Scientific Forestry With Krutu

"Bleeeaaargh."

I looked up to find my sister staring at me with her gigantic Bambi eyes.

"What?"

She blinked. "Why did you make that noise?"

I groaned. There I was sprawled spectacularly on my bed, on a nice bright Saturday evening, studying History. History. And guess which chapter.

Something about scientific forestry. See? How am I going to remember the notes of chapter, when I can't even remember its name??

"Bleeeaaargh." I repeated. I looked at my textbook, then at Krutu, then at the textbook.

Then suddenly, an idea stuck me.

By now you should know what that means.

"Hey Krutu," I said casually, "Come over here will you?"

Krutu clambered on the bed and plopped down next to me. "Yes?"

"I'm gonna tell you a story. How about it?"

Krutu smiled so brightly that I though my wall mirror would crack. "Ok."

I sighed. "Right. So now once upon a time, the British people came to India."

"British people were bad right?"

"Ummm...yeah...ok..."

"RIGHT?"

"Yes yes, so these british people told everyone to cut down trees ok? They wanted to plant...stuff."

"ok."

"...and they felt that people were not using the trees properly. So they called in a German specialist. What was his name?"

"um..."

"Dietrich BRANdis."

"Datrich Bandiz."

"Good. So what did he set up?"

"uh...."

"The Imperial Forest Research Institute. Reapeat."

"Impeyal...."

"Imperial Forest Research Institute."

"Imperi-al Fores.....Instooot."

"Imperial forest RESEARCH Institute."

"Imperi-al Fores resa...um"

"Institute Krutu...Institute."

"Institewt."

"Imperial Forest..."

"I'M SAYING IT...Impe-rial Forezz Resuch Insti...Insti.."

"...tute."

"Toot. Institoot."

"Good job. Now go tell it to mummy."

"MUMMY!"

My mom poked her head in. "Yes?"

"Impe...wat was it again?"

"Imperial..."

"HAH...Imperia Forezz Resa Intooit."

"Right." My mother walked out of the room.

"Good job Krut!" I smiled. "Now I'll call you during the exam and you have to tell me this answer ok?"

"What answer?"

"Imperial Forest Research Institute...?"

"Ok."

"I'll continue the story ok?"

"Ok."

"So these baaad Britishers put up The Imperial Forest Research Institute In Dehradun. What did they put up?"

"The Imperiyal...um.."

"Nevermind. So over there, they taught Scientific Forestry. ok?"

"Ok."

"They cut down trees..."

"Why?"

"Um...well...they made trains with it."


"Trains?"

"Yes....erm....trains. And so, they stopped villagers from cutting down trees. But villagers needed trees."

"Why?"

"Um...to..."

"To make trains?"

"NO! No, no, um....they needed fruits for eating and wood....to burn....for cooking."

"They ate wood?"

"No Krutu. You know how we have a gas to put our pans over?"

"Yes..."

"So they used to burn wood and then with the fire they used to cook food."

"Oh."

"So why did the British want to cut trees?"

"For cooking!"

"For making trains Krutu..."

"Oh."

"Ok, so the villagers also used to plant stuff. And they used Swidden agriculture. What did they use?"

"Sweeden agriculture."

"Good. Some local names for swidden agriculture are podu, milpa..."

"Podu..." Krutu giggled maniacly.

"Podu, milpa..."

"Podu," Krutu repeated, and then burst into giggles.

"Yes Krutu, podu. Right. So what was Swidden agriculture. Ok, you see, the people used to plant trees and then burn them..."

"For cooking?"

"No Krutu, no. They used to burn the trees and then plant more trees in the ashes."

"Oh. Why?"

"Because...they felt like it."

"Why?"

"Krutu! So anyways...we'll now move on to the next section. Hunting."

"Oooohh...."

"Now, the villagers used to hunt ok? But the Britishers stopped them from hunting."

"Why...?"

"Does it matter?? The British used to hunt animals like lions and wolves..."

"And deers?"

"Yes, deers too."

"Even the bambies?"

"The who??"

"The bambies. The baby deers."

"Uh...no. They only hunted the mama deers."

"Just like in Bambi!"

"Yes, just like in Bambi."

"And the papa deers? Did they hunt papa deers?"

"Yes, papa deers too."

"But then what if the papa deers died?"

"Then they'd hunt the mama deers."

"What if the mama deers died? Then whould they hunt the baby deers?"

"No they wouldn't. They don't hunt baby deers Krutu."

"Why?"

"Because...!"

"So what about baby wolves?"

At the point, I had my head in my hands. "Krutu, do you want to know the rest of the story or not?"

"I want to know."

"Alright. So then the nomadic people who used to hunt for a living, had to...well...stop hunting. They started collecting stuff and selling it to the British traders."

"Really?"

"Yes really. One such nomadic tribe was called the Mundurucu."

"Moondoocu."

"Good girl. Now listen carefully, when I call u during the exam, you have to tell me this answer ok?"

"Ok."

"Alright, that's enough for today. Did you have fun?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Didi?"

"Mmm?"

" I love you."

"I love you too."

"Didi?"

"Mmm?"

"Can you tell me another story?"

NOTE: The paragraphs in italics are extracts from the Da Vinci Code. The other reference near the bottom is from our ninth standard History textbook. I'm not pointing fingers at anyone here, but you know very well who I am talking about. If you're not in the mood to read sentimental stuff, don't bother to continue. Ignore spelling errors. Will think of title later.

The Catholic Inquisition published the book that arguably could be called the most blood-soaked publication in human history. Malleus Maleficarum - or the Witches' Hammer - indoctrinated the world to 'the dangers of freethinking women' and instructed the clergy how to locate, torture and destroy them. Those who deemed 'witches' by the Church included all female scholars, priestesses, gypsies, mystics, nature lovers, herb gatherers and any woman 'suspiciously attuned to the natural world'. Midwives also were killed for their heretical practice of using medical knowledge to ease the pain of childbirth - a suffering, the Church claimed, that was God's rightful punishment for Eve's partaking of the Apple of Knowledge, thus giving birth to the idea of Original Sin. During three hundred years of witch hunts, the Church burned at the stake and astounding five million women.

Five million women. Five million women were killed for thinking, for trying to be free. For living. If this doesn't effect you, if you feel nothing after reading this, then I would assume you heartless. This cruel ruthless killing of women is nothing short of slaughter. It is cruel, cold-blooded and downright disgusting. It this the grossest form of murder possible. Think about it. How can they have done this?? Forget how, try to think of why??

As a women, yes a woman, it hurts me to read this. I'm far past tears, as Nidhi puts it, it just hurts. Deep down inside. It's sad, that's what it is. It hurts you to read it and pains you to know the pain that woman went through - and still does.

Women, once celebrated as an essential half of spiritual enlightenment, had been banished from the temples of the world. There were no female Orthodox rabbis, Catholic priests, nor Islamic clerics. The once hallowed act of Hieros Gamos - the natural sexual union between man and woman through which each became spiritually whole - had been recast as a shameful act. Holy men who had once required sexual union with their female counterparts t commune with God now feared their natural sexual urges as the work of the devil, collaborating with his favorite accomplice...woman.

This is it. This is what woman is considered as now. The devil's accomplice. To those of you who think this is funny, it isn't. It is cruel and hurtful and wrong. How dare they label us as the accomplice of devils? Women, without whom man wouldn't even be alive. If not girls like me, wouldn't it hurt you to call your own mother - a devil's accomplice? And for what, giving birth? Something that was once considered a gift.

Not even the feminine association with the left-hand side could escape the Church's defamation. In France and Italy, the words for 'left' - guache and sinistra - came to have deeply negative overtones, while their right-hand counterparts rang of righteousness, dexterity and correctness. To this day, radical thought was considered left wind, irrational thought was left brain, and anything evil, sinister.

Discrimination, inferior treatment, it all starts at school. Teasing a girl my seem like a lot of fun, but put yourself in her shoes for a minute. There is a limit to teasing. Making fun of her body, of other more private things, hurts her to extents that you cannot imagine. It is downright sick. That's all it is. And boys who do that deserve to be called as the devil's accomplice.

Do you think this injustice is right? Do you feel that women are not equal to men? Do you feel that they must be burnt for easing the pain of bearing a child, that, no doubt, the man wanted to have? It is easy for the men to say that the women deserve it, but I don' think there is a single man who could give birth to a child and live through the pain.

The days of the goddess were over. The pendulum had swung. Mother Earth had become man's world, and the gods of destruction and war were taking their toll. The male ego had spent two millennium running unchecked by its female counterpart. The Priory of Sion believed that it was this obliteration of the sacred feminine in modern life that had caused what the Hopi Native Americans called koyanisquatis 0 'life out of balance' - and unstable situation marked by testosterone-fuelled wars, a plethora of misogynistic societies and a growing disrespect for the Mother Earth.

In 1793, the Jacobin politician Chaumette sought to justify the closure of women’s clubs on the following grounds:

‘Has Nature entrusted domestic duties to men? Has she given us breasts to nurture babies?
No
She said to Man:
Be a man. Hunting, agriculture, political duties…that is your kingdom.
She said to Woman:
Be a woman…the things of the household, the sweet duties of motherhood – those are your tasks.
Shameless are those women, who wish to become men. Have not duties been fairly distributed?

The arguments that follow were put forth by a certain Chaumette. These words are said by a true man; egoistic and blinded for power. As a woman, I believe it my duty to fight on the behalf of all the ‘daughters of Eve’ and children (as are men) of God.

Monsieur Chaumette has asked:
‘Has Nature entrusted domestic duties to men?’

Nature has not entrusted duties to anyone. Both men and women are equal in terms of duties and thus should be treated equally. Women have not been marked with domestic responsibility as men have not been marked with war related ones. This is a mindset created by man, human being, and not Nature. Men have always sought to be dominant and females have always quietly accepted, only because man’s ego is difficult to harbor.

His reply was:
‘Has she given us breasts to nurture babies?’

Nature has given women the power of reproduction and it is from her womb that the very first man was born. Thus this power should not be interpreted as a sign that women should stay at home. A woman nurtures her child only because she has breasts and man does not. It can be said that she is the one because of whom man is what he is, a powerful warrior. But does she not nurture a daughter the same way? Every child, irrelevant of sex is given the same amount of love, respect and opportunity. So why should that change with time?

He claims that:
‘She said to Man:
Be a man. Hunting, agriculture, political duties…that is your kingdom.’

What is hunting but a search for food? Can a woman not do this task? Does she not do it already? What is agriculture? The raising of crops, of life. Does not a woman raise children? Aren’t children, after all, lives? What is the difference; the amount of commitment, the labor? I think not! What is politics but a game invented by man, no doubt by women as well! How could Nature create man so he could command something that he invents?

Monsieur Chaumette unabashedly replies:
‘She said to Woman:
Be a woman…the things of the household, the sweet duties of motherhood – those are your tasks.’

The “sweet duties of motherhood” that all women are entitled to are not tasks. They are works of nature that have nothing to do with duties such as war, agriculture, politics. How do these motherly “duties” entitle her to household tasks? Why must she stay at home only because she can give birth to a child? God gave man and woman the same hands. Then why is there a difference in what these hands can do?

His final blow is:
‘Shameless are those women, who wish to become men. Have not duties been fairly distributed?’

Women are not in the least trying to be men. What is man? Hard work? Politics? The ability to fight? Not true! Woman can be all these things as well. Women are not trying to be men, they are trying to prove their worth! And shameless are those men who force them to sit at home. The duties have NOT been fairly distributed; in fact, they have not been distributed at all!

These are the answers to your questions, Monsieur Chaumette. Too long has woman been but inferior. Too long has she toiled away only to be suppressed by man. The time for women has come, and your kingdom of elite men will crumble before her rage for all your mothers, sisters and daughters fight for this cause and even the strongest of men, and even, you Monsieur Chaumette, cannot prevent the forthcoming Revolution.

The Great Shoe Expedition

WARNING: not one of my best posts but it'll do I guess...maybe the sequence of events did not take place in the below mentioned record of minutes, or for that matter, days, and the library scene is an added touch on my side. That it why I will proceed to say that the following narration is 50% true.

We were torn.

Sweat beaded down our forehead and fell with a tremendous splash on the ground. Our eyes darted back and forth, and our heads were spinning. All the sights around us were blurred and the sounds were a distinct babble. We could hear the loud, ominous ticking of the clock, even thought there was none nearby. We were chewing on our bottom lips and hopping from one foot to another.

We were completely, completely torn.

Our breath came in quick, tense rasps. Our knees banged against each other. We were tremblig from head to toe. This was no mere decision. It was a decision that required advanced intelligence level and extreme daring.

We were in a mall.

Searching for shoes.

Not just any shoes though. They were special shoes. They were the shoes that were "in". Everyone who was anyone wore these shoes. Which classified me as a no one.

At least, that's what Goonjan said.

Yes, here we were, once again, the two of us.

Anyway, back to the shoes.

Flashback

"Oh my god Namrata, I have GOT to get those shoes!"

Me with my usual brilliant taste in fashion crinckled my nose. "Urgh Goonjan, you're taking ballet?"

She shoots me a death glare. "Jesus, those aren't ballet shoes. They're flats."

"Ballet flats." I added. Well really, the looked like ballet shoes. They were longish and extremely flat and displayed about seventy-five percent of your foot. And they looked pretty uncomfortable.

But who was I to question the high power?

"Let's try to find my size. 51/2."

Leave it to dear Goonjan to put me to work.

I sighed, placing the bookmark back in my book, and started to eye the large shoe rack with distaste. It's hard to believe that Goonjan is my best friend. I've never seen someone who is so unlike me. For one thing, she absolutely detests reading. For another, she is extremely conscious about looks. She go ther hair highlighted at age eight. I mean really, isn't that enough?

And then there's me. Well you all know me pretty well I hope.

Enough to conclude that me and Goonjan are totally controversial.

Like Shakespeare and Rick Riordan.

Or as Goonjan would've said, like flip flops and high heels.

See what I mean?

Anyway, I hopelessly dug through the stacks of shoe boxes trying to find the right size. I mean, these 'organized racks' are so completely useless. You can find everything and every size except what you're looking for.

Fifteen minutes later we were assembled together bending over two pairs of shoes. Goonjan eyed them with indecision and scrutiny. I eyed them with distaste. The first pair was black, but a litlle too small for Goonjan. He second was a perfect fit and was a bright golden colour.

Which brings me to the situation mentioned in paragraph one.

We were completely torn. Correction, Goonjan was completely torn.

Wracked with indecision, her hand stretched out towards the black shoes. Then just as quickly, as if scared that they would bite her, she drew her hand away and navigated it towards the golden pair. Then she bit her lip and wrung her hands.

"Oh God, which pair should I get?"

I groaned loudly and sank into the cushioned chair nearby. This was going to be fun. Two hours at the mall and I was the only sane one around. Me and my good old book.

"The black pair go on all my outifts," Goonjan continued, "But gold looks much fancier. Black can't be worn for fancy."

"Why not?"

"Well for one thing, it looks casual. Like you just came home from school."

"Erm..."

"And plus, it clashes horribly with party wear. Golden gives you the I-so-know-what-I'm-wearing-is-hot outlook. It radiates confidence."

"Uh..."

"And it is universally known that you do not wear golden on casuals. It looks way to sober. Showoff-ish you know?"

I slumped back. "I give up."

Goonjan turned back to her shoe dilemma. "Oh jesus, which ones should I get?"

Half and hour later

A girl is sitting on the floor cross-legged chewing off her perfectly manicured nails. She alternately reaches out and draws back from the two pairs of shoes in front of her. Her eyes dart back and forth and she is whimpering. The girl is stricken with indecision.

A second girl is sprawled spectacularly across an extremely fluffy armchair, a book covering her face. She looks like a person who had just walked out of Ring Two. Gentle snores wafted through the air near her. She asleep dreaming inevitably about shoes.

"Namrata!"

In my hasty attempt to get up, I fell off the chair with a thud, sending my book skidding across the carpeted ground.

"Wha-a...?"

"Help me!" Goonjan cried, wringing her hands.

'Lord almighty," I muttered, "Just get both of them."

It took a few minutes for the idea to click. Then Goonjan's eyes lit up with joy and realisation. She grabbed the two pairs of shoes, grabbed me by the collar in mid-yawn and hightailed to where her mother was standing.

"Mom mom pleeeeeease can I get both pairs?"

Goonjan was screaming and jumping up and down as I stood a few feet behind her looking like a zombie.

Goonjan's mother pursed her lips, "no Goonjan..."

"No mom I want it pleeeeeeeeease mom...."

I yawned audibly.

"I guess so...fine."

Before I could react, I found myself being flung across the mall corridors in a bizarre attempt to, from what I deduced, hug me. I could hear the loud screams that echoed around me as Goonjan yanked me back up and twirled us around and around.

"Thank You so much mom!" Goonjan flung herself on her mother. I was still twirling in the background and had to steady myself as the world around me slowly stopped spinning.

"Isn't this great Namrata?" Goonjan beamed.

"Urgh..." I replied intelligently. Goonjan took no notice and enthusiastically put an arm around my shoulders.

"I'm going to take you to the library."

I did a double take. "What?"

"Really."

Half and hour later

A girl sat cross-legged on a soft carpeted floor. She was surrounded by a fortress of books so that she was practically hidden under them. She was chewing her lips, her brows furrowed, deep in concentration. She ran her tongue over her dry lips. She was in a dilemma.

A second girl was slumped unceremoniously on a roundish wooden table, snoring gently on a large colourful book. She was oblivious to her surroundings and didn't notice he librarian that was glaring silently at her from across the room.

"Goonjan!"

It was only a hiss, but it startled Goonjan into jerking up and sending the books sprawling across the floor. Quickly gathering her wits, she crouched down to retrieve it, shooting an apologetic look to the librarian. She looked suitably peeved.

I was torn. Completely, completely torn.

"Which book should I get?"

Omelet

WARNING: ignore all spelling and grammatical mistakes...didn't get time to read it over...true story by the way...moderately twisted...

Seven. The age of innocence. The age when barbie dolls and cartoons rule your life. The age in which your biggest challenge is buying the best looking pencil box. The age of sleepovers.
Seven.
Speaking of sleepovers, I was having one with my best friend, Goonjan.
Now you've got to understand what Goonjan is like. She wasn't merely content with the sleeping part. Sleepovers with Goonjan meant fun. She never just sat and talked. She did stuff. Whether it was nail painting or playing board games. She liked doing things.
And that is how I found myself in the kitchen. Making and omelet for mummy.
I stared wearily at the counter, which reached the top of my head. I jumped up and down so that my pigtails bounced around, catching random glimpses of the objects clattered here and there. I stopped when my head started to hurt.
There was a carton of eggs placed neatly on the dining table. Goonjan gently picked up one egg and carried it carefully to the counter. We looked at each other strangely.
"Ready?"
"I guess..."
We were women on a mission.
We were making an omelet.
My oh my.
My mother was in the bathroom, just so you know.
Goonjan crouched on the floor and started tugging open the lower drawer. It revealed an assortment of pans. She sat cross legged on the floor, sorting through them all. I entertained myself by staring wide eyed at the red hot gas stove. I slowly reached over and suspended a palm above the stove. yes, definitely hot. I made a mental note of it, just in case. I brought my hand closer to it, only to snatch it back with a whimper. This was fun.
"Which pan do you normally use?"
I turned distractedly towards the girl sitting at my feet. In both hands she was holding black pans. I glimpsed at both of them.
"Definitely the larger one," I chirped.
"Are you sure?" she asked slowly. I nodded at the same slow pace.
With an energetic leap, she jumped to her feet, pushing the drawer close with her leg. Then she placed the pan neatly on the stove and let it get hot. Goonjan promptly turned around, hands poised elegantly at her hips.
"Should we put onions and stuff?"
I nodded my head like an eager puppy. Whatever she says, I thought.
"Well? Where do you keep the vegetables."
I looked cautiously around the kitchen. Then I jerked my heads upwards. Goonjan's eyes followed my finger and her face fell.
"Oh..."
The fridge was, say, six feet tall? And on top of that, stacked on a bunch of whatnot, were the onions. We wouldn't be able to reach it even with a chair.
I tilted my head. If you looked at a certain angle, the onions looked like people heads. Purple people of course. Bald, ugly, purple people. Cannibals, I decided. Certainly not something I'd like on my eggs.
"We'll make a plain omelet?" I suggested lamely. Goonjan shrugged and skipped up to the pan, standing on her tiptoes to peer at it. I glanced longingly at the T.V. Why couldn't we have a normal sleepover?
Then she declared importantly that the pan was hot enough.
There we were, both of us standing on cushioned chairs, crowing over a tiny steel dish. We were poised and ready; Goonjan with an egg in one hand and spatula in the other and me with a large spoon.
"Ready?"
I nodded. Goonjan raised the spatula like a sword. It was a funny sight; two girls crowding around a silver dish sporting over sized aprons and brandishing dangerous kitchen utensils.
With a loud echoing crack, the egg shell split in two. The contents of it dropped into the steel dish. Instantly, Goonjan snatched the spoon from my hands and expertly beat it. The eggs I mean. Then she turned to the hot pan and poured in her mixture.
I watched as the yellow spot spread over the pan. Grabbing the oil bottle, I let a trickle of golden oil leak into the pan, sizzling and encircling the yellow half formed-omelet. It looked rather...pretty. Like a huge golden lake. I leaned forward and a blast of heat hit my face. That felt good.
After sometime, Goonjan handed me the spatula and made her way to the bathroom.
I stared at the spatula. Boy did it look weird. Like a hand. Maybe a frog's hand. A black frog's hand. I swatted it against my palm and chuckled. It felt like a frog. All slimy and slippery. I squinted and brought it closer. There was a speck of yellow on it. I blew at the speck. It detached itself and drifted to the floor. I watched its progress.
Presently I turned my attention to the omelet. It had turned a nice deep yellow. The smell was certainly good. I slid the spatula down the side of the pan, trying to insert it under the omelet.
CRRRRR
I frowned and tried again.
CrrRRr CRRrR
Uh oh.
I peeped at the omelet and my brows furrowed. What...?
I shoved the spatula under the omelet and lifted it like a flap. Like I was looking into a trapdoor. And I definitely did not like what I saw.
The floor of the pan was covered with what looked like a thin layer of sponge. I groped for a spoon with my other hand and then tried to scrape it off. It wouldn't come off.
Now, I started to panic.
"Erm...Goonjan?"
Goonjan flounced into the kitchen. "What?"
"Erm...take a look at this will you...?"
Goonjan frowned and leaned over the pan. She tried removing the layer of spongish thing. It didn't work. The omelet was stuck on the pan.
Her frown deepened.
"What type of pan is this?"
I just stared at her. What type of pan...?
"Erm...normal?"
"I mean is it non-stick?" Goonjan snapped irritably.
I stared at the pan. "Apparently not."

After a lot of shoving, arguing and whimpering (from my side) Goonjan managed to convince me to call my mother. I shuffled down the hall, white in the face and shaking. Suddenly, the door at the end of the hall seemed to mover further away, as if the hall was stretching. Or else I was shrinking. Either way, I found myself standing in front of a ten foot tall door. I gulped.
With a shaking hand, I knocked on the door.
The loud roaring of the water stopped abruptly. "What?"
I swallowed the lump in my throat. It didn't budge. "Erm...could you come outside? Please?"
My voice sounded rather squeaky.
"Why?" my mother asked suspiciously.
"Erm...we were making omelet in the kitchen..."
The large door burst open and sent me flying spectacularly across the hall. As my vision started to clear, I could vaguely make out my mother's silhouette against the doorway. She had a towel wrapped like a turban around her head and was wearing her pyjamas.
I made a sound that sounded like half a gurgle.
My mother strode down the hall in long, powerful steps. As she passed by, she grabbed my by the collar and I obliged with nothing more than a squawk. She was moving so fast that the calendar on the wall fluttered.
She turned and walked into the kitchen, only to trip over a small figure at her feet.
A girl was sitting on the tiled floor, her legs sprawled in odd angles. She had a large pan on her lap and with a spoon, she was scraping vigorously at it. Shreds and crumbs of yellow-black omelet were sprinkled around her. Her hair was tussled and the odd smell of burning eggs reached our noses.
"Hi." Goonjan said sheepishly.
My mother closed her gaping mouth and it formed into a thin, stern line.

I stared at the plate in front of me. There was a pile of yellow blubbery pieces on it. Omelet pieces. The remains of our masterpiece. It looked pretty, all stacked up. But not very tasty. Kind of like a yellow dung heap. I squinted at it. A really rugged dung heap. A volcanic one, by the looks of the red sauce dribbling down it. I poked it and jumped slightly when it started to wriggle violently. A very unstably, rugged, volcanic dung heap.
I sighed dejectedly. I could hear my mother scrubbing and muttering under her breath in the kitchen. The water tap was on full blast. Goonjan stared balefully in my direction, her own plate loaded in front of her.
I sighed again.
Oh well, might as well start eating it.

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.

Annoying much?

All humans have qualities that deserve applause. Some of them just deserve...a sarcastic one (preferably accompanied with the subtle rolling of eyes). Here are some annoying incidents that you just might find yourself applauding...

1. One of the things I hate most is when you're late for something - i mean, very late - and some godly entity who believes in basking in another man's humiliation pipes up (louder than necessary, mind you) and says something along the lines of - "Your late, buster." The best reply is a withering look accompanied by an exclamatory- Really? And I never knew...!

2. For some reason, people find a sadistic pleasure in expressing their exhilaration over your distress by gleefully putting forth their malicious triumph in an eloquent - "You're so dead!". I beg your pardon, but I do believe I'm very much alive...

3. When people morn over lost loved ones who died in a gruesome motorcycle crash, some innocent bystander always comes up with a sympathetic- "Oh, so it was an accident then?" Oh dear no, she liked banging her bike into ten ton cement mixers, did it all the time as a matter of fact. Sadly, these people are no longer invited to local funerals...

4. When your never before seen aunt and uncle visit all the way from Pandalpur, the first sign of their presence is a loud dull roaring (like a waterfall, you know...?) as they smash your face against their ever protruding stomach, a negligible whack between the shoulder blades, followed by the infamous verse - "Oh dear, you've...grown!" Like its the last thing in the world that a person of your age should be doing...

5. People have a habit of letting loose a stream of insults in your face and then giving you a cheeky grin. The best bit is when they guffaw at your shocked expression and then add - "But no offense." To you maybe...

6. When you slam into a wall and your parents rush over to scold you with instructions like, "You should be more careful!" Well I'm sorry if it hurt you as well...

7. When you do something stupid, like touch a hot iron, the first reaction you get is "So did you learn your lesson?" No mummy, I'm gonna touch it again, just to make sure it wasn't a dream or something...

8. When someone sees my mother holding my sister's hand, they look at her as if she's an alien and then say, "Is that your sister?" No, that's a random girl my mom picked up at the dollar shop on the way...

9. When you come home on an exam day, your parents ask you one of the most irksome question possible- "So how was the test?". Oh just dandy mom, really, I had the time of my life...so how was the funeral?

10. Here's a random one I came up with that can be used for other references as well. Someone gazes up at the sky at night and says, "look at the starts..."I mean really, what else could I be looking at up there darling?

11. I had to write this one. It's very annoying if, when you're in the middle of something, the phone starts ringing, you ask who it is, and the voice on the other line says "You didn't recognize me?" I know atleast fifteen thousand sixty five people across the globe. Do you really expect me to remember your voice...??

12. When you tell someone some serious news and their reply is "You're joking right?", it's like a personal blow to your sense of humour. I mean, my jokes aren't that bad...right? (no need to roll your eyes, sunshine.)

And yes, I will add some more once I think of them...hope you enjoyed!

The Scratch On Her Knee

It was Saturday and we were at our farmhouse. It's not my most favourite place in the world, but I didn't mind going there once in a while. It's just that there was nothing to do there except stare at the beautiful surroundings, which, if you look at it, isn't that bad I guess. It just didn't appeal to me as much as it did to my parents. Don't take me wrong, I think this whole farmhouse idea is brilliant and it will definitely be fun to go and live there, but I preferred the city somehow.

Anyways, it had been an hour since we had arrived and my mood wasn't better. It had nothing to do with the gloomy air and the boring afternoon I had had. In fact, I was in a pretty nonchalant mood if it wasn't for my sister.

My sister isn't exactly an angel. In fact, she's a regular little princess, as far as sisters go. Sweet and pure on the outside. not so sweet and not so pure on the inside. And she had the usual sisterly knack of annoying me. In the afternoon she threw a huge tantrum because she did not get her way. And now she was occupying herself with following me everywhere, copying my every move squeezing in the same chair I decided to sit on. She went so far as to stick her hands in her pocket, leaning slightly backwards and waddling around the house, stepping wherever I was and tripping over what I did. If I say so myself, I handled it well, didn't complain or didn't get annoyed for that matter.

I was getting really bored here and it didn't look like we were going to leave anytime soon so I took to sitting in our luxurious and AC-filled car reading a nice book and nibbling half-heatedly on some cold, soggy fries. I was doing fine in there, really, I was, until my sister started banging the door. I tossed my book aside and opened the car door, peaking out irritably. Apparently she had lost interest in playing hide and seek with our driver and had suddenly remembered that she was supposed to annoy me by deliberately following my around when I decidedly told her not to.

I settled back comfortably, if not a little moodily than before and resumed my reading. I had only got a few sentences ahead when my sister started pestering me with a hundred question until i told her to keep quiet for a while. At which she replied that she had to go to the bathroom.

My natural response was to groan loudly and tell her to wait. But she was persistent, whined that she had to go really badly and screamed when I sarcastically told her to wet her pants then. Quite nettled by now, but still having not last my temper yet, I dragged her to my mother and father and told them sullenly that she needed to go. They laughed a bit and said that we were going to the guesthouse anyways.

Seriously, she either waits till the last minute or else she was lying about wanting to go badly. When I pointed this out to my parents, they replied that I used to do the same. This didn't help my mood. I climbed the steps two at a time and leaped back into the car. A moment later, there was a loud tap outside the door. I stepped out and looked around, catching sight of my mother. Take her to the bathroom, she said. We have some work to do.

After the events of the days, I swear, this was the last straw. I can only control my anger to a certain extent. I stormed over to my sister, barked at her to hurry up, and stomped up the road, seething. The walk to the bathroom took five minutes, but I had already gone there once. I refused to hold her hand in anger and this didn't seem to bother her. That annoyed me even more. We walked up the road, a sweet little girl skipping merrily along, her wretched older sister storming ahead of her.

I wasn't very gentle with her as I dragged her into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. I didn't stop glaring at her the whole time and when she was done, I washed her hands quickly and rampaged out the stall.

I walked down the side of the road sullenly, with my sister on my left away from the road, and I was still refusing to hold her hand. Occasionally I nudged her a little to the side when a car started coming, but that was all. By this time, my anger had come down replaced by a cold, gloomy pit in my stomach. I started to cross the road, calling to my sister to cross as well. Something in my mind told me to go over there and drag her aside, but I ignored it and told her once again to come to the side of the road, this time, a little sharply. She, being the sister she is, didn't listen.

Suddenly, in the distance, I heard the rushing sound of an oncoming car. Time seemed to stop. My heart stopped with it. I whirled around, my mind had gone blank for a split second, and the only thought that crossed my mind was I have to get her to the side! I watched, almost in horror, as the car sped around the bend and my sister, skipping happily right in the middle of its path. I screamed loudly, yelling at her to come to the side, half starting in her direction myself, my voice touched with panic.

My sister's eyes went wide. She half realised what was going on and made panicky move towards me, stumbling as she ran blindly. She seemed to be driven forward by instinct and fear more than reason. She stumbled and fell a few feet away from me just as the car passed the spot where she had been not even a second ago. I forgot all sense of time, place and even my previous anger and threw my arms around my sister, who was now sobbing from the bruises on her hands and knees but mainly from her sudden fright.

The next few hours went in a blur. My sister didn't seem fazed that she had nearly been run over by a car, but was more concerned by the fact that she had fallen. I was thankful either way. She didn't mention the car, it was, I guess, her way of saying its ok, I know how horrible you feel. My behaviour towards her for the next few hours changed from mild annoyance to outright affection. My parents didn't say anything, only raised their eyebrows. But only for a few hours, mind you. After that, everything was back to normal and my and my sister were squabbling once more.

But I can never forget that incident, its like a scar on my knee of life. Near death occurrences are God's way of reminding you how much you really love someone, and how much you'd miss them, no matter how much they annoy you. I shudder to think of what would have happened if she had not moved in time and how I would have lived life knowing that maybe, if I had been less angry and just held her hand, she would still be here. Sure, me and my sister fight, we annoy each other, we do all of that. But at the end of the day, I thank God with all my heart that my little sister had scraped her knee because really, I think a scraped knee is a flimsy price to pay, for your life.

Race Ki Kahaani (Namrata style!)

India is known in the world for making the most films. Which, in my opinion, is a pretty poor record to be proud of. Every year, hundreds of bakwaas movies hits the big screen out of which a few of them actually deserve an applause at all. This year's films, so far, have been quite amusing frankly, and one particular one ticked me off.

The biggest movie to hit the screen at the moment was Race. It's obvious that the cast attracted the people into even seeing the film. The title said it all, the movie was obviously a race to keep up with other English action films. I really admire the people who had to summarize the movie on pamphlets, seeing that there is no plot and the story takes very random turns where you start off with horses, you end up with outdated fruit puns (sounds like a summary of my life.)

Now as the story goes, Sonia is supposedly married to Ranvir's step brother Rajeev when she obviously loves Ranvir but actually she is plotting with Rajeev to kill Ranvir thus conveniently ending all discussion on whether she actually loves Ranvir. But we must also keep in mind that she's actually on Ranvir's side and the duo are plotting to out-plot Rajeev by plotting with him to help plot against him thus gaining access to his plans and then always staying a step ahead of him. A simple enough story line.

So now keeping in mind all of the above, we proceed with the story from our new best friend Rajeev's point of view. The boy has cunningly concluded that to end his life-long aversion to his brother's, well, brotherliness, and to get a few million bucks in the bargain, obviously, he must be discreet and subtle. He must kill him. Now it would be convenient to just push him, say, off a cliff, but that, obviously would be a very un-glamorous ending to our tale so he decides that the lady-who-actually-loves-his-brother-but-married-him must do the killing by the simple method of pushing him off a building. Smart boy.

Rajeev acts heartbroken on hearing that his own brother has had an affair with his wife and declares that he will commit suicide. At this point, the crowd has been given a subtle clue that Ranvir knows of Rajeev's mischievous endeavours. And so with this in mind Ranvir rushes over, oblivious to the fact that Rajeev wants to kill him (wink wink!) and the two of them, like the intelligent men they are, have an over-the-edge-of-a-very-tall-skyscraper, heart to heart talk which is very rudely interrupted by a certain Sonia dramatically entering the scene. But her applaud-deserving entrance is in turn, rudely ignored by both the men who are now pretending that they don't know perfectly well that their beloved has entered the fray. Now the audience is hanging on the edge of their seats, wondering what the eccentric Sonia will do. Who will she push?

It would have been a very interesting ending if Sonia had been a wee bit smarter and pushed them both off the building hereby getting all the money to herself. But to the surprise of the crowd, she remains annoyingly obtuse and sticks to the original plan thus removing Ranvir out of the picture for a while.

The first real eyebrow-raiser comes when police officer RD and his mini-size skirted (and equally mini-size brained) secretary arrive at the scene of crime and decide to "investigate", which is completely pointless seeing that they are also on Ranvir's side and know the whole plan. Officer RD keeps stuffing himself with phal throughout the movie while his pea-brained secretary conveniently points out for the blind people in the crowd what fruit RD's eating until you develop a lifelong aversion to anything with seeds. His jokes are decidedly not-funny and you don't, in fact, even realise they are jokes until you see the you-can-start-laughing-now looks on the actor's faces accompanied by the da-dum-dum-dum beats that follow good, hearty PJs.

And I also thought I should point out that RD's extremely phalthu secretary had a disturbing mental disability to comprehend any explanation that lasts more than ten seconds.

Katrina Kaif, on the other hand, plays the angel faced, sweet tongued, black hearted secretary of Ranvir, and like all secretaries, has taking a strong liking to her boss. And after Ranvir's shocking but predictable death, we find out to our utmost horror that Sophia is actually married to Ranvir. Now that, we weren't expecting. What's more, Ranvir's money that would have gone to Rajeev now goes to Sophia, Ranvir's secretary-cum-wife.

So what does Rajeev do? Kill her? Not at all! Win her over of course. And to dear Sonia's dismay, Sophia was already with Rajeev from the beginning and now that Ranvir is gone, Rajeev wants to kill Sonia off. Guesses as to what happens?

Well being a Hindi movie, obviously the hero must return. At the horrifying scene where Rajeev sensibly tries to run Sonia over with a truck and Sonia unhelpfully does not cooperate, Ranbir comes flying out of nowhere and somehow miraculously avoids being seen by the assassin truck driver to whom Sonia handed over her own picture for victim clarifications and saves his girl. The movie undauntedly ends with a car race between the two brothers and their girls where obviously, Ranvir wins.

The songs make up for Anil Kapoor's pathetic jokes, and they vary from the soft beats of Pehli Nazaar Mein, to the loud rock of Race Saanson Ki, to the tantalizing music of Zara Zara Touch Me. But the songs should fit in with the general theme of randomness and so to promote the above mentioned, the director has inserted dance numbers almost as if he had eeny-meeny-miny-moe-ed them in. And apparently, the three heroins are having their own Race; who can wear the skimpiest outfits?

Now this is only one person's opinion, but regarding this movie, my outlook is entirely skeptical. The film is a desperate attempt to present the Indian crowd with an Indian styled Keanu Reeves Blockbuster and has emerged as a poorly failed attempt of "trying to be cool". The movie in general entertained me to some extent and left me breathless with disdainful laughter. But then again, Race saanson ki, kyon nahi?

Men-tal Hysteria

They change their minds like lightening

one minute they will be

wholly yours and yours alone

then falter, when they see


a prettier looking chick

walking down the rain-filled street

with tiny rosebud lips

and sparkle studded feet


When alone they're oh-so-sweet

submissive, no less!

in presence of their friends though,

from that topic they digress


They flirt with shameless guile

and see to impress

by being biggest bully

on the playground of success


They're dumber than a jackass

when it comes to reading signs

that girls make in their presence

they can't "read between the lines"



what's more they think its cool

to be a girl-allergic

and like to make them cry

with comments that are sick!


they make you laugh and smile,

they make you cry and shout

well what can you say really?

can't live with them or without!

The annoyingly evasive piece of metal that has been cut into a special shape and is used for fastening or unfastening a lock

WARNING: The following narration is 99% genuine with a tad bit of exageration and a few added words here and there. We are terribly sorry for the inconvenience caused due to the above.


I feel sorry for criminals. I mean, for all you know, they might have committed some heinous crime quite unintentionally, and they might be really, really sorry now. They must be stewing in their own guilt, knowing that they're going to die, probably feeling like killing themselves anyways, just to get it over with... I mean, come on people! Have a heart! Give them a break!

You might wonder why I've developed this sudden, repulsive sympathy for these fellows, but I have my reasons. I've been there, done that, etcetera. Alright, so I haven't been to prison, but I have just narrowly escaped from the unpleasant situation of never being able to see the light of day again.

I was at home, it was Friday, and we had tons of homework. My friend and I were tackling the load together. Said friend's mother was offering to take us out for pizza if we finished in time. Friend number two had gone home early and didn't want pizza. So it was the four of us; me and my friend's family. Let's call my friend, Nidhi.

That day I got an unusually large number of calls. First there was dad, telling me he wouldn't be home that day for dinner, then mom, reminding me to get the keys out since she didn't have hers, and lastly my aunt saying that we're supposed to come over to her place the next day. But that's off topic.

At seven-thirty, we decided to go over to Nidhi's place. Friend number two, aka, Mihika, was in the house at that time. We all descended the stairs, talking about our plans for the weekend. I walked into the veranda, closing the wooden door shut behind me.

I can't say for sure whether it was the click of the lock as the door banged shut or whether it was just a mere coincidence, but my mind was hit by a bolt of lightening. The unpleasant kind, mind you. And all of a sudden, the memories of my conversation with mom came rushing into my brain.

Oh and remember to get the keys before coming outside OK? I don't have mine with me. Don't forget!

Of course not mom!

Ha.

My friends, noticing my sudden state of utter terror, stopped talking and rushed to my side.

"What's wrong?"

"Are you OK?"

"What happened?"

I gulped. Once. Twice. Thrice. Then, with the general air of a man attending his own funeral, I croaked out a single word: "key."

My friend's face turned a hideous shade of green.

I sat shakily in a chair, wondering how in heaven's name I'd worm my way out of this one, when my friend (Nidhi) let out a scream of pure horror.

"Where are my shoes?"

I sputtered at her.

"Your shoes?!"

"Yes my shoes! Where are they?"

"I don't know...! Where did you keep them?"

"Right here! God, help me find my shoes!"

I tried to keep my voice level. "I'm about to die in the hand of my own mother and your worrying about your shoes?"

"Well what? You want me to go home barefoot?"

I don't know why, but the word 'barefoot' suddenly jarred my brain. That's it! My neighbours would have the keys!

Before my friends could ask why I seemed so terribly happy at the prospect of Nidhi going barefoot, I shoved them out of the way, and sprinted (barefoot, mind you) around the backyard and into the adjoining compound.

I raced to the front door and nearly collapsed there in fatigue. A nice, kind woman opened the screen door and tried not to show how perplexed she was at my worn out state.

"Can I help you dear?"

"Yes," I gasped, "Do you, by chance, have the spare keys to my house?"

Time stretched for an eternity as the woman rubbed her nose.

"No, I don't think so..."

I was out of there before she could complete her sentence.

I crossed my fingers and prayed with all my heart that the other neighbours had it. Once again, overcome with exhaustion, I banged on their front door. It swung open. A man stood in the doorway, eyes raised sky high.

"Are you alright?"

"W-e-ell, yes..but no...do you have our spare keys?"

A small smile appeared on his face. And that day I learned that people generally smile when they realise that they can be of no use whatsoever.

As he shook his head in a dejected gesture of a person saying "no", I could practically hear the death gongs beat through the deadly night. I was close to tears.

The man, Mr. Joshi we'll call him, noticed my state of utter depression and decided to ask politely what was wrong. I told him the whole story and he peered at me solemnly.

"Does your grandfather have the spare?"

I could have hugged him. Of course my grandfather had the spares! Relief flooded in me...

I froze mid jump. My grandfather was taking a walk. Outside. Within sight of my mother. I'd have to go find him. Outside. Within sight of my mother. That would lead to questions. Outside. By my mother. Which would lead to a horrifying case of murder. Outside. Within sight of others. In short I couldn't go out there....

but someone else could.

I eyed Mr. Joshi, wondering how persuasive I'd have to be...

After some amount of minutes...

I jogged back to my place, my feet trying to avoid the prickly pain of the tiny stones on the road. I turned the corner and caught sight of both my friends, one looking extremely confused and panicked, the other looking extremely bored and decisively un-panicked.

"Where is she?" Nidhi bellowed, her hands waving up and down in an otherwise amusing manner.

Mihika, looking unperturbed by my sudden disappearance and Nidhi's distressed state of mind shrugged, "She went to your place without you."

"WHAT?"

"What?"

I entered into view. Went to her place indeed! Now where did she come up with that?

Nidhi whirled around at the sound of my voice. I cringed at the sight of her disheveled self.
"And where have you been??"

"Never mind..."

I stopped mid sentence.

This time, my mind wasn't triggered by some utterly unrelated set of words, but more by the sight of my house. I leaped over the fence and ran a hand down the barred windows. I slipped my arm in between the cold rods and fingered my way to the latch, which clicked open almost immediately.

My eyes went wide. I pushed open the sliding glass and the netted screen that followed. And soon enough, I had successfully opened the window. I nearly cried out with joy as I saw, not more that a few feet away from the window, was my mom's purse inside which, sitting on the rest of it contents like a crowned queen, was the key.

The only problem? The window was barred.

I eyed it grimly. There was no way I could slip through. Even Mihika wasn't skinny enough, and that was saying something. I wondered if breaking into your own house was considered a crime and soon gave up on the idea. The ironic thing was, I could see the key right there, but there was no way of reaching it. It was quiet a depressing scene, really.

My friend approached me from behind and eyed my arms outstretched pathetically, trying, in vain, to reach an object which lay all the way across the room. "Well, what now?"

"The spare key," I sighed, "Might be with my grandfather..."

Nidhi looked at me, confused.

"What?" I snapped, "I thought that my grandfather might have the spares. But I can't find him."

"Sue me if I'm wrong, but isn't your grandfather right there?"

I whirled around to the direction of her finger. I blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. And with the general air of person seeing a ghost, I croaked out a single word: "No way."

OK, so it was two words.

I stared in blank astonishment at my grandfather sitting on the veranda chair, untying his boots at a painstakingly slow pace. My friends and I held our breaths, each one of us not daring to believe, hoping, praying that he had the key.

My grandfather got up. Slowly. Deliberately. He steadied himself on the arm of the chair and eyed the door. He was a man on a mission. He shuffled to the door. Two feet away. One foot.

With a single, quivering arm, he reached for the bell.

I burst into tears.

A large group of girls, namely, the rest of my friends, watched me in complete confusion as I sank dejectedly to the ground. All my hopes and dreams for a peaceful evening were shattered. Not to mention the pizza...

"Look!"

I looked up and found (quite to my irritation) that all my friends had left my side and were now talking casually in my veranda, as if nothing had gone amiss. I slowly trudged inside, my curiosity piqued.

And I froze.

Right in front of me, like welcoming arms, the large wooden door stood wide open.

I tell you, I have never felt better in my life. I let out a cry of pure joy, scaring half the crowd into falling in their chairs and shoved the other half into falling anyways. I ran to my grandfather, hugging him nearly to death. I thanked him a billion times and then suddenly flew off. My grandfather watched me in stunned silence, then shook his head, muttering to himself about "teenager these days!...."

I got to the front table and held my breath. There, shining like a box of gold, sat my Mom's purse. With a trembling hand, hoping this wasn't a dream, I reached for the keys. The whole house seemed to erupt in applause and I felt tears well up . I delicately cupped the precious object in my hands, my eyes feasting on its simplicity. The key.

I turned around and held the key up, like a trophy, for all my friends to see. They stood there, speechless, staring, hypnotised at the key as realisation struck them. All to late, they turned a weird shade of green and then back to normal.

Nidhi pushed her way in front, holding her own prize in her hands (though mine was shinier and more pleasant to look at). Her eyes shone. Cradling them, like a newborn baby, dirt-filled and smelly, were her shoes.

She grinned broadly. "I found them."

A true story from the diaries of Namrata Kakade...

EPILOGUE

I did get to go for pizza that day, just if your wondering. I was the happiest person on earth as I proudly handed the keys to a certain beaming mother. My friends, of course, had to ruin the moment by snorting in the most most suggestive way and making hideous faces behind my mother's back. My mother didn't know about this incident till at least a month later, by which time she was laughing too hard to feel murderous. My grandfather seemed extremely pleased with himself to know that he saved the day.

If your wondering about Nidhi's shoes, they were actually at the back door. I had told hers so a few times, though I had unfortunately omitted the word 'back' in my haste to find the keys. She circled the house four to five times (each time somehow failing to notice her shoes) and ended up remembering where they were when I decided I had omitted the key word 'back' for too long.

Right. And Mr. Joshi, didn't find my grandfather (I wonder why...) but once we all had calmed down, I conveniently tracked the man down and thanked him for his immense help and support for which he replied that he hadn't done anything (which was technically true...but we'll let it pass) and he was always glad to be of assistance.

And for future reference, I did forget the keys many more times after this, but my grandfather conveniently carried his at all times...

Fashioned Forebodings

I'm shaking madly
sniffing sadly
awaiting my doom.
Drum rolls play
the sky is grey
I dwell in grief and gloom.

My mom drives in
that great car bin
dark and made of stone.
I want to shout
as we walk out
into the wild unknown.

A monstrous tower
of awesome power
and people march inside.
I then inhale
my face is pale
bravery, I tried,

But quake with fear
my end is near,
I know, I'm scared for sure.
We walk into
the deadly blue
and flamingo pink contour.

strange are smells;
like one who dwells
in artificial fauna.
The shoppers, gosh!
they look so posh!
like beauty's cruel persona.

The perfume is choking!
the displays, revolting
the music's nice, its true,
but people stare;
"how could you dare?
this place's not for you!"

But head held high
though I shy
away from mannequins
which, from their hair
and murderous stare
don't look like human beings.

The make up stand
the music band
the escalators too
the six large floors
the numerous doors
can't tell which one's the loo...

The polished tiles
the latest styles
the queues at trial rooms
the purses bare
the bright footwear
the attendant that looms,

breathes down your neck
well what the heck?
I can find my way around!
I'm not a thief
o good grief!
she'll wait till I have found

what I need
and God, i plead!
please help me to escape
this prison cell
this indoor hell
with halls of maze-like shape.

"Where is she?"
"where could she be?"
"To so desperately call?"
your curious...
I'm furious!
I'm at the shopping mall.

(I've exaggerated extravagantly in this one...) (*wink*wink*)

A Contrast to Yellow

I was never a very athletic person. Sure, I used to like playing outside, but I wasn't a sports-lover as such. I preferred sitting inside and reading books. I never really specialised in any sport, but I was good enough to be taken seriously. I knew swimming, tennis, basketball, though I was never an expert at any of them. And I was hopeless at stamina and flexibility.

I guess that's why I never even really tried to be good at it either. I just never felt it important. I valued academics over athletics. It never troubled me that I was not very nicely built, or strong or burly. But there was one thing that did trouble me often.

In my school, we had something called the Presidential Fitness Award. It was held at the end of every school year. It was basically a series of tests for all students testing their stamina, strength, endurance and flexibility. According to your age and gender, they classified you as Participant or National.

One boy and one girl from the school were honored with the Presidential award, the highest level you could get. You had to pass certain limits in each category to get each badge. Presidential was hardest to get.

So when the week for the Presidential Fitness arrived, I wasn't exactly enthusiastic about it. All my friends were, because all of them always got National. Me and two or three others from my class came under Participant. I'll admit, I was jealous. I had always kind of hoped to get national one day, but I never really gave it a second thought. It would be nice, I reflected, to see a perfect red badge on my desk for everyone to see. It would be a change to the boring yellowness of the Participant badge, that I had gotten used to.

But that year, in fifth grade, things were different. It was my last year at this school, and, I realized, my last chance to really try and get National. But even that thought didn't immediately spur me to success.

The first test was the endurance run. We had to run about a mile, eight laps around the field, in the shortest amount of time. If you made it in eleven minutes, congratulations, you made it to Nationals. I didn't even bother to find out the time limit for Presidential. The test started, and I started out pretty good, at an average pace.

But after about one lap, my pace started to slow down. I started getting tired, out of breath, and felt like walking. But somehow, somewhere, I felt a nagging urge to keep going. I suddenly increased my pace then slowed down a bit to make it feel as if I was going slower. Every lap I covered, I said to myself "only one more to go!" and thus, I completed eight. Nonstop. Without a pause. I just kept running.

And to my utmost wonder, I had passed the mark for Nationals. The endurance run was one of the tests I feared most, and I had aced it. Somehow, that boosted my confidence sky high, and it was after this incident that I truly and wholly, with all my heart, strove to get Nationals.

The next few tests went as a blur. I completed the shuttle run with neck-breaking speed, did all the push ups I could until my arms practically shattered and did so many cur ups that my stomach muscles screamed in pain. But I did it. I aced all those tests. Now I truly had a chance at Nationals.

Bu the last and final test loomed over me mockingly, the one reason I couldn't get to Nationals. The V-stretch. Basically, we had to sit with our feet stretched out in V shape with a distance of two feet between our two feet. Then we had to stretch. That's right, we had to stretch as much as we could past our ankles. The mark for Nationals? Three inches. Three lousy inches. And how much could I make? negative one. negative one. I could so pass this baby, right? Of course not.

That night I sat down on the floor of my room and practiced for hours. I stretched and stretched until I was positive that I couldn't stretch any more. We went to my friend's house. I stretched there. We went to the park. I sat on the tanbark and stretched. I had to do this, it had become a mania for me.

The next day, I was shaking with anticipation and apprehension. Last night's practice had been fruitful; I could make it to three inches. The trick was to be able to hold it there for three seconds. In that particular, ability, I lacked.

In the few precious minutes we had before the test, me and my friends tried to squeeze in as much practice as we could, using our fingers to measure out three inches. Even through all the last minute preparations, I still didn't feel much better. And as I sat on the mat and readied myself, I reflected, for a split second, on all of the events of the past few days. Well, I though as I eyed the marking for three inches, at least you'll know you tried.

Believe me, as I looked at the markings, I had never realised how truly large one inch was. The whistle blew, and, like all the other times at home when I practiced, I raised my hands, threw all my body weight flat on the ground, and stretched. And when the whistle for three seconds blew, you could say that I was the happiest person on earth.

I didn't get to go up on stage to receive the National award since I was already in India by the time the award ceremony was arranged. But I was equally happy when I got the mailed certificate along with my perfect new badge. As I kept it along with the rest of my battered, yellow Participant badges, I thought to myself, the redness of my new badge was such a contrast to the fading yellow of my old ones. And as I sit here writing this story, I only have to glance up to see the badge, gleaming proudly on my desk, looking just as red and perfect as it did, four years ago, in my dreams.

Inside The Glass Dome

'Gather here everyone

the show will begin soon

said the man at the ticket booth

beneath the silver moon

And I was standing in the crowd

sandwiched in the middle

thoguh to the colossal stadium,

our pack, it looked quite little

Today was the day, the significant day

for which with due respect

the world had much looked forward to

thus all were posh and decked

And people poured like grains of sand

women, child and all

men from all across the world

were gathered in that hall

And finally the curtains rolled

the drums did loudly beat

as the world watched expectantly

clutching to their seat

Inside the tiny dome of glass

it stood there, tall and lean

its body was of golden white

and crowned with freshly green

So brittle it looked, they held their breath

and necks craned to see

a spectacle that stood alone

alas, the Earth's last tree

From The Bookworm's Desk

Who says that non-Americans can't write good books in English? Everyone has the mindset that all those English books you read are written either by an American, or British. I admit, even I used to think that way. But I've learned over the past few years that you don't have to be born English to write good English fantasy novels.

I recently read a book by an Indian man named Samit Basu. It is a series of three books called the GameWorld Trilogy. I immediately fell in love with it, and you seriously can not compare his work to anyone else's. He wrote the books in English, but a lot of the names and concepts are derived from Indian mythology, beliefs and are overall Indian in origin. His work brings out the true meaning of utilising your resources. He had expertly woven Indian traditions with the basic lifestyles of fictional fantasy characters to create something very different, and also very fun to read.

The story idea is also very original, and I really liked it. It's not your average save-the-world-from-the-bad-guy story. One major point that the author has tried to emphasise is that a villain in not necessarily always evil. It depends on the way you look at things. From one side, the victim feels the villain to be the bad guy. But for the villain, he's only doing what he thinks is right. For example, in the usual cat-chases-mouse stories of Tom and Jerry, Tom is always looked upon as the villain who tries to get rid of Jerry in the most cruel ways possible. But from Tom's point of view, he is only trying to do his duty to his mistress and secure his own survival by eradicating the pesky mouse.

Samit Basu's tale is extremely colourful, with humour on every page. He has combined various extremely popular stories like those of Alice in Wonderland, Robin Hood and also those of Indian and Greek mythology to get a fresh and very original piece of work. I thoroughly enjoyed reading his stories and I would definitely recommend them to all those who thrive on fantasy fiction.