Kill A Mockingbird". It's a book that I started reading on several occasions over the past few years and never made it past the first couple of chapters. Sometime in June, I decided that it was about time I got my act together and read the one book that everyone but me has read. I would read in the train, to and from college- finishing not more than ten to fifteen pages a day. Eventually, I finished reading it. And when I did, I felt numb. Numb, but content.

The book started slowly, unhurriedly describing its characters, talking about their lives in detail. Scout spoke intelligently of her observations, articulating events with thoughts quite unlike those that an eight year old would possess. But then again, she was no naive, little girl in pigtails. This book was magnetic. The story didn't seem to be going anywhere, it seemed to be shifting imperceptibly, it seemed like the book would never end. And yet, I didn't want it to. I was glad in its apparent stagnation. However, I was beginning to wonder why this book made such a big deal of itself.

Scout was such a beautiful narrator, that I wanted to listen to her talk in person. Her words came to life in my mind and I could picture Jem, Atticus Finch and her, going about their daily routines, vividly in my mind's eye. Slowly, almost out of nowhere, the story got interesting. It reached into me and held my attention. Even when I couldn't read, I found myself thinking about the book.
Seriously, what was it about this book that I had begun to love?

I had two pages left to read and I hadn't got the chance to all day. Finally, back on the train, I sat down and opened to where my bookmark had been reluctantly placed. I read slowly and purposefully. As I read the last line, I felt goosebumps creep up my legs and down my arms. And I felt a strange knot in my stomach. I closed the book at stared ahead of me. The book had just blown my mind away.

I won't talk about the story, or of its contents, or of how much I loved it. I want to talk about this book's subconscious puppeteering. The first question I asked myself was, "Why is this book a classic?" My grandfather says you know you're dealing with a classic when you find something new and beautiful every time you read it. Since I've read this book only the one time, this wouldn't be the best way for me to judge it.
This book is special because it makes you think. It makes you think about everything that Scout mentions. It makes you think about people and question human nature. It makes you question everyday, mundane happenings. But it doesn't leave you frantic and curious with no answers. Somehow, this book guides you and helps you answer your own questions- indirectly. I also realized that this book has affected me uniquely because it's a book that lingers. The genius of Harper Lee's writing didn't hit me until after I had finished reading it and I had a chance to ruminate over everything I had read in the past month. Regurgitating, I found that the brilliance of the book lies within the simple fact that the story is nothing but honesty. It isn't an exaggerated account of injustice or a dramatic narration of wrong doing. It's calm, realistic, unfettered truth. I realize that the reason these things dawned on me only after reading the book was because while I was, I had become part of the story, living in Maycomb- being a silent spectator to the Finchs' antics. It wasn't until I moved away that I could look back at it with an outsider's perspective.

This book is, perhaps, the best way to put into perspective what human nature is all about. Not metaphorically like in Animal Farm or dramatically like in Skin. For it to truly hit someone on the head, it must be told plainly- plainly as the naked eye sees. Because our minds resist any and all information that's shoved in our faces; it only accepts and remembers things that we discover ourselves.

This being said, Harper Lee's book is now one of the best books I have ever read, and I await the time when my brain has finished processing all that it has learned from it so that I can read it once more- and look deeper for more.

Atticus Finch is the wisest man I have ever laid eyes upon.
"He would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning."

The Futterwackeneer

 “Damn these blasted manholes”, she grumbled to herself as she dusted off and looked high above. She called for help, but the hole she fell through was too far up and the traffic muffled her every attempt. She slumped down in the dark until she began to hear something move toward her. It sounded like the keys of a piano. It was calming yet frightening. The notes sped up and seemed to play a familiar tune as it came closer and closer. In the light of her cell phone, she saw two large, green eyes smiling at her and a giant, laced hat floating above them. Just as her jaw dropped, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

A melodious voice sung, “Is that you, Alice?”

“Who on earth is Alice? And who in this pothole are you?”

“I’m the Mad Hatter. And I’m looking for my Alice. Ever since I’ve been renamed, I’ve had trouble finding her.”

“What are you called now?” she asked, still dazed.

“I go by the ‘Futterwackeneer’ these days. Do you think I’ll ever find her?”

“I could help you search if you’ll help me out”, she said, confidently. She searched his sullen eyes and felt a pang of pity run through her body. He nodded. “Why ‘the Futterwackeneer?”, she asked, eager to see this colourful soul smile.

“Tickle me.”

“What?”

“Tickle me.”

She reached out in the dark and ticked his ribs. As he laughed, a guitar began to play. She kept moving her fingers over his sides and stomach. She heard a flute and a violin. She heard a harmonica that played in rhythm with his laugh. She wanted to pull away, to ask questions, to scream in wonder and horror, but she couldn’t. She found herself tickling him harder, jabbing his arms and laughing with him. He turned around and she tickled his back, leading to loud thumps from drums somewhere within him. He began to dance in place, to balter, to futterwacken. He jumped about and stomped his feet- playing at the piano again. She now realized where the music came from. He threw his hat up high and scratched his long, red hair, making the most delicious shuffling sounds.

“You’re an instrument! You’re an orchestra! You’re... you’re...what are you?!” She sang to his tunes and danced around him. She turned to face him, only to find the music growing slower and slower. She opened her mouth, ready with a barrage of questions.

“Just find me my Alice”, he said, walking away, taking the music with him as a voice from above called down, “Who’s there?”.

Unhappy or Unmotivated?

I stopped blogging about every day's occurrences for a number of reasons. However, the main reason behind this was the fact that it was starting to become an obligation. When I started this blog, I started it simply because I wanted to write- to share, with anyone interested, the things that interest me, that pick at my mind or that matter to me. The 100 Happy Days challenge was something I believed I could do, and being an emotional fool, I enjoyed ranting about charming bits of my days. But I soon noticed that the entire exercise was becoming something I had to do, it was becoming a job of sorts. Teental isn't my job and I don't want to ever punch time cards for it. So, I've been happy, I've had the little joys of life and a number of pictures to go with them, but I have no intention of parading these things deliberately- especially when I haven't much to say about these moments. Sometimes, all you need to do is smile that something happened and allow your mind to tuck it away someplace safe for it to be nostalgia some day.

I was missing out on the writing I wanted to do because I dedicated my blog-time to writing about mundane things. Soon, I began putting it off, leaving the blog unupdated. 'Why?', I asked myself. 'It's simple', a voice replied, 'You're putting it off because it's something you have to do.' This voice was right. I always procrastinate when it comes to assignments, chores, academics, jobs- I always wait for the last-minute panic siren to go off before I get down to getting these things done.

So, what DOES motivate me to write?

MIA and Why- Day Thirty Six to Day Forty Five

She felt her throat close up as she sipped her evening chai. As the evening progressed, her voice deepened to a low, droning gruffness. She sat there, under the fan- for it was hot, and wondered where the germs came from. They may have been giggling from inside her, rolling along her epithelium in roars of laughter, but she would've never known; for she's not only much larger than those little buggers, but is also slightly deaf in her left ear. Shouldn't we be able to hear smaller creatures' whispers better if our ears are larger? But then again, we're no elephant. As she reclined that night upon her shapeless pillow, she wondered if her voice would return. She stared up at the ceiling wondering absently, slowly beginning to feel the onset of phlegm. She decided to put herself to the ultimate test; she closed her eyes and sang Rolling In The Deep. It sounded like a broken recorder...under water...muffled by a sea sponge. Annoyed, she fell asleep.

The next day, she couldn't hear herself. Two cups of tea and a tumbler of warm water didn't help. In fact, it just made her feel hotter and return to her spot on the floor under the fan. Phlegm began to rise up and cause some sniffles. The voice she did get out was now nasal. She didn't dare to sing.

The next morning, she woke up with her eyelids trapped shut. It felt like a cat was sitting on her face, not letting her eyelids budge. But she soon realized it was some weird goo that was holding them together. She beheld a sickly spectacle while she brushed her teeth- one with puffy, bloodshot eyes and a leaky nose. It was hideous.

She spent the next few days battling this barrage of sickness by going to college, taking train rides, talking incessantly and eating sheera. She did put some eye drops every once in a while- she isn't that careless.

This girl, she has a blog, which is coincidentally called Teental as well. She neglected this blog through her blurry-eyed-mucous-nosed days and so, decided to pile up all her bouts of happiness in this one long post.

Ta-dee-dah.

Day Thirty Six: The long lost poem.

Day Thirty Seven: The Wodehouse book and the quiet college.

Day Thirty Eight: The First OG Meeting. Of productivity and procrastination.

Day Thirty Nine: Colourful bangles and a train ride.
 

Day Forty: Pajamas, candles and a light from above.

Day Forty One: The day the cat sat still.

Day Forty Two: Garlic toast, sheera and two cups of chai.

Day Forty Three: Musical feet.

 

Day Forty Four: The official WSD volunteer.

Day Forty Five: The dirt-cheap book sale.

Day Thirty Five

My photograph for today is one of a CD which was given to me by someone incredibly special.

I put the CD into my laptop and put my earphones on. I was welcomed by a soothing voice talking about what was on the CD. The recording went on to talk about the first song on the list and about why that song was on the CD. Then, the song started to play, and I had on my face the warmest of smiles. The collection of songs is both uncommon and exceptional. The playlist includes songs which are new to me, songs I've heard of before, songs which mean something to us, songs which move me personally and songs that I could listen to always. Each song is preceded by a short recording which talks about why that song is on the disc and what it means.

This gift was inspired from the mixed tapes that Charlie and his friends exchanged in Perks Of Being A Wallflower. That itself made my insides squirm. I was ecstatic when I was given the CD, but it wasn't until later that night when I got home and listened to it that I realized just how beautiful this little present was and just how much joy it would bring. As the songs rolled by and as this incredibly special friend kept talking to me, I went through a wide range of emotions. I smiled, I danced, I swayed, I cried. But throughout, I had warm currents of happiness flowing through my body. I put off the lights, closed my eyes and listened. And I felt like I was feeling beauty, like the music was speaking to me, like it was blowing cool air onto my neck and giving me goosebumps. I was content and happy, I was a nervous wreck. I was moved to tears not only by the wondrous melodies, but also by the thought that this incredibly special person thought of and wanted to put these songs together.

Listening to this one hour's worth of music was nothing short of an emotional journey. Somehow, it walked me through our memories and the past, it showed me the joy in the present and made me look forward to the future. It made me realize how much of our lives we share and how much we mean to each other. It's hard to imagine a world without this friend, a friend who perhaps knows me better than I know myself. It's not just the jokes or conversations or food or train rides we share, it's our lives.

Everything's painted in colourful music.

Day Thirty Four

I got a new OG-diary; one that I will be using from today through August. My little diary excited me, just like any new stationery does. I drew a petrified Calvin on the first page with my favourite Bill Watterson poem surrounding him.

This diary is the start of something wonderful and exciting. I can't wait to fill it with ideas, dates, logs and other important things. I can picture myself thirty years from today, climbing up a ladder and finding this little book at the top of some dusty, old cupboard; and then opening it up to find memories of the one Malhar which was most special to me.

I am quite the romantic fool at times, am I not?

Day Thirty Three

Today, my co-organiser and I went to college for a Malhar meeting. We met at the station and shared a warm hug. It was so lovely to meet her and the fact that we were now organisers, or, as is the terminology, OGs, was finally sinking in. We sat through that meeting noting down all the important points made (and some silly ones to laugh at later). Later, we reclined in the foyer on the benches and rocky chairs with our feet up to discuss and brainstorm about our events. Not only did we brainstorm, we laughed and shared stories and spoke about Calvin and Hobbes. We thought of pranks to play and demonstrated how to look busy when we aren't.
Sitting there, talking, eating Anna's sheera and drinking Anna's chai, I realized how much I had missed college and its comfort. I loved being in college again, just loved it.

College is beautiful in the evenings.

Day Thirty Two

Today I went to the printers near Bandra station, got a whole bunch of photos printed out, came home, cut them out from the printed sheets, cut out many tiny pieces of tape and asked Ilina to help me to make a collage inside my cupboard.

The photos are from my Calcutta trip. And this is what my cupboard looks like now. It looks like memories.

Day Thirty One

Today, I took an aspiring-actress-friend out for a photoshoot. We were hoping to include a few pictures into her portfolio. We drove to Patwardhan park and went in. There, we shot for about half an hour with people jogging by, wondering what we were up to and looking thoroughly interested. It wasn't until today that I realized this girl has some tremendous potential. I think she'll be successful one day, and I hope people appreciate her when she does.

Day Thirty

The following are excerpts from an application to the Literary Arts department for Malhar that I never used. Being an emotional person, I ended up talking about my personal experiences instead of my ideas and goals. The application that I finally submitted didn't have any of these paragraphs to it, but I'd like to share them with you. I wonder if you'll understand much or any of it. Maybe you will.

" I sat there in the massive Xaviers Hall for the first time listening to Father Fraiser delivering his orientation speech to us starry-eyed FYs. He spoke of Malhar and of its brilliance. He called on the CP to say a few words about it. He spoke passionately yet calmly, exaggerating on how our experience as a Xavierite would be incomplete without Malhar.

On my third day of college, I laid eyes upon the Malhar boards. I stood there staring at the various department charts. I hadn’t realized until then that I had to ‘apply’ to get into a department. Literary Arts called out to me. Its application seemed the most intriguing. I’d have to write a series of mini-essays on topics like “Who’s your favourite literary character and why? Write a story as that character.” and “Beards. For or against?” I decided to write an application for LA simply because I really wanted to write THAT application.

A few days later, I walked into LR37 (Ah, LR 37, you wonderful LA workstation) to be greeted by Cynthia Lewis (OG Niche Quiz) who was busy finishing off a sandwich. Nandan Krishnaswamy (bear-hug-giving OC) and the others walked in soon afterward. Cynthia told me a little about each of their events. From there, they went on to conduct a supremely whacky and unexpected interview. I found myself doing extempore, solving cryptic clues, making up anagrams and talking about food.

Acceptance! I got a phone call from Nandan a few days later who said, in his characteristic deep-but-excited monotone, that I had made it into LA and I could start coming for meetings at 3:30 every day. Little did I know then that LA would soon become an integral part of my life. 

During the summer of ’13, I was in Ladakh working for Snow Leopard Conservancy. I had almost no contact with Mumbai owing to sporadic internet and a dysfunctional sim card. Around the 1^st of May, I was miraculously informed that OG applications needed to be submitted. After getting hold of a phone that worked, I made some calls and finally got through to Ishita Chaudhary, OC LA ’13. I was ecstatic to know that this brilliant woman had made OC and the prospect of working under her as OG was fantastic. She encouraged me to send in my application and agreed to conduct my interview over the phone. However, I had only one night to write my application. I decided to give it a shot. Not knowing exactly what was expected of me, I set out putting down my ideas and thoughts and frantically managed to send my application in by the midnight deadline. (God bless Leh’s cyber cafes.) I knew by then that working on Malhar from Leh wouldn’t be easy. Ishita conducted my interview the next day over the phone and said she’ll get back to me about who made the cut the following day. I wanted to be OG, I really did, especially since I’d get to work with Ishita. When she called to say I hadn’t got the position, I was disappointed. But when she enlisted those who did make it, I wasn’t anymore. Even if I was just a volunteer this year, I was going to be working under some of my best friends and all that mattered then was LAve. 

I filled in my volunteer application and dropped it into the box as soon as SY began. I started work two days later. I walked in for my first meeting in 2013 to find all the OGs sitting around and talking. After a warm welcome, I too settled down and before I knew it, I was brainstorming for Extempore. There was neither awkwardness nor the need for introductions. I was home. And it felt good.

  

I fell in love with LA within my first month of working for Malhar. Even before Malhar’12 kick started, I knew I would be coming back the following year. I feel radiant warmth, a feeling of home every time I walk through the doors of LR 37, slip out of my shoes and put on my thinking cap. LA has become my family. It is what defines me as a person and is nothing short of an obsession. "

  

Well, today, I received a phone call just before I sat down to lunch. It was Ishita, a close friend, who has both inspired and guided me through the past year. She yelled "Congratulations!!" into the phone and informed me of my selection as an Organiser for LA, Malhar'14. I was astounded and could barely get any words out of my mouth. She told me that she was proud and happy, that she knew I deserved it and that she was certain I'd do a good job. My mind was numb and yet, ecstatic. I hugged my whole family with utter joy.

Later that day, I received an email welcoming me to Malhar, to LA. The photo that I'm adding is an excerpt from that long email enlisting both the joys and trying times up ahead. I now brace myself for the days and months that lay in my wait. I'm going to be swamped with work, unreasonable deadlines and raised expectations, and I can't wait to be.