Your room is Filthy

WARNING: The following content is not meant to offend anyone...so please don't get offended. We all love you, you moms.

Your room is filthy. It's filthily filthy. It's overflowing with filth. In fact, you could get a lifetime achievement award for filthiest room. Every corner, every spare inch of it spells filth. The filth is oozing out of the ground, dripping down the walls and lurking in the small nooks. Filthy filthy filth. How you live in such filth, I may never know.

Why do you live in this filth anyways? Do you enjoy sniffing the horrible stench? Do you feel content when you see green muck slithering about? Does the fact that it enhances your cleanliness, for trust me, even you are comparatively clean in comparison to your room, make you feel good? Have you decided to create a rat plantation? Are you hoping that by keep your room as phenomenally filthy as possible, you will be driving me away? Because it's not working.

Did you care to think about what could happen if this mess isn't cleaned? Do you have any idea how many mosquitoes are hiding in the smallest of grooves at this very moment, waiting to attack? Did you ever think that maybe you wouldn't be able to sleep for the night and that because of that, you will do horribly in class? And when you do horribly in class, it reflects in your paper? And then what if you flunk your boards? Which college will you go to? You will end up working at the theatre - not as a ticket seller, but as a toilet cleaner from ten a.m. to five p.m. You will die a horrible death from some horrible illness that you couldn't cure because you didn't have the money. Some toilet related disease.

And then what will the rats in your room do?

Or what if you get malaria? Or rabies? Do you think I have all that money to waste on curing you? Didn't you ever think of that? Do you realise that I will have to pay, literally, if you die?

And I'll have to take care of your rats. Rats!!

Your desk is one big catastrophe. There are clothes strewn across it. That's right, clothes. Books are sprawling everywhere - on the floor, on the bed, on the ground. Ink has been splattered spectacularly across the wall, four huge droplets. Your compass box has died under the bed. There is leftover pizza under you table, presumably for the rats.

Your rubber bands (and in case of boys) socks are hanging over your computer screen. A spider crawled into your schoolbag a week ago. It's still there. The floor, which, may I remind you, used to be a nice white colour has now turned into an oddly sickening shade of mucky yellow. Wash it. Your blanket is in a monstrous heap at the foot of your bed. The pillow has somehow reached the bathroom door. The contents of the bathroom (note that I did NOT say contents of the toilet) have reached your bed.

Your closet is thoroughly demolished. I admire the craftsmanship with which you have created your tower of clothes. But I would like to remind you that it was balancing tediously on the closet door which made the task of opening it quite a pleasant experience. Your shirts have been crumpled to the extent that they can fit in my coin purse. Your jeans are hanging like dead leaves on the closet hooks. The only cleanliness I can see is present on the sparkling hangers.

What will you do when you go to hostel? You will have to clean your own room, wash your own floors and (God knows how you'll do this) fold your own clothes. Then don't come crying to me. Not that you will. I'm sick of this filthy pigsty that you call as your room. I don't even know why I clean it for you, you ungrateful oaf. In fact, I won't clean it at all. Let your room rot. You'll be begging for me before the week is up. You'll see. You won't last a minute. You and your little rat friends are in big trouble.

The worst part is, you probably didn't listen to a word I said. So I'll summarize it for you.

Clean your room.

Eclectic Wisdom

This summer, I went with my family to Europe. It was a three week trip where we skittered across the continent. The experience was wonderful and unforgettable, and I really thoroughly enjoyed. In our cross country vacation, we visited the world famous Eiffel Tower (I finally learnt how to spell it right), The Leaning Tower of Pisa, Venice, The Colosseum, and places like the Louvre Museum. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity and I am ever grateful to my parents for giving me these treasured memories.

Out trip to Europe was not much different from everyone else's. We gave an inclined pose for the leaning tower, as if catching it in midair. We gawked dejectedly at the minuteness of the Mona Lisa. We (well my parents mostly, with their unquenchable Indian habits), wrinkled our nose at the nudeness of the world's most renowned paintings and sculptures. We rolled at eyes at the spectacularly dismantled colosseum and we ate dishes of pasta and pizza of all kinds.

But my trip to Europe taught me many things. It gave me glimpse of the world outside, of the customs and habits of the rest of the world and it showed me things I had never noticed about my own culture. It's as they say, experience gives you more knowledge than books.

One of the first things I learnt about the people in Europe is that their personalities, their behaviour towards foreigners, varies with each mile. The French men and women regarded us, with our large cameras and heavy rucksacks, with petty disdain. They refused to speak English, even if they happened to know it, which we saw as disrespectful. Yet the Swiss people were so kind, so helpful, and really took an interest to the people that did not belong to the same culture as them. And I realised how well our government has tried to spread the use English, and how advanced my own country is in that particular aspect. Basic English can be found coming from the mouth of the rikshaw drivers and sabji sellers.

I move on to a deeper, more delicate topic. The culture in India and in France is very different, no doubt. And while were gliding down the tapestry-filled museums, I reflected on a casual comment my dad had made. He had seen a sculpture of a nude man and joked, "If something like this was erected in India, the local men and women would don a pair of underwear on the man." And the more I think about it, the more I realise it is true. The Italians and French see these human replicas and through their eyes, theses are works of Medieval art. They are masterpieces. They reflect the beauty and perfection of the human body. They are works to be relished and appreciated. And though we Indians marvel at the minute details and craftsmanship, we also feel a nagging uneasiness and disgust at staring at a nude figure. We think to ourselves, "didn't these men and women find better things to paint?" There is no right or wrong, no good or bad. But I saw this major gap, and I couldn't help but notice how different we are. How differently we are brought up and how the values taught to us are so different.

Another thing that I learnt is that the human mind is like glue. We subconsciously attach ourselves to the things we are close to and until we are forced to part with them, we don't realise how much they really mean to us. I used to disagree when people say that your roots matter, but now I have learnt otherwise. Though I enjoyed in Europe, deep down, I really missed my own home. I missed the polluted, people smell, the loud vehicular noise, the friendly, casual atmosphere of India. And I realised that though I was with my family, if asked to live in Europe, I wouldn't have been able to. The attraction towards my homeland and even my people was so strong that when we saw random Indian couples on the street, we would smile fleetingly. Ours eyes would meet. Something would connect, we would suddenly share a warm, comforting, homely feeling that didn't happen when we looked at the local citizens. It was like instinct. It was something I had never experienced before.

All the lessons, the memories, the sights, the observations, everything I carry with me. It is the one thing that will not fade, even if the photos do. And I can proudly look up and say that on my trip to Europe I not only learnt the spelling of 'Eiffel Tower', but I also learnt some valuable, not lessons, but knowledge. I took a step towards becoming wiser. And only experience can teach you that.

Deadly Digs and Obsessions

Everyone knows that I'm a sucker for dimples. I mean, I see those darn little holes and I just melt on the spot. Preity Zinta could flash her coyish smile across the theatre screen and I'd be oggling at her and spilling popcorn on the next person's head. The worst part of it all is that my best friend has the world's cutest dimples that make me want to pull her cheeks. But seeing that she has braces because of which cheak pulling could practically rip of the inside of her mouth, and I would get a gun aimed at my head, I usually content myself with a dejected sigh. And it's not even something I can get you know? I mean, I can't take a minimachine and drilly my way through my cheak (and trust me, I would if it would work). To put a cherry on it all, my little cousin brother has those deadly digs and he has the cutest 1 year old face to fit in it. I can just imagine all the girls in his class drooling over him and his dimple framed smile. Lucky babe. Well what can I say? I get super obsessed over extremely random things. THIS is just one of them.