My Own Personal Angel-Devil

NOTE: Ignore the random dots in between some of the paras.
.
I sat in the corner of the room, fuming.

The whole class was shouting noisily around me, throwing things at each other, doing graffiti on the blackboard, gossiping, flirting, all the works.

I was sitting in the very corner of the class, sulking.

Mihika sat unhappily beside me, ever so often glaring in my direction. The rest of the girls were huddled over one desk, whispering, giggling and pointing madly at the boys. The boys, completely oblivious to this, were talking about cars and Pokemon.

I took out a notebook and decided to start doing my homework. Silly girls, wasting their time. Why don't they do something constructive? They could read the textbook.

Yes, in sixth grade, I was that bad.

I have heard that the teachers would patronize Apoorva Zarkar by saying that she should look up to me and Aishwarya as role models.

Don't say it. Please. Just ask the others.

But you have to cut me some slack. I was the new kid, hated by all and hated all. Being the new kid...sucked. I had just moved from the US, I was completely new to this stuff, and to top it all, I had a wonderfully posh american accent that Aishwarya claims I still haven't completely shaken off.

So anyway, my life pretty much sucked. I would go home everyday and cry in bed. And Mihika sitting beside me and glaring in my direction did not help my mood.

None of the girls in my class looked at me twice. I was some stupid annoying idiot to them. They didn't like me, and I thought them as 'ghatti'. You see, I didn't have much of choice amongst friends either. We were only five, not including me. Here were my options:

Mihika - puh-lease. She is one of my really really close friends now, but she knows as well as I do, what a horrible pain she was. Believe it or not, she made me cry (she stole me eraser ok? And that eraser meant a lot to me). Well, I was a crybaby, always have been, except now I'm a little more careful when it comes to the sensitive, emotional side of me. It still dominates my life though.

Sanjana - was actually one of the only ones who bothered to talk to me. She was always very nice and polite, but she was also the most popular girls in school, so I didn't stand a chance.

*This is just a short summary of the girl politics in sixth grade. The most popular girl (believe it or not) was Shristi. Her best friend was Sanjana. So Shristi and Sanjana were the most popular among girls and guys alike and their group included two girls - Nichita and Girija. Vaishnavi was the class prankster so she was well loved too, and the rest of them just follwed behind those five girls like puppies.

Vaishnavi - very boisterous and...picky about people. I was never one for violence, so I never understood the need to shove people out of your way, especially when they already are. She is a generally good person, but like ninety per cent of the girls, not one for 'newbies'.

Apoorva Chitnis - I don't think I ever heard her speak.

Apporva Zarkar - Do I need to explain?

So basically, the options were limited. And as for the boys...lets say that Namdeo class boys were still firm girl-haters and immature brats.

I wasn't the only new kid though. There was Padmanabh and Maloji too. Which made my day so much better.

And so I sat on the only available seat in the class; next to Mihika.

I felt my eyes water up like the leaky taps they are and immediately started rubbing them. Crying would not do, not here, where the girls would scoff and the boys would laugh and the teachers would patronize. God, I pleaded, joining my hands together in prayer, God, please send in a new girl. Please please please.

Of course, the chances of that were pretty slim, seeing that it was already July and we were a month into the academic year. But the situation I was in was so depressing, that I felt it was worth a shot.

And, just as if God had actually heard me, there came my own personal angel.

Ok, so she was the last person you can call an angel; in fact, she was the very incarnation of the devil himself. Cute and small, with a bob of short, wild black hair framing her chubby, dimpled face, an eleven year old girl was being herded inside our class by our class teacher. She looked sullen (the girl I mean), and very very unhappy. Glaring defiantly at everyone, which was more than I could do, she stood in front of the class, next to the teacher.

Madhubala Aunty smiled and her glasses slipped down her nose. "Class, we have an unexpected new girl in our class. I'd like you to meet..."

I didn't hear the rest. Dumbstruck, I rubbed my eyes, to check if they were defected.

God had answered my prayers. On the very day I had wished it, he had granted it.

My mind started working in overdrive. I could not, no, would not let any other girl in our class talk to her. I could not lose this opportunity. I would never forgive myself if she became their friend.

I glared at all the girls in our class, who looked downright bored. I had a claim over her. God had sent her here for me.

~

.

Furious with myself for not having been able to talk to her the previous day, I ran to the classroom, huffing and puffing on the way. I walked into the class, where everybody had already settled in. My eyes automatically skimmed to my usual seat at the back of the room next to Mihika.

.

I froze.

.

My seat was occupied by the new girl.

.

This was not what made me angry, how could she have known it was my seat? No, I was seriously pissed with Mihika for letting her sit there in the first place. I had managed to let someone steal my only potential friend from me. Mihika, without having a need for a new friend, without doing any work, had managed to secure a seat next to the new girl.

.

Life was so unfair!

.

Angry, hurt, and furious with myself, I dragged my feet despairingly towards the other end of the class. A desk over there was empty, but it was cornered by other desks, which were crowded by boys. The nervous, hyperventilating side of me took over. I was going to have to sit all alone next to boys. I had never really been popular among boys. The witty, outgoing girls like Shristi, Sanjana and Vaishnavi were. Not unattractive, shy girls like me.

.

Ameya Gokhale raised his eyebrow as I nervously placed my bag beside the table. He may have just been in sixth grade, but he was still Ameya Gokhale. A smile twitched on his face and he whispered something into Rugved's ear. They both burst out laughing, hitching their thumbs over to my desk. I glared at them, turning a brilliant red, and yanked the chair back for me to sit. Boys.

.

"Um....can I sit here?"

.

I looked up in wonder to see the new girl standing awkwardly beside the table, chewing her lip and shifting her weight from one foot to another.

.

I started vibrating with excitement. I could not let this opportunity go.

.

I beamed at her. "Of course you can sit here!"

.

She gave me a weird look before sitting beside me. Thrilled to finally have the new girl to myself, I jumped up and down beside her. "Do you need help?"

.

She blinked at me. "Uh..."

.

"Here," I yanked open her bag before she could stop me and started pulling out her books.

.

"What the f...!"

.

I ignored the use of bad language (I had, and still do, have a thing against swearing) and started arranging her books in the pigeon hole. "Here is were the science notebooks go....maths is above that and history and geography to the side. The Hindi and Sanskrit book are on that shelf. Give me your textbooks, they have to be kept in that cupboard and we have to take them out whenever we need them. You can keep them in your desk if you like, but I doubt there's enough space. Lunch time is at twelve thirty and we have to go downstairs near the dining area. Do you have an ink pen? Yeah, ball pens are not allowed so you better have one. I have an extra if you need one..."

.

I paused to take a breath. The girl stared at me with wide, awe-inspired eyes that told me I can't believe she's being so nice! They were actually wide and horrified and said Who the hell is this freak?

.

I beamed at her, hugging her English notebook to my chest. "My name is Namrata, by the way. I just moved too, a month ago from the US..."

.

Before I could launch into a history of that (which, trust me, bugged the hell out of her later on), the girl interrupted, "Right, okay."

.

"What's your name?" I asked politely.

.

The girl leaned back and gave me a good look, as if to see if I was really worth the trouble. What she saw was a short, chubby girl with two geeky ponytails tied as high upon the head as humanly possible, round, out of perspective glasses, big socks drawn up to her knees, her arms cradling an English notebook, a huge, nose-twitchy, stupid smile on her childish face.

.

She groaned, as if asking God why he didn't give her anyone 'cooler'. And then, taking a deep breath, as if bracing herself then and there, for the next four years of her life that I have bugged her, she finally seemed to accept that I was not about to let her go. And surely enough, to this day, I haven't. Except now, neither can she (Of course, if you ask her, she'll deny it).

.

The girl made a face, a face that all who know her now are so fondly familiar with. The very face that greets you early in the morning, accompanied with an equally earsplitting yell and an authoritative finger that can only come from having a deputy head-girl badge.

.

"My name is Aishwarya."

Memories

These incidents are very true. Ask my personal witness Ajinkya if you like (though I don't think you'll get much out of him....he'd be laughing too hard).

INCIDENT 1: THE PLASTIC BUNNIES.

There was only so much you could do to a plastic bunny.

I mean, they were cute, normal looking plastic bunnies about the size of a table-tennis ball. They were coated with colourful furs of every baby colour imaginable. Baby pink, baby blue, baby green, baby yellow. Baby, baby, baby. Cute, cute, cute.

I mean seriously, What's the most one could do to them? Rip off their ears? Break off their toes? Peel off their eyes? Drown them in apple sauce??

Think of the absolute worst form of torture options available to an aspiring plastic bunny.

Ajinkya and I though of something ten times worse.

We gathered the plastic bunnies and sat on the cold kitchen floor. We were three, for crying out loud. Plastic bunnies were a popular attraction. The parents were completely unaware of us. From their point of view, we were two toddlers playing bunnies-go-to-Lalaland. What could two toddlers do with a few plastic bunnies?

Never underestimate psychopathic three-year-olds. Especially if their name happens to be Ajinkya Joshi.

Ok, so it wasn't all his fault. For those of you who have met him, I congratulate you for having survived the experience and assume that you know that hanging around Ajinkya for more than half an hour could lead to deep trouble. For those of you who have not met him (thank goodness for you), here's a little insight:

Alright, Ajinkya is my very old childhood friend. I've known him for...thirteen years now I believe? Anyway, it was usually me, Ajinkya, Goonjan (yes, the one and only) and a quiet boy called Aneesh who would wreck havoc everywhere. Ajinkya and I, mainly. Well Tanay wasn't any better....

but that's a different story.

Where was I? Yes, so Ajinkya is what we call a 'special case'. I'm three months older than him (it so totally shows) but mentally, it could be three years or so. He looks at the world, frankly, as one big colossal joke. He laughs at mildly disturbing things or things that aren't even remotely close to jokes. He makes pjs out of pjs. He does crazy, impulsive, exasperating stuff. He tends to annoy the hell out of me and laugh for no reason whatsoever. He used to take two hours to finish his dinner. He broke Goonjan's vase once.

He is Ajinkya. full stop.

At age three, were hadn't yet developed the sense of what was 'good' and what was 'bad'. We only knew the basic facts of life.
Number one, Santa Clause does exist.
Number two, it was universally known and accepted that bunnies are white.

Which is the thought that we shared through mutual understanding and nonsensical baby talk. We agreed that colouring them up in pink, blue and green was totally unacceptable and was a crime that required our attention immediately. It was one of those driving obsessions. I have to find out who she is. I must have that candy bar.

Bunnies have got to be white!

Having thought the problem through, analyzed the situation and assessed our resources, we proceeded in taking the most appropriate course of action. Very solemnly, we carried out the task that could shake the very foundations of the toddler world.

~

Having been silent for more than fifteen minutes, suspicion began to worm its way into the parental minds. Yet, they didn't bother to check what we were up to.

That is, until Aneesh came home, peeked into the kitchen, and let out a loud, bloodcurdling scream.

Bracing themselves for something unpleasant, they scouted their way towards our little kitchen club. They didn't brace themselves enough. They stood in horror and shocked silence as two wide-eyed toddlers started up at them. Aneesh sobbed violently and was more than ready to murder us. Still screaming, he lunged at me and Ajinkya.

It took a lot of consoling and prying to get Aneesh's little hands off of our necks. Completely harrowed by this unexpected reaction, Ajinkya and I stared at each other in confusion. What had we done wrong? We were only doing our duty by following one of nature's most important laws. Bunnies are white. It wasn't like we poked out their eyes, or broke their toes, or ripped off their ears.

We only peeled of their lush, baby coloured fur. We only clawed at their skin and tore it off their bodies, leaving them plain, plastic and white and also leaving behind a gory mess in the kitchen in their wake.

Sigh...that's what we did, Ajinkya and I.

INCIDENT 2: THE CANDY CANE

Me and Goonjan (I hope you aren't getting tired of her, but she's essentially my bad luck charm) stared in horror at the gigantic plastic candy cane in both our hands. It wasn't necessarily the enormousness of it that had our mouths hanging. No, the fact that half of it was in my hands and the other half in hers was what made our day.

There was a complete silence that followed the cracking that had echoed through the house.

To say that we were warned to be careful with it would be downright lying. We had been screamed at over and over again that we were not to bring harm to it; not a scratch or a stain.

To say we had breached that rule would also be a lie.

Goonjan and I stared at it stupidly, both halves of the hollow candy cane hanging limply in our arms.

It was Ajinkya who broke the silence.

To say that he chuckled would not do justice to the crime he committed. He burst into peals of infectious Ajinkya-snort-laughts that, at the moment, held no charm for anyone. Personally, I didn't see what was so funny in this situation. Bu then, Ajinkya's sense of humour wasn't normal. Well, Ajinkya wasn't normal.

Mihir's reply was more suitable, eloquent and simple. "Shit."

Ameya, who until now was typing on his computer, whirled around to see what we "kids" were up to. He let loose a string of profanities that would have made his great-grandmother role over in her grave. Mihir winced at the cussing and Ajinkya's laugh hitched up and octave.

"What the hell did you do?!?" Ameya screamed. For a sixteen year old boy, his vocabulary was pretty dirty. My sarcasm wanted to answer with a 'gee, I dunno, what does it look like we're doing?' but I don't think that would've boosted our chances of survival.

Goonjan started hyperventilating and muttering to herself. I passed the time glaring venomously at Ajinkya, who was perched on top of the bunk bed, his neck beyond reach of my hands. He grinned at me gleefully. Obviously, he was having fun.

Luckily Aditi hadn't found out yet. I really don't understand her obvious attachment to a plastic candy cane, but Aditi was kind of weird that way.

Just then, right on cue, Aditi walked in. At first, she didn't notice anything amiss. And then she saw the broken candy cane and her brother's purple face.

I swear she was going to pass out. With and agonized scream, she pointed a shaky finger towards us.

"She did it!" Goonjan cried and shoved her half of the candy cane at me.

"I did not!" I cried in outrage. This was so typical Goonjan. Blame it on me. Dang it, why couldn't I have thought of that?

"Namrata?" Aditi cried.

"I didn't!" I protested, pointing at Goonjan, "She's framing me!"

"Yeah right!"

"Seriously! I was holding your candy cane and she grabbed it out of my hands. That's how it broke. Back me up you guys."

Mihir remained stubbornly silent. Ajinkya snorted with laughter. It was obviously not the most convincing reply in the world. I threw them another I'm-gonna-kill-you look.

"Sure Namrata," Goonjan scoffed, "Stop lying. I had the candy cane in my hands. You pulled it out."

"What the hell?!?"

"It's true." Goonjan turned her wide Bambi eyes on Aditi. "I would never break your stuff. Namrata's the head of that department."

Rats. She was good. Nobody could deny that I was definitely the clumsiest one in the room. My record for breaking stuff surpassed all. I glared at Goonjan with obvious hatred. That girl really could lie.

Aditi buried her face in her hands and sank to the ground. Her shoulders were heaving from crying.

Great. Now look what you did. I glared silently at Goonjan.

She glared back. Look what I did?!? YOU'RE the one who broke it.

Har har. I think Pinocchio's nose grew a wee bit longer.

Goonjan threw me a withering look. Save it for someone who'd believe you.

Some 'best friend'.

Aditi's red face emerged from her hands. "You're going to have to fix it. I don't care how, but I want it in one piece by today before you leave."

We started to protest but fell cold when we saw Ameya's murderous glare. Holding Aditi's shoulders, he promptly exited the room with her.

Ajinkya howled with laughter. I saw Mihir's lips twitch upward in a smile. Oh very funny, I wanted to snap at him.

Goonjan pouted. "Great. Just great. How are we going to fix a stupid plastic candy cane."

I shrugged. "What's the deal with it anyway? I mean, I bet you get one of these in Wall mart."

"Her grandmother gave it to her or something." Mihir replied. He was smart for a guy who was two years younger than me.

I snorted. "Who gives their grandchild a giant toy candy cane?"

"Aditi's grandmother." Ajinkya grinned and then burst into laughter. Smart Ajinkya, very smart.

"So how do we fix this?" I sighed. Searching for an idea, I sat down next to Goonjan and we sighed in synchronization. We were on the same side. Temporarily. As my eyes roved Ameya's study desk, they fell on a bottle of Elmer's.

I have an unwavering faith in Elmer's. Ever since it fixed my china tea pot (it didn't even leak anymore) I have used it for all material things I break. Of course, toy candy canes were pretty heavy, but given time, I was sure it would stay. Unless you played Star Wars with it or something.

We sat there, Goonjan and I, trying to piece it back together. Fitting it again was no problem. The problem was keeping it that way until the glue set. Of course, being the two of us, we tried various different ways of holding it together but none of them were that successful.

Finally we gave up.

Goonjan looked at me. I looked at Goonjan.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

Mihir's brow furrowed. "What are you thinking?"

I grabbed my sweater as Goonjan slipped into her winter coat. "Methinks it's time for a quick getaway."

Luckily, we'd be on the next continent by the time Aditi was back.

INCIDENT 3: WITCHES AND PIGS

When I was eight years old, I was a wimp.

I mean completely. Those who know me now know that I'm not that bad a coward. Like I don't get freaked out by the dark. Bugs are creepy, but I can handle them (better than Nidhi anyway). Scary movies don't have me crying at night. I might get twitchy, but I definitely sleep in my own room.

But at age eight...I was a different person.

It was Ajinkya and me at his grandmother's house. We were playing with his toy animals, well, at least that's what we were doing. Then he started telling me a story.

Believe me, this story haunted me for the next three months.

I should not have listened to it in the first place. It was a scary story that I snort at now, but back then, when my imagination ran wild, I was a real believer in those crappy stories. And the fact that for once in his life, Ajinkya looked dead serious when he told it, didn't help either.

So anyway, it was broad daylight while he narrated the story but it still creeped me out.

"And then the campers came back and saw the tent shaking. And when they went inside, they saw nothing but the inside of the camp covered in blood and heard Blair Witch laughing in the night."

I shivered. '...covered in blood.' The phrase played around in my head.

Ajinkya watched me steadily, assessing my reaction. I looked away out the window. It was dull and rainy and grey outside. It kinda creeped me out. What if Blair witch came right now in this room....

Stop it Namrata. I scolded myself. There were no such things as witches.

Ajinkya leaned forward, smirking. "Scared?"

I glared hatefully at him. "No."

He leaned back, still smirking. I ignored him and returned to our toys, arranging them around me.

"Did you like the story?"

I shrugged and changed the topic. "Help me put them up here will you?"

He immediately got to his knees, obviously disappointed at my lack of reaction. We worked silently, me dwelling on the story he had told me. '...covered in blood.' I shook my head. Cut it out I told myself.

I paused and frowned. Where was the pig? I had kept it here just a minute ago...

"Where's the pig?"

Ajinkya's head snapped up and he frowned. "You can't find the pig...?"

"It was here when we were playing. Before you told me the story..." I shivered again. Ajinkya didn't notice, but instead he sprawled out on the ground to look under the bed. I overturned the pillows to check where it was. Nope.

After searching the whole room, we returned back to the bed with empty hands. I couldn't think where the pig could possibly have gone. I was positive that I had kept it right in that corner...

"Where did it go?"

It was more of a rhetorical question, but Ajinkya wasn't one for brains. His head snapped up and a weird look crossed his face.

"What?" I asked wearily.

"Could it be...?" He muttered softly to himself. Then he shook his head.

"What?" I repeated.

He looked past me out the window, his eyes unfocused and almost anxious. I waited impatiently for him to explain. Slowly, he turned his head towards me and looked into my eyes.

"Do you think....she took it?"

"Who took it?" I asked nervously.

His eyes never left mine and I could hear the tremor in his voice. "Blair Witch."

The name did wonders to me. I suddenly felt clammy and my heart raced with fear. "Don't be stupid."

He looked dead serious. "I'm not kidding."

I got up angrily and walked to sit by the window. The view outside didn't help much. Like I said, it was grayish outside, the second best setting for a scary story. I imagined her, with her blood-red eyes and evil smile, sitting on her broom. I imagined her breathing down my neck and snatching it....the toy pig.

The absurdity of the fact that the object in question that was missing was a toy pig snapped me out of my dream world. I mean, of all things sacred, why would Blair Witch steal a toy pig??

I realised that Ajinkya was watching me carefully. I turned around and glared at him.

Suddenly, he jumped to his feet and let out a soft scream.

I whirled around, jumping to my feet as well. Nothing moved. I put a hand to my chest. My heart was beating wildly.

Ajinkya's eyes were wide. "I saw her. Right behind you. She was there."

"She did not steal the pig!" I squealed. But I could hear the doubt heavy in my own voice.

He was practically whispering. "Then where did it go Namrata?"

I shivered at the eeriness. He had a point. What other explanation could there be for the missing pig...? I stepped forward, squinting to the rain outside. Was that black dot in the distance a bird? Or could it be...?

I swear I could hear the evil laughter.

"Boo."

Suddenly, I felt a hands grab my shoulder.

I swear I must have broken all the windows in the house with that single, earsplitting scream. I whipped around, my heart nearly exploding form the sudden heart attack.

It took me a moment to focus on what was happening. When I did, I saw Ajinkya's grandmother staring at me from the doorway and Ajinkya lying on the bed, howling with laughter.

Ajinkya's grandmother looked at my disheveled self in worry. "What happened honey?"

"Toy...pig....lost...witch stole it..." I tried to breath. Ajinkya's laughter rang in my ear.

His grandmother stared at me. "Wha-at?"

Ajinkya got up then, tears streaming from his eyes. "She doesn't know what she's saying."

I glared at him in hysteria. "Then where's the pig? It must have been her, how else can you explain the pig...!"

"The pig is with me!"

Ajinkya drew his hand out from under him. I stepped forward in disbelief. He uncurled his fist, fighting off a grin. There, lying perfectly safe in his clammy hands was the toy pig.

"I couldn't help myself. You totally fell for it, Namrata!"

(I never quite forgave him for that one. I took me three months to be able to go into a dark room all by myself.)

INCIDENT 4: A DAY AT TANAY'S (This one doesn't have Ajinkya in it but an equally annoying friend of mine has conveniently filled in his place.)

Tanay was really short.

Though he was a year older than me, he was about a head shorter. Kind of chubby, fair, with glasses, but not the geeky type. In fact, I'd consider him the most wanted guy in the class. Suave, smooth and funny. And in my case, extremely annoying. Ok, I don't know about the rest of the girls, but I definitely didn't fall for his charms. Sure, I enjoyed his company but some of his stupid jokes had me raising my eyebrow.

His sister Pooja was witty, outgoing and ambitious. She was about...five years older than me? Or maybe six. I don't know. She was pretty short too, and fair. And had glasses. But she was pretty in a kind of soft way.

A day in their house was like a live T.V. show. Fun, crazy and had you tangled up in one of Tanay's homemade land mines.

Going to the park with Tanay was risky business. He was the world's biggest prat; showing off whenever he got a chance. We started playing basketball (he showed off by shooting a three-pointer backwards with his eyes closed) and ended up playing catch with his tennis ball. Actually, it ended up with me playing fetch.

"Aaaand this is the winning ball....if she catches it, India is sure to win the match...."

That's Tanay's commentary in the background. Arms hanging uselessly at my sides, I gawked and squinted up at the tiny ball that flew ten storeys high above my head. This could take some time to return to Earth.

"Will she take the wicket? Will India win the match?!?"

It was pretty high up, as you might have guessed, and the fact that it was speeding very rapidly towards me didn't help much. Catching it would ensure that it burned a hole right through my hands. The sun glinted in my eyes, blinding me momentarily.

"And oh.....India lost. Pity."

I glared at him with pure hatred. Show off.

~

I sat corss-legged on Pooja's bed, reading the Half Blood Prince. Pooja, to my surprise, wasn't monitoring us in her room but had left Tanay and me to behave. I guess she trusted that I would be able to control her younger brother.

Speaking of which, Tanay was curled up in the bean bag chair next to the bed, fiddling with his camera. He was obviously very bored and pretty annoyed with me, but he didn't show it.

I turned the page, too lost in my world to notice him. Why did James and Lily have to die? It would've been cool if they had actually escaped. Naw, them dead just...fits. But then...

I frowned. "Hey Tanay, you've read Harry Potter right?"

"Yeah." He pressed something on his camera and it clicked.

"You know how Voldemort came to kill the Potters right? So then, why didn't they just diapparate with Harry? isn't that like possible?"

"Uh huh...and how do you feel about that?"

My eyes still glued to the book, I frowned at the question. "How do I feel about that? Nothing in particular of course."

"And how do you feel about that?" came his gentle, understanding voice.

Huh?

My head snapped up to see what he was doing and I groaned in frustration. He had held his camera to his mouth like a mike, his face the picture of innocence and concern. I saw the gleam in his eyes.

"Buzz off..." I rolled my eyes and went back to reading.

There was silence. And then another click.

"Here we are, in the wild jungles of Pooja's bedroom. It's a crazy place out here, one should be very careful indeed..."

I grit my teeth. Here we go with the Australian accent again.

"As we quietly aproach a thicket, we happen to glimpse something in the distance. And oh! A rare species of large South Asian mud worm. Watch it revel in its naturaly muddy habitat. Smell it? Ah...the horrific smell of these mud worms are it's killer advantage. Oh! It's moving now. See the way it's large, shallow eyes seem to pierce us. If looks could kill! What's that noise? It snorting! What a fascinating sound! Is it calling to it's mate...? Oh dear, it has seen us! It's coming! Run for your lives people...!"

Oh you better run Tanay.

~

"Tanay, don't you have homework?"

That was Pooja. She said it loud enough for her mom to hear. She liked getting Tanay in trouble. I don't blame her really. At the moment, we were sitting on the couch, eating pizza. Tanay was literally buried behind his mom's cell, playing some stupid game on it. Pooja threw another glare at him.

"Don't you have homework?"

"I do," came his muffled reply.

"So shouldn't you be doing it?" Pooja rolled her eyes. You have to ask Tanay direct questions, or else you can't expect a complete answer.

"I am doing it."

I snorted. Wonder how he's going to worm his way out of this one.

Tanay's mom didn't even look up. "Tanay, do your homework."

"What homework does he have?" I asked.

"Math."

"Tanay!" Pooja cried in exasperation.

"I'm doing it!" came his reply.

"Right, because mom's cellular poker game is a part of your Math ciriculum." Pooja said sarcastically. I snorted.

Tanay grinned and winked. "Chapter 8. Statistics."

"Tanay," his mom sighed, "Go do your homework."

Tanay, Tanay, Tanay. What do we do with you?

~

"You done yet?"

I was on the computer while Tanay was sprawled on the gorund doing his homework.

"I'm doing Maths," came his muffled reply.

"Hurry up. What question are you on?"

"17," He grinned.

"How many questions are there?" I sighed wearily. Hang out with Tanay, and you realise that question like these are vital.

"75," he laughed. I groaned and started vibrating my leg.

"That'll take ages!" I sighed, "They give you a lot of homework huh?"

"Yeah...I have to stay uptil two at night sometimes."

I felt sorry for him. "Poor you."

He sighed dramatically and put up and expression of woe. "I know. Life is so demanding."

"I understand. You must be tired. It'll take some time huh?"

"Naw, I'll finish in ten minutes."

I looked at him skeptically. "58 questions in ten minutes?"

"We only have to do till question 50."

I glanced at him with irritation as he grinned cheekily. There was nothing I could prove that he had done to annoy me, but that was Tanay's way of doing it. "Anything else you'd like to tell me before I start sympathizing with you again?"

"Not really."

I glared at him silently. Never make the mistake of sympathizing with Tanay unless you have proof of his statements.

"So how long will you take?"

"Hmmm...ten minutes."

"Ten minutes for 33 questions?"

He started laughing. "We only have to do the odd numbered ones."

~

It was a nice dream. I was floating in the clouds, jumping here and there, the warm sun lighting my skin. I sighed and turned my face up to the sky. It was a clear blue sky, birds twittered and squirrells chirped. A nice, normal dream. Pleasant.

I pranced along the biscuit road to the cand house at the far end. It was a pleasant walk. I carefully pushed open the cookie door and crumbles fell to the gorund. A nice pleasant smell wafted to my nose. The room was dimly lit, but I could see from the light of the fireplace, where a warm fire crackled.

I closed my eyes and took it all in.

"Ahoy matie. Arouse from slumber or I'll chop off your neck!"

My eyes flew open. I screamed.

In front of me was a wild looking pirate. He was standing over me, his feet planted on either side, trapping me in bed. He had a large black hat that covered half his face, an eyepatch and a golden tooth glittered at my face. Shaking, I crossed my eyes to look at my nose, where a gleaming sword point touched it lgihtly.

The pirate growled. "Get up, the waves are a calling! We have raided your maiden and the loot has been bagged! Fight for your honour, you swag!"

I gaped at him. He fiddled with something at his utility belt, cursing slightly. Finally, he drew out another flimsy plastic sword and tossed it to me. I fumbed with it and then caught it in my shaking hands.

I stared at him. "Tanay...?"

"I am not Tanay, but Captain Gold Beard, and I challenge you to a dule!" He roared.

I groaned, throwing the sword at him and buried my face in my pillow. "Go away Tanay."

I felt something poke my back. "Get up you coward, and fight like a man!"

Candy house, candy house, candy house...I kept chanting to myself. Tanay's plastic sword poked me harder. "Get up I say!"

Blue skies, green trees, blue birds, red pirates...NO....parrots....red parrots...

"Awaken, scurvy scallawag, and cross sowrds with me! Avenge thy crewmates!"

I knew he was obsessed with pirates. But this was complete madness.

There was a russling over me and then I heard his voice near my ear. "Plus, mom has made pancakes."

Then, giggling madly, he jumped off my bed and ran noisliy down the stairs.

With a groan, I threw my pillow at the wall. I couldn't wake up the normal way. I don't get an alarm clock or a rooster to wake me up. No, I get a stupid plastic sword in my face.

Well, what did I expect really? This was Tanay's house after all.

(I'm gonna add more you know. We did lots of crazy, crazy stuff)

Tongs.....or Forks?

Warning: do NOT read if you are in a good, carefree mood and want to stay that way.

Life. Such a small word for such a vast topic. What is life? What do we do in life? Whatever we do, why do we do it? We live, eat, drink, sleep, breathe, watch TV, laugh, cry, watch some more TV, read books, talk....there are lots of things we do. But some of them are necessities. Some are not.

Is our life predestined? Whatever we do, do we do it from our own personal choice? Or has it been written, somewhere, in God's personal logbook?

If we assume that our choices are our own, we come to a problem. A double branched problem. A pair of tongs, you may call it. We come to a path in our relatively smooth road of life, that bifurcates into two ways. Either way we look, we see clear horizons. We see where it's headed, but we don't know where it will end. What may start out as a patch of flowers, may end up with barren land. Two paths, two alternate futures.

Which one?

I, along with all the people of my age, all my friends, have unknowingly reached this division of roads. Some of them just keep driving, wherever their horses take them, not really thinking about it. Their path is easy, simple. They see only what they want to see, not really caring. Life hasn't changed for them. Blind folded. But I can see it, this division. The two ways to go.

And then I stopped. Stopped right there in the middle of the path, my past looming behind me, forever lost, never to be tread on again. And in front of me lay two futures.
Both futures have ups and downs, twists and turns.

This is the reality I, and many people face today. On one hand, you have school. Studies, books, reading, getting good marks, it's all in the same box. On the other hand, you have what I call, the j.o.l.s. Joys-of-life. In cruel, hard, opposing perspective words- distractions.

I look to my right (does the fact that it's on my right symbolise anything?) and see a road full of bumps. An unpleasant road, but far out I see a very promising future. Golden skies, green fields. Till the horizon.

This is the path which our parents prefer, want us to take. It is the path of hard work, meticulous studies, tough breaks and total dedication. It is a life that can last four, eight, maybe ten years. But the rest of the fifty that will come as the fruits of success will be far more rewarding.

I look to my left, and see a bright, sunny path. Small, inconspicuous bumps. But as I look further, I see more. A rough, unbalanced life. Difficult times lie ahead, the road is not easy, and there is no going back. The final destination is unpredictable and not very promising for some, yet extremely so for another. But yet, it is full of small things, happy moments, beautiful memories and plenty of laughs.

Is it worth it?

Which one is?

I stood, struggling with indecision, as the rest of the people pause, only for a flick of second, maybe in surprise, and then follow their chosen roads with nonchalant shrugs. I admire those who travel to my right, while I envy the influx on my left. Once here once there, my hesitant steps bring me closer and closer to the division, because no matter how much I try to stall, time always goes on and someday, I will have to choose.

That time is coming close.

I weigh my options. On one hand, I have the dedicated path. The path which I, and my parents who insist I follow the right, know I am capable of doing. Half the people who travel on my left, know they cannot go to their right, no matter how much they want to. They were not born to pass the test to follow it, or else they grew up having made to believe so.

But I do have that capability, and I can go to my right. I want to go there, to be able to deserve the promising fruits, to feel good about myself. Because I know if I go to my left, I will regret. And I would never be able to live with the regret of knowing that I could have gone there, done so much better, stretched my capabilites to the limit, been so much more respected by others and myself, if I had gone on my right. Simple enough.

But can I do it?

Can I give up all the wonderful things of life, the small joys or "distractions" that are a part of everybody's teenage days? Do I have the will, focus and toughness to be able to steer myself? Because I know I will never regret doing that, going on my right. I will never regret it. And it is only for a few years. Only a few hard years, and then I can enjoy as many joys of life as possible.

But I want to enjoy now, while I still can. I want to be able to grow up and live with the sweet memories of today.

So to answer the previous asked question: Am I strong enough to give it all up?
No, I'm not.

I realise what my problem is.

The path to my right is my destiny. The path to my left is my regret.

Yet, the desire for both is equal.

I look straight ahead, and notice for the first time, a thin, faint line. A small dusty path. I had not noticed before. As I stare at it, it becomes relatively clear, and I realise then, what I had been blind to. To my amazement, there are a few people, so strong, so focused who walk straight ahead, onto that thin strand in the middle.

The middle option. The essence of both. The balance.

I watch, as these strong minded people step up to the base, their arms outstretched on either side of them. They wobble slightly, and then regain lost balance. And slowly, steadily, with practice, they step forward. And then they are gone, amongst the hazy mist of indecision and unknown, unpredictable choices, that obscures the future from us, watchers.

The middle path, no, the middle rope, the balance. Because that's what it is, a tightrope. A think rod in the middle, too small for stopping, to risky for the uncertain. As it reaches towards the horizon, I see the people look around, while enjoying the beauty on the left, they share the difficulty of the people on the right. Burden of both, benefits of both. But only half of each. An equal share.

Is it possible that the tongs could actually be...a fork?

A balance, but a very delicate one. One that can topple you over with the slightest push, with the slightest slip of the foot, or concentration. Yes, I watch in pain and horror, as a few followers of the rope start to loose footing, fumble with the set rhythm, and fall. Simply fall. Most do not get up, but those who do, don't try to get back on.

Yet, I can see the joys of following it. I could walk down the middle, where I can see both paths. Enjoy both dreams. Live both lives. What I had always wanted, I was given the chance to have. And I know, the price is hard, and it would be tremendously difficult.

But then I realise that I still might regret not going completely on my right, where I could have achieved the greatest height while in the middle, I achieved only three-fourths of what I am capable of doing. Of course, even three-fourths will be enough, will be beyond expectations. And that thought makes me imagine where hundred percent would get me.

But is staying content with second best very wrong?

Why can't I achieve second best of my capabilities, while still embracing the joys of life? Why can't I then look back, when I have finally reached my destination, and smile at my achievements, regretting yet not regretting. Thinking of the right, but happy with the left. A balance of both.

But can I keep my own? Will I be able to focus on keeping my eyes to the right, when the time comes, without giving in to the temptation of glancing to my left? Because one glance is all it will take to loose balance. The pattern is set, when to look left, when to look right. Will I be able to stick to it?

Will everyone understand? Everyone who believed that I would go to my right, everyone who pleaded me to got to the left, will they accept? Will they stand with me, beside me on their respective roads and hold my hand while I tread the rope? Will they help me? Or will their disappointment and disapproval make me regret my choice more that I could have regretted any other?

Because no matter what, I will regret my choice. Not as much as if I had gone to me left, but a twinge of it will always remain, though snubbed my the flame of joyful memories of my left. Is it worth it?

Questions swirl in my head. I take a deep breath. One questions glares out at me.

Can I walk the tightrope?

But it will be difficult. More difficult than any other road. Very difficult. I will need strength, mental strength and focus.
Yet I think it will be worth it.

I look up and realise that the bells are chiming. Everyone waits expectantly - my family, freinds, admirers. I look ahead at the fork. My time has finally come.

And, holding hands with my awe-inspiring believers of the right, and my enviable preachers of my left, I step up to the thin strand of joyful pain and painful joy, waiting for the unexpected and walking to the unknown, each balanced step at a time.

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.