Introducing Me

I realised recently that even though this blog belongs to me it doesn’t talk a lot about me.  I won’t lie saying that it’s an accidental occurrence, the truth being that when I started off with the blog I consciously chose not to write about myself. There’s something about revealing one’s personal side to strangers that is intriguing and at the same time intimidating. When you have elders at home constantly harping about psychopaths and stalkers you learn to be wary no matter how tempting pouring your heart and soul out to people who don't know enough about you to judge you seems. Another fact is that majority of my readers are my buddies and family:  people who either live with me , have lived with me or those I see every single day of the week. It never really came to mind to give a background about myself and my surroundings.

This, I have recently realised, tends to be a major impediment to my writing. Most of the time I have to go off tangent and give lengthy descriptions so that the new readers I’ve acquired who aren’t family and friends {I’m gloating as I write this :D } aren’t lost. 

So to both old and new, family and strangers welcome to my world of pixelated  thoughts.

 I’m Falak, a 19 year old girl studying in Mumbai, India. I’m a student of political science, English and French literature. I can speak decent enough French but I’m sure that in Paris I’ll be an outcast if I open my blessed mouth. I have no political opinions. None at all. Although I think living in a democracy invariably gives me the right to criticize the working of my country and I never miss a chance to do so whether in speech or writing because that’s the only possible way I can rectify things; by letting people know about it. I love English, the language of course, which I intend to major in. It happened almost a decade ago when my mother inculcated the love for reading books in me. It’s like being in love with your best friend: you’ve liked him and been with him for so long, loving him is a habit you’re unaware of unless someone draws your attention to it. Which is exactly what my friends Bev, Jo, Mads and Yo did. That’s how this blog came about, for more info read Writer's blog . 

I was born and brought up and completed my schooling up till the 10^th in UAE and moved to India for my higher studies. Since the last four years I’ve been living away from my parents, here, in Mumbai but still entertain my frenemy homesickness. You can often see me whine about the people and things I miss. I currently live with my gran and younger brother who will feature more often on this blog from now on than they have in the past. I have a strapping, huge, extended maternal family who I lived with until last year and many a times this blog serves as the perfect platform for me to moan about the idiosyncrasies and peculiarities of my myriad of grand aunts, grand uncles, aunts, uncles and cousins who are all of the opinion that they possess the divine right to correct, criticize, judge and love me. I love reading but never limit myself to a particular author or genre. The same goes for movies and music. 
My bookshelf holds The Harry Potter series, Wuthering heights, Mills and Boon, P.G Woodehouse, Cecilia Ahern, Jeffery Archer, Arundhati Roy, Harlan Coben, Marry Higgins Clarke, Nora Roberts and The Twilight Saga on the very same rack. If you can write I’ll read it. I love poetry. I love poetry and dabble in some myself but am still in the process of exploring its many wonders in my lit classes in college. If you haven’t closed the web page yet after the bit about poetry then I enjoy cooking. From what I've been telling my near and dear ones I am supposed to hate travelling but I secretly enjoy it because the people I meet,the insights and experiences I gain during my daily 1 hour local train travels to and from college and my flights to UAE are blog worthy. I enjoy reminiscing; it’s maybe because I’m some kind of a masochist who doesn’t mind taking a trip through memories that evoke painful symptoms of nostalgia and homesickness if it means I can find some shadow of happiness lurking there.

 I ADORE little children, specially babies, as a result of which I often mention my kiddy and not so kiddy horde of cousins. I relish spicy food, freak out on the colour green. I love laughing out loud with my friends who I write about a lot. These 8  women: 6 from college and my 2 besties from school form my support system and help me weather my mood swings, phases of depression, omnipresent fatigue which is a consequence of being responsible for myself, my ageing grandmother, my rebellious teenage brother and the running of our small household, lack of confidence, constant bouts of anxiety and worrying about nothing in general.  We also love the boy band The Jonas Brothers. I like to think I’m funny, everyone does. I’m an expert at geriatrics, having lived with senior citizens for the last four formative years of my life but am completely and hopelessly socially inept in a teenage sceneJ. My 8 angels are working on it. I talk in Hindi, Malayalam {my mother tongue} and English but think in all three simultaneously and write in English. I meet my parents every 6 months during vacations and living in two countries simultaneously creates a sort of identity crisis for me.

I guess I’ve pretty much mentioned everything that I’d tell about myself to anyone, whether an acquaintance or a stranger. A little more and you might as well not read any other post I put up.

If you’re still reading after the Jonas part you must have deciphered by now why I call this blog Much Ado About Everything. It has nothing to do with being a lit student and enjoying Shakespeare {I have yet to read one of his plays in detail} but everything to do with my obsession with word play and the fact that I worry, whine and can go on and on about trivial things. On the good days I glorify the inconsequential joys of life.

I had a grand old time introducing myself and my muddled up world.  On a concluding note all I have to say to you whether you’re someone who’s been part of my journey finding my own voice this last 1 year or whether you decide to now or whether you’re just a passer-by is:

Enchanted to meet you

Falak

Different Strokes

There is something charming about young children. Or to phrase it better, there is something charming about the practical logic that young children dole out.

My two precocious cousins, a boy and girl both aged that wobbly age of twelve where they are teetering between childhood and adolescence never cease to annoy and surprise me. They are a few months away from the jinxed 13 and I can already see them morphing into monsters. It’s scary when they suddenly snap at me; at an attempt to defy authority or their idea of their freedom being suppressed, when all I might have asked her to do is stop bossing her baby sister and go get her hair brushed. I don’t know whether I should soothe her temper or whack her on the head. Or when I just remind them about how ‘precious’ the books in my library are and that dog ears aren’t tolerated when he’d give me a rejoinder that’d have me reeling head over heels back into the kitchen and hiding under my mother’s apron; if she ever wore one. When I land in UAE I get excited, high pitched calls with a 12 year old girl trying to drown out the giggly questions of a 6 year old girl by increasing the volume of her own; and then there is also the nonchalant call where a 12 year old boy languidly questions me about the details of my short visit in that bored, drawling tone that has me wondering if he’s manoeuvring a car on the PSP with his free hand. And they never decline a chance to torment me mercilessly about my undying love for the Jonas Brothers, {even the 6 year old brat} who according to them I should have given up on before my 18^th birthday. But their revulsion for the JB never stopped them from waiting with bated breath to get the details about my trip to their concert in Abu Dhabi  and the inside info on both the performers and the performance. They yo-yo between being cute and horrible in nanoseconds.

When I started blogging, slowly and steadily I let some of my family know about it, including the kids. On my last visit home during a family reunion one weekend my aunts got to questioning me about the blog and talking about it in general. That was when my sister butt in; in that honestly frank manner she used to tell her mom as a kid that the dish she painstakingly made was yucky, she told me “ Chechi (elder sister), Your blog is really dumb. I can’t understand what you write and it’s too confusing. I was too dumbfounded to reply, so I decided that the magazine I was hiding behind was my best bet to hide my disappointment. The little girl to whom I was a goddess, I who could never go wrong, had just deemed something really important to me as rubbish.

I might have spent almost 15 minutes staring at the same page when I decided to get myself a box of readymade chocolate pudding that I gorge on when I’m home to pep me up. As I was about to get a spoon, my cousin apparated before me with one. He had been walking up and down the house incessantly, his heels making thudding sounds and driving the household insane. It’s his way of staying occupied and working out his excess energy. He put on his I’m –such a –wise-old-guy face and asked me very seriously, just like as a kid he’d ask me if finishing school meant now that I’d get married and have babies . “If she finds what you write difficult, isn’t it good for you?” “Why?” I mumbled with my mouth full of chocolate, my spoon strategically left hanging midair about to drip chocolate.  He questioned “ Do you think Shakespeare is confusing? His writing, the language you know?”  “ Ummm, Yes.”  I replied a little reluctantly, but honestly wondering what he’d have to say about that since he knew I’m a literature student. “Well most people do” he says brisk walking around the dining table “but it’s supposed to be great, what he writes. And I think you’re good, although I have to read what you write twice whenever I do to understand it.” He resumed scurrying about aimlessly.

While I was simultaneously digesting this gyaan (knowledge) and the chocolate pudding my cousin yelled from the bedroom! “I love the bracelet you got me! The colour combo is so cooolll! I love you.”
It  looks like I am still sister numero uno in the dressing up department at least.

May the logic of children help you adopt a refreshing outlook on old things this New Year although I know I’m  23 days late J

Falak

Road.Rage.Rules

“Watch where you’re going YOU FOOL!”

“Zipping away like he’s riding a DUCATI on an empty runway!”

We tried to move another step ahead but quickly recoiled back to the safety of that half of the single lane road that was occupied by double parked cars.

“I know an ophthalmologist. Need the number?”

It’s called a Zebra parking, see the white stripes? They didn’t paint it for your wedding. Oh! But how would you, who haven’t seen a horse, KNOW WHAT A ZEBRA IS??????”

“You’re supposed to stop when you see pedestrians at the crossing, ie people like us who have been waiting for the last 15 minutes trying to cross a measly 4 feet road. Oh yes! You stop even if there isn’t A SIGNAL! YEAH, THAT COLOURFUL CONTRAPTION YOU DON’T PAY HEED TO.”

“You know what Bev? Let’s just cross even if it means running the risk of being hit, at least that way we can put them in jail because we crossed at a pedestrian crossing.”

At that precise moment the injured muscle of my right leg from the auto accident gave a painful throb warning me otherwise and to add to that Bev gave me her ‘Shut up and wait woman’ look.

Finally we flagged down a giant SUV, the driver bemused, at seeing two college going girls who looked capable of murder. Luckily for the motorists we didn’t have to spend an eternity perched on the median but crossed the other half of the so called dual-carriageway road in two minutes. To irk us further Sonya had already crossed both the lanes and was waiting on the footpath tapping her feat and beating a tattoo on the dial of her watch indicating how long it took us to reach her. Like we didn’t know already. The Dare-Devil had dashed across the road earlier: irreverent of traffic or death. She has previously been at the receiving end of caresses from buses, autos, cars and a train too! According to her only a plane is left.

As we were dodging vendors selling kerchiefs, toys, lemonade, fake Ray-Ban glares {and wares than I can go describing in humorous detail for months} on the footpath or something that resembled it we were fuming. On a sunny winter afternoon Bev had smoke shooting out from her ears and Sonya and I were doling out endearments I can’t mention in print; she, with a ghost of a smile as always and I, the way they should be.

“It’s all a matter of rules you know!” I hollered, startling an underwear vendor from his reverie about boxers. He looked reconcilably at me, ready to believe that briefs were the best if that is what I thought. I glared at him, challenging him otherwise.

“Nobody follows rules here, everyone thinks it's their in-laws-place and they can do as they please. Inconsiderate nuts."

“ Luck? You seriously think people do as they like there?”

“Ok Sonz, their daddy’s farmhouse, fine?”

“Ooooh! Now that’s one place I’d be at ease at.” I think something about the colour of my face made Bev decide not to go ahead with the joke.

“They shove rule books in your face at banks, hospitals and government offices where they are least required. A transaction that needs a few clicks on the keyboard takes 100 perambulations around the desks of useless officials.”

“You’re telling me?” Drawled Sonya with an eyebrow raised in derisive amusement at the above said organisations.

“Yeah, I’d rather die of a cold” stated Bev in agreement to which I vehemently said “And I’d rather stash my money under the bed than maintain an account in this country.” {Don’t even bother looking for it there}

We walked in silence for sometime stomping the pot-holed footpath violently.

“Oh how I envy the ease of my cousins’ lives in Bahrain!” burst out Sonya

“I miss the orderliness of UAE!” I exploded, having held in that statement waiting for someone else to say it. I’m always sceptical about comparing my foster country and my country and running the risk of sounding like a hypocrite ex-NRI brat.

“No one gives a damn to rules here.”

“But when the same Indians go elsewhere they follow even the dumbest ones to the T.”

“They chicken out when they have to pay up fines, so they won’t spit, litter or over-speed.” Furnished Bev

“Who’ll fine them here in Mumbai? That pot-bellied corrupt policeman?” Chortled Sonya

“But we have to follow stupid dress codes and attendance policies in college. No one knows where to use rules here.” I muttered in disgust.

“You’re right Sonz. Fools make rules here and fools who can’t understand the difference between Christmas lights and traffic signals inhabit and populate this country. And then they have the audacity to complain about 2G scams??????” I fumed, climbing up the stairs to the railway station two at a time to vent out my frustration.

“Yeah Luck, how true.”

“What’s the 2G scam?”

The walk through the platform was spent explaining to Bev all about the scam that rocked the nation.

Wondering why our country can never reach that state where everyone is carefree like Bev,

Falak

I could really use a wish right now.....

I was one of the few children in school who knew Santa was a myth, he didn’t exist. I lived in a desert where it didn’t snow and none of our houses had exclusive roofs let alone chimneys {we lived in flats}. And to top it all we don’t celebrate Christmas {my family isn't Christian}. But then again, deep down I’ve always liked to believe in things that others thought were balderdash.  I like to make a wish on a fallen eyelash, the first star I see in the sky, hope for good luck if I see two mynahs {starlings}. I waited for a letter from Hogwarts before I turned 11, dreamt that my ancestors had super powers that I inherited after it skipped a few generations or some such romantic claptrap.

I don’t know if magic, miracles or enchantments exist. I secretly like to believe they do but my rational side, measured and cut by experience and polished by dogmatic notions of reality hardly give a sliver of a chance for my esoteric side, rough-hewn as a result of doubt to take lead.

What I’ve always hoped would work is the magic of the smoke from birthday candles when you blow them out. It is almost surreally mesmerizing that something dynamic and consuming like a flame feeds from the depths of a saccharine dish, draws out the sweetness of hope and extinguishes into white-grey wisps of enchantment that twirl and twine around a breath full of wishes and transports it into magical realms. I don’t know if there will be cakes and candles today so I’d not like to allow this special request of mine to be left at the mercy of the vicissitude of birthday plans and decisions.

There is one path to miracles I’m absolutely sure of. Group prayers. You need not believe in God for this. Just the same little request escaping many lips at the same time creates a vibration of positivity so strong that not even the steely bars of cynical rationality of life can cage and thwart the fulfilment of any wish however itty-bitty it is. So this time around I’d like to ask that come 25^th of December  a fantabulous, strong, optimistic and lovely lady and writer named Erika can sleep peacefully without battling her arch enemies, phlegm and mucus, ever and also that her gorgeous baby Izzy {Izabella} can enjoy every single day without seizures, vomiting and other torments that her little being is subjected to on almost a daily basis. Erika was hoping for Dear Santa {who I’m sceptical about} to hear her out.

I hope every single one of you who is reading/reads this blog and this particular post; { although I know there aren’t many} and decide to don the Santa suit for a day because those two could really use a wish {and many more} right now. After reading this if you feel an urgent need to put my request into action and can't wait for Christ's birthday which is a fortnight away then please go ahead! If you think it takes a birthday to make magic happen then you are in luck, for today is a birthday too. Well, not Jesus Christ's but a 19 year old girl's. Inspite of all this if you've never had childhood fantasies of playing Santa then maybe just be nice and grant a Birthday Girl her wish: that another’s wish comes true.

Wishing I could cast spells,

Falak

Perceive-r-ance

As children my brother and I used to be overjoyed at the sight of stuffed shopping bags strewn all around the house. It spelt HOLIDAY. It promised us a vacation, new clothes and possessions, and the assured company of our parents and Grand mom for more than the prescribed 6 hours we saw them in a day. While shopping, we’d bump into friends, teachers and other families and have a gala time discussing holiday plans. What to buy for whom, choosing sari’s of myriad colours, soaps cakes, powder tins, cream bottles, jewellery and stacking it all away in suitcases, deciding what to assign to which relative were tasks of priority. Most of the time these shopping excursions culminated into eating out at our then favourite restaurant ‘Super’ which was anything but that. Who cared? The waiters knew our family history and we theirs, they had literally seen us grow up in front of them, doted on us, got us that extra dish without charging and we loved the unhealthy fried rice and chilly chicken. We never ordered. The minute one of the ‘uncles’ saw us our special was ready on the table.

I haven’t seen those people in 2 years. That restaurant has been demolished and a new one is coming up. I’m rambling now, going off at completely another tangent. It’s all beside the point I’m trying to make or maybe it really isn’t. I don’t like the sight of shopping bags around my room anymore. It ultimately means I’m leaving my family or they’re leaving me. I truly abhor shopping and hardly visit the mall that’s only a 3 minute drive from my house.  My friends would kill to live there. I don’t desire new clothes, new accessories, footwear, nothing. I don’t fancy passports and tickets especially when it says Mumbai-Dubai. And I’d kill to eat that unhealthy fried rice and chilly chicken every single weekend despite the fact that I’ll be complaining about piling on the pounds and will be even more under-confident in public that I already am. Do I feel at home in UAE? Honestly there are times when I feel like a Martian, completely out of sync with the drastic transformations in the life I once led, my schoolmates, the people I knew and the places I used to haunt. So if ‘Home’ ceases to feel like home; then does Mumbai feel like home? Can’t really say, because it’s difficult to lead two diversely separate lives. I can choose to adopt one and give up the other but I can’t. My UAE life is who I am and was; and my Mumbai life is who I am and will be/can be. Moreover, like my mother very succinctly puts it I’m a hoarder by nature and can’t let go of easily. So I amble from a set of 6 months to another surviving solely on the short holidays that pop up in between like greenery in a desert, compartmentalising friends, clothes, routines, hobbies and food into two sections: Mumbai and UAE.

My perceptions over the years have changed. Bags of joy now herald the advent of bleak-looking six months, life the way I lived it for 15 years has now been broken up into parts and the mention of fried rice and chilly chicken that made me flash a 250 volt smile now creates saline pools in my house. But I’m trying, trying really hard to change that, achieve a state of equilibrium and merge two disparate aspects of me and ameliorate into a whole, complete person. I hope perseverance helps me to perceive differently.

Meanwhile, seriously contemplating burning off those shopping bags,

Falak

Ardently, Fervently, Seflessly, Selfishly

So what has Falak been up to the last two weeks? There has to be a reason to substantiate her extended silence after the pledge she undertook to write continuously.

Answering my own question, she hasn’t been doing outrageously exciting things to keep her away this long from the blog. She was busy forging a temporary alliance with a certain individual by the name of God Almighty.

She was busy discussing ardently, alternatives to completely blanking out in front of her exam paper, methods to circumvent studying a syllabus of oceanic proportions, and having the brain power to remember enough to fill in the pages of the answer sheet. She was busy fervently formulating terms and conditions of treaties to sign, pacts to adhere to. Terms and conditions involved were: if only stuff I learn comes 3 coconuts for you, if I manage to remember everything I painstakingly mugged up; 51 rupees for you.

After sleeping continuously for 4 hours every day for the last two weeks, burying her head within her books, hardly eating for the fear of suffering from an upset tummy, refusing to step out of the house except going to college to meet her arch rival the papers, the marks-talks ended successfully. It was ratified by the council of Love with Falak having all her demands met at such short notice and God still waiting for his.

He’s still waiting without creating a ruckus, without impassioned appeals of ‘why me always?’, ‘I know you hate me’. Biding his time he’s still sticking around here.

Why though?

Simply because he believes in her.

But does she trust him as implicitly?

Do we?

A very, merry, exam-free soul.

Falak

Sonny side

Before you start reading just letting you know the words calignious, tenebrous, crepescular simply put mean dark..... I just wanted synonyms instead of using the same word again and again. I used a thesaurus. ;)

I haven’t written for a month and 19 days. I was planning on a little something to celebrate the 1^st birthday of the blog, wish it Bon Blogaversaire maybe. This blog does warrant that kind of gratitude on my part. There aren’t ample avenues or outlets available for an 18 year old to vent out her frustration and let go of her reticent nature bit by bit. 

Yes, a year back on the 13^th of August this blog was born as a cumulative effect of boredom, joblessness, the latent desire for positive recognition and a genuine, intrinsic love for words and language. But the day the blog turned 1 I got hit by an auto rickshaw. The accident in itself didn’t leave me much to remember it by, at least not the day I got hit. A random stranger from the same rickshaw helped me stand up from my horizontal position of repose on rain drenched tar, I went home in a partial stupor, got cleaned up and then was again on my way to college. The next day I couldn’t hoist myself out of bed: consequence of a sore neck, numerous bruised and aching body parts and a busted right leg that is still tender to touch. It was the closest I’d ever come to being killed. Already a multitude of events had led to a lot of mental unrest and turmoil. This ripped off the bronze lining on my characteristically Cimmerian cloud. And then there were the gratuitous interviews I gave to two departments that organised the college festival. The first rejection nipped at my heart but it didn’t hurt. The second rejection didn’t hurt. It nipped my craving to write at a very subterranean level.

My clouds of dark moods are as seasonal and expected as are the clouds of monsoon but rare have been the occasions where the hopes of a sunny day have been shattered. I don’t mind criticism or rejection when it’s straight forward and people come up to me and say “Falak, your writing sucks.” I might feel a little blue {but then who doesn’t} and recover shortly feeling grateful for the constructive criticism. But to have yourself and your writing lambasted within earshot is a crushing experience. The organiser of the second department, a classmate of mine did just that; very subtly without using names but just highlighting the gender and topic and a lot of choice expletives while describing ‘this girl’ to her friends. For weeks on an end I was recipient of filthy looks from her and every time I’d cringe within. That I guess was the last straw that broke the under-confident girl’s weak spirit. 

People with broken spirits take a vacation; it’s rejuvenating and helps you clear your head. When things became too much to handle I took a hiatus. The place I visited was stygian in its setting. It was perpetually night and the only recreation the people here {some tourists, some permanent residents} partook in was the masochistic pleasure derived from deriding self and ability. We emulated the citizens and conformed easily to their existence: denying ourselves the calorie-laden sweet meats of happiness, the sleep of the content person sure about their self-worth and salubrious dreams that provided exercise to the grey cells. I dined and wined myself to bursting point on the choicest dishes of self-doubt and tears served cold, visited museums and admired paintings of self-destruction and spent hours in theatres watching and analysing the entire diatribe meted out to me by OG extraordinaire which was replayed incessantly. The sky was forever nebulous and moonless when looked at from my tenebrous lodgings. Later I would aimlessly weave in and out of winding caliginous streets that kept going round in circles and bringing me back to the place I began from: I can’t write. I was such a law-abiding visitor that the authorities were planning to bestow an honorary citizenship on me and I was seriously perusing the possibility of accepting it.

I was handing in my letter confirming my endorsement of the same when a visitor was announced. She walked right in and I was blinded for a moment. The crepuscular evening was suddenly aglow with the luminosity of her being and the gloomy inhabitants scurried to bury themselves deep in the city’s labyrinths to avoid her resplendent smile. Everything about her had always been golden and light: gold streaked, brown hair, warm caramel eyes and that smile. She dragged me through the corridors, talking nineteen to the dozen, holding my wrists in a death-like vise. As she yanked me she illuminated the streets I used to walk in despair and suddenly I saw new paths that could lead me out of the circle. She tore up my citizenship papers which then blazed aflame in her hands. The same hands that warmed my entire being with a simple touch and eliminated the cold and numbness I had accustomed myself to. She started ranting about the evils of the vacation I had taken and threatened to wallop me black and blue the next time I gave her the slip and bolted. The idea of her hitting anyone {non-violent soul that she is} made me break into convulsions of laughter; pure gleeful laughter the sound of which I had almost forgotten. She got us both out of the hell-hole I had created within me and I assure you I haven’t stopped smiling and she hasn’t stopped talking {she never does} at all since then. If you don’t believe me, try looking for the elusive dimple that only appears when I’m really smiling. She’s still working on blotting out the memory of ‘I can’t write’ and to look straight into the eyes of Miss dirty looks and give her a cool smirk. We are making progress.

I just wanted to wish my blog a happy birthday and to thank You ‘Femme d’or’ who lit up my dark skies with a brilliant sun.

You truly are my Sonshine.

Love

Falak