And you know that she's half crazy. But that's why you want to be there.

Though the temperature isn’t exactly as low as it should be, it does look like a winter morning. It’s gloomily cloudy and it smells cold. Yes, funnily it smells and doesn’t feel cold. You should be here to know what I am describing. I would love to go to the beach now. Lie near the shore. Let the water tickle my outstretched feet. Let the warm sand rub my back. Have my book in my hand and let the breeze turn the pages for me. Serene and solitary.

I have switched from the rib-tickling tales of a rebellious priest and his arch rival communist mayor to a treasury of Indian mythology. It’s beautiful so far. The pages are new, yet there is something antique about it. I guess its the ancient tales typed on them that make them different and special. I love the calligraphy on it. Reminds me of the calligraphy pen Pa got me a really long time back. It still has its price tag on it. I was always scared to use it. I know the shelf it’s on. I am far from it right now, but when I get closer, I will use it. Write something for Pa with it.

I am doing something I love more than anything else. It can’t be the only thing I do cause some things don’t change. Some opinions don’t change. But I am proud of myself in a strange sort of way; for having kept the embers of my passion burning all through. They will burn like this today. And they shall burn like this forever.

I want to learn how to weave a carpet. Inspiration: a beautiful picture I just saw of a man sitting behind the wooden machinery that was producing the most colouful piece of art. From barren nothingness arises a splash of design in colours of one’s choice. I know I’ll love the feeling after having completed a piece.

The TV has been endlessly screaming for the past several minutes now. And what is one it makes me nauseous; the sickening background music, intolerable voice modulations and the insufferable dialogues. Just why people watch it is beyond me. I pray sincerely that I never reach a stage where the TV becomes my best friend. Never.

Give me a canvas the size of a wall. I want to splash colours on it. Use anything but a brush to paint on it. Go unconventional. I don’t want to show it to anyone till I finish. Maybe I won’t show it at all. Paint it black after I am done. It will be something I made for myself. It will remain mine. Or, I’ll paint a huge Calvin and Hobbes on the white surface and worship it. Yes, I have a strange sense of religiosity.

And she feeds you tea and oranges

That come all the way from China

And just when you mean to tell her

That you have no love to give her

Then she gets you on her wavelength

And she lets the river answer

That you’ve always been her lover

And you want to travel with her

And you want to travel blind

And you know that she will trust you

For you’ve touched her perfect body with your mind.

Suzanne- Leonard Cohen

Mr. Ravana, please stand up.

“Hahahahahahaha”

“Hohohohohoho”

Am I celebrating a premature Christmas?

No.

These were the opening lines of Ravana’s scene yesterday. Come Dussera and the whole neighbourhood throngs at the Ramlila Maidan of the locality. Age/caste/class/religion/gender no bar.

We have been ardent followers of the last-day-of-the-navratra mayhem. So last evening my brother, father and I set out for our yearly laughter marathon. The chairs were set. The eye piercing bright-pink satin curtains drawn closed. Incomprehensible bhajans were being sung deafeningly by the mandali. We were early.

We seated ourselves equidistant from the stage and the to-be-burnt Ravana that stood quite malnourished compared to its previous avatars. In his good old days he used to have Kumbhakarna standing next to him for company. The recession has spared no one. Sigh.

Suddenly the singers muted themselves, and emerged from the wings Hanuman with his, handful in number, Vaanar Sena. They did a little disco jig to entertain us while the other characters, I presume, were getting ready. Soon enough, Rama and Lakshmana entered the scene and settled themselves on the thrones looking rather jaded. Nine days of acting can take a toll on anyone. While the audience was filling up, Rama and Lakshmana sat like statues with the rest attempting to hop-shoot-fly as they sabotaged the mike periodically to bellow- ‘Jai Shri Ram.’

But what I was waiting for was my favourite bhajan that’ll put even Metallica to shame; a beat-iful number- ‘Ram ji Ki Sena Chali.’ It gives me epileptic fits every time I listen to it. Its another thing that the thunderous loud speaker seemed to send waves that penetrated one’s chest as though someone were administering a cardio pulmonary resuscitation. Pardon the medical metaphors. It’s a genetic habit.

Well, once the Ravana was ready with his nine heads. Yes. I said nine because we believe in physics and the principal of balance. If there is a central head that cannot be shifted, we make do with four on each side, irrespective of the fact that during the famous battle when Ravana found his extra heads inconvenient, he quietly stepped into the wings and got one of his minions to remove them. Voila! A one-headed more comfortable, hence more confident Ravana surfaced.

It was interesting to note that during the battle Rama and Ravana exchanged pleasantries. ‘Don’t step too close to the edge of the stage.’ ‘Avoid tripping on the mike lines.’ ‘That make-up looks superb.’ Personally, I would want Ravana to enter a dance competition. The grace and panache with which he waltzed around the stage was unparalleled.

The battle was the laughter bomb. Those not participating in the battle (this happens when one side has more people and they have to wait for their chance to fight) posed like body builders centre stage, much to the delight of the photographer. Here, I would like to establish that the fight sequence comprised mainly of Rama and Ravana revolving around the stage like two planets in an orbit. It is also imperative to bring to your notice that while Rama revolved with his bow and a set of arrows, Ravana did the same with his sword and vice-versa. In the midst of this circling circus they employed a new theatrical technique- that of stills. All of a sudden all the characters would assemble at the centre of the stage and form a still- mostly of Ravana in the centre with Rama stepping on one of his thighs and all weapons pointing at him. Picture taken. Disperse.

This happened more than a couple of times. Similar formations. Different positions. Only problem- they were all smiling. (This, however, is a technological problem as we have invented cameras that click pictures only when people are smiling)

Highlight of the day- Ravana’s abrupt death as the Mayor, the Chief Guest of the evening, arrived. Flutter of an eye lid and out of the blue Ravana is horizontal. Hanuman bends the mike to capture Ravana’s finale act- ‘Raaaaaaammm… Raaaaaammmmmmm…’ Anyway, we obviously need a politician on stage saying- ‘Truth will prevail. The unjust will be punished… etc.’ One could have just rewound and replayed all their campaign speeches.

We probably hailed the gods a gazillion times as the itinerary of the evening had to have fill-ups. The fill-ups were undoubtedly getting the audience hands up and letting out religious roars.

The moment that we had all been waiting for finally arrived. Combustion time. As Rama and Lakshmana strode through the aisle towards the to-be-burnt Ravana, we had our hand up again. Religious roar number gazillion+one. It was lit and a string of fire crackers blew off. The children screeched in delight. But. Post the singular string of a couple of fireworks the plan of the whole Ravana setting ablaze flopped. Ravana was still upright and alive with fluorescent red lights for eyes. I’d love to say it was an epic fail, literally. Pyro-technological error.

Solution: just poke the thing with a fire stick. Kaboom.

End of story.

There was a lot more I wanted to say but I’m so sleepy that the words are now doing a jalsa in my brain. It was an eventful evening with tears of laughter streaming down our faces. We haven’t laughed this much in a while. It felt good.

Will we go for it next year? Always.

Monotonous Monologues

An old man rests on a parapet. He swings his legs on either side of the freshly built wall and places his meal in between. He chews it slowly while gazing below at a mother and a child standing under a yellow street lamp. Its twilight. The lines on his face suggest years of toil and hardship. But for now, there is certain serenity that embraces his aura. A good days work. Remembrances of childhood maternal affection. A mother's hug. His calmness is infectious. I don't know him. Still.

It has been infernal, weather wise. So much for hallucinating a forthcoming winter.

Beckett and Kesey are eating my days and nights away.

The festive spirit is here, once again. Nine days of loud music, sumptuous food, vibrant attires, social meetings, energetic dances and so on. Am I kicked about it? Certain sins are attractive but I seek inner peace.

Dreams are a reflection of one's subconscious. That part of the iceberg which is just hidden below the surface of the sea. If so, I need help. If Freud were to analyse my dreams he would have given up Psychoanalysis and taken up a more innocuous profession like brushing a crocodile's teeth. (So said a friend a long time back) What does dreaming in black and white mean?

Over the past few days songs, photographs and certain aromas and hues have taken me back to distant memories. Does it mean I am living in the past like my today's horoscope says? I'd rather see it as a foresight. Ironical I know, but I think it means I am about to have a eureka moment that'll lead to the creation of the most sought after machine of all times- The Time Machine. The ability to travel across temporal dimensions. The ability to go into the future is under construction, however. Nevertheless, it does not mean that once you go back into the past you cannot return to the present. Wait a minute! If the voyage to the future is under construction, then for the past the present will be a future instance, meaning I mean (another past reference of an English teacher who spurted 'meaning I mean' a good 70 times in an hour's class with obviously no context of reference) one might get stuck into the past then...

I solely blame One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest for my current mental stimulation.

Untitled

Well, I have had what you call a writer’s block for a long time now. A disease better known as laziness- for the common licentious soul wishes to sound profound at whatever it does. I have read many blogs during my sabbatical and come to the conclusion that people write just about anything under the sun- well, some say that’s how it should be. Valid.

Now, for some news on my front- I am at a crucial stage of my life- in Bollywood cinemas it is the path-breaking moment of every hero’s life. The point from where his saga of greatness starts, mostly. It is called Berozgaari (unemployed). Since the cinemas fill us with such optimism I refuse to feel let down by the fact that I am still salary-less. I shall await my heroic moment with patience. That day shall come. Sometime. Soon I hope. Period.

Like I said I have seen people write about anything they feel like with strange titles that I am yet to fathom. Math and integration seemed simpler. Not that I was ever good at it, but still no harm in praising oneself about something one will never indulge in for the rest of her life, sincerely hoping so. (my heart goes out to my younger brother)

Its going to be two months since I bid farewell to a place that took away a part of my soul for keepsake. 355, third floor, IV wing. I remember writing a post as soon as I had joined the place; complaining about how it was full of opinionated people who were intimidating from the word go. Hmmm, can’t believe I am saying this but I think I miss being intimidated upon. There was something in that air that you loved to breathe it (no, I am not referring to the non-polluted purity of oxygen). I miss the canteen, for obvious reasons of being a glutton. The cheap food. The cheap talk over the cheap food. Oh the sheer cheap-ness altogether. I met eleven heads there that put together with mine were close to the most explosive material ever made. We made noise, a hell lot. We laughed, heads off. We cried. We argued. We did everything that a Malory Towers book described. We put the Addams family to shame with our wackiness.

I had certain topics in my head that I thought I’d write about:

1. Ghulam Ji’s (in)famous comments.

2. Delhi Police’s claim of Delhi as a ‘safe’ city.

3. My brilliant driving lessons.

4. The new ice-cream flavor in my life.

Etc.

But now that I have a gush of memories flowing in my head I shall try and pen them down. What are the memories about?--- Koyna Hostel Life and my Phamily.

I am a list-making person, hence if you put your head through the pensieve you’ll get a description of my memories in points.

1. One thing I miss terribly is getting up to see a horde of love messages on my phone—‘Meera darling, my love, wake me up at 8:00. I have a class at 9:00 that I must attend. Thanks so much sweetie. Big hug and kiss.’

‘Eeyore love wake me up at 11:00. I have to go to CP to meet…… Love you. Slap on your forehead.’

You get the picture. I miss my mornings running from room to room waking people up- some gently with love, some-I wish I had a bazooka in my hand. I miss being the human alarm.

2. I miss my ever-green breakfast of bread and butter with my breakfast partners (one was constant but some others gave guest-appearances if I had succeeded in waking them up). And yes, when I say ever-green I do mean it literally as well; for there were days when we had colourful bread- patches of green, pink and blue. It was wonder bread.

3. I miss my marathon to classes with my ghetto. I miss sitting in class and looking at blank faces, sleepy faces, faces that winked at you out of sheer boredom or at the crack of a shady inside-joke. I miss raising my hand and questioning or arguing in class.

4. Jaundice kadi, Koyna lawns-paneer, Toxic bengan… obviously these aren’t things I miss eating, but I do miss talking about them. I miss sitting in the mess for hours supervising people’s eating; forbidding them from playing with their food or wasting food, on most occasions. Let me be clear that my services were restricted to my Addams family and that not everyone was party to my pravachans.

5. I miss being a floor doctor. There weren’t any fatal mishaps so I think I managed well.

6. Now that I just gave a banana to my grandma I realized that I miss my Tuesday banana breakfast. Its another thing that when I packed 5-6 bananas the mess-wala thought I was a total nut. Clarification: they weren’t for my consumption. I had several sleepy mouths to feed.

7. I miss washing clothes with music my ears and loud across-the-wall talks with my fellow dhobi-ghat members. We did curse the winters- it was unbearable to wash clothes then. The water would prick the hands and post rigourous scrubbing they would be white and pink. Fair and Lovely users if you wish to have a fair face I have a cheaper full-proof method- please keep face submerged in the tap’s water in December/January for half an hour. Guaranteed fairness with pink blushes.

8. I miss tea-parties- the consumption of hot tea with high-calorie munchies over gossip and general non-sense.

9. I miss the outlandish activities of the ‘Twelve Mindless Women’ which includes the outrageous shopping sprees, the movie madness, the late night maggies, the super-late night ‘disturbing content’ talks, the dramatization of scenes and songs from the time-less Bollywood mobhies, the in-the-middle-of-the-road choreographed dance sessions, the PSR antaksharis. Etc. The utter filmi-ness of our life.

10. I miss the bus rides, the auto rides (which includes the fight sequences with the auto-wallahs), the walks… actually every form of transportation we used; for we made a joke out of everything.

11. I miss our family dinners. The prolonged eating-talking-laughing till the mess workers shooed us away with their horrendous weapons (brooms which you might think are harmless but I dare not say what all they swept).

12. I miss being ragged- Boo, Autistic Octopus, Eeyore, Grandma… Some of my several avatars.

For my 11- I miss being a 4 year old with you. I miss being an 80 year old with you. I miss you. I love you.

P.S- I am going to keep the post untitled. Meaning I mean, I can’t think of an appropriate title.

The Seven Rapid Conquerers

Japter 1- The Plan

Hmmm, on your marks, get, set, WAIT. ‘Where did we say we were going?’ Twelve heads don’t always function in congruence. Actually they never function in congruence; one of the many reasons that the dream trip we kept planning met its RIP at the conception stage itself.

With three babies off to the sweet land, one immersed in books and a reluctant one the secret seven set off to partly fulfill the mission. Of course it pained to be reduced in numbers but then sometimes things just don’t go the way we want them to.

Jaipur/ Dharamshala/ Agra/ Rishikesh- tippy tippy top which city do you want?! (I am amazed we actually came up with plans to each place like professional travel agents) Google be the hero, mostly. J

Not to bore you with details- dreadlocks (Rishikesh= hair of a rishi) prevailed!

Japter 2- ‘Bus lelo bus!’

I am not kidding. ISBT Kashmeri Gate is one place where tickets to buses are sold like veggies in a market. I won’t be surprised if they come up with an ‘Ek ke saath ek free’ offer! I don’t remember seeing so many buses ever. After getting lost, playing ring-a-ring-a-roses we saw our dream bus calling us- ‘Rishikesh Rishikesh’

Yes, we were now on a bus. Packed. Excited. The trip was finally happening. I think even before we sat down we started eating. Gluttons we be forever.

Seven hours of a rickety ride, which included talking, laughing, periodic shushing at the realization of humanity around, eating, absolute nonsense situation analyses and bouts of sleep, took us to arms of our Heidi-fantasy. – Mountains. Shimmering water. Blue Sky.

Japter 3- Dine and Dance

As fancy as it sounds, let me burst the bubble- dine= a huge loaf of bakery bread with cheese spread that we generously spread and dance= un-coordinated motion of limbs to old shady Hindi songs.

Seven people in a four bedroom suite can bring the roof down literally. Sleep brought dreams of ‘rapidly’ (thanks to Nabesh’s geography skills) paddling over the white sparkly water.

Well, there isn’t much to this chapter, so let’s proceed to the one that has the defining moment.

Japter 4- Bisht is the Best

‘Who all are coming?’

‘Seven girls.’

‘Oooh. Age-group?’

‘Early twenties’

‘Ahaaaa. Please wear shorts and come. No sarees and salwars.’

‘’

Obviously we started off by thinking that he belonged to a please-expose-legs-for-us-to-see category of men. Braving it, we marched forward after having breakfast in yes, our shorts.

The journey from the motel to the Bisht office was out of a ‘trip to the alps’-guidebook. Motorized Heidis running down the hills we clicked every turn and rock. Our dream was closer to accomplishment. The excitement sky rocketed when we saw our beautiful orange raft waiting for us.

I must admit here that Mr. Bisht did turn a few spirits wary with his like-you-know-who’s hmmms.

‘Have you girls rafted before?’

‘No.’

‘Hmmm. Know swimming?’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Has anybody fallen off the raft while paddling?’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Has anybody died while rafting?’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Ok, girls. Be careful. They’re your guides.’

Anyway, we went to the start point and forgot everything. The water was inches away from us and the mountains a few feet. We were in heaven. All padded we were ready for our battle. After preliminary instructions we sat put on edges, literally with our paddles.

‘Forward’

‘Stop’

‘Back’

Trust me it’s not as easy as it sounds.

Now I really can’t put our experience of crossing the rapids in words. It’s something everyone should feel. So, please go raft for yourself.

But what can be written about is our jumping into the cold Ganges, swimming , floating into eternity (special reference to Tuki), bumping into each other, tangling of ropes (Nabesh, Kazoo, Radhoo) and rescue missions (Mufasa and Fra).

Excerpts from the water conversations:

‘Where’s Radhoo?’

‘Under the raft.’

‘Chaudhary I am coming.’ (paddle paddle paddle!)

‘I want to stop drifting.’

‘I want to be near the boat.’

‘Who’s leg was that?’

‘Who’s that blue helmet bobbing?’

Everyone did finally get into the boat. Goal achieved.

Next on the agenda was cliff jumping to which initially only one consented but later pulled two more brave souls. 22 feet of free fall into the water- I won’t say more.

Drenched, dirty, exhausted we emerged victorious after two and a half hours. Pulled our raft up on shore and refueled with a banta each.

Japter 5- The Return of the Gluttons and Shopaholics

Bathing in glory the stomachs rumbled. Famished we were. After changing we walked to a nice restaurant to satiate ourselves. Boy, did we eat? No we hogged.

Our food stories don’t end with a meal. We are futuristic people. Bakery being everyone’s weakness it was obvious we’d buy everything he had. Apple cake+ banana cake+ chocolate cake.

‘One piece each?’

‘Nahi Bhaiya. Poora pack kar do.’

Loaded with tuck we drowned in the hippie-ness that surrounded us. Each bought a souvenir to commemorate our historic trip.

Japter 6- Jhula + The End

Ram, Lakshman and Ravana (soon Sita as well I assume) have jhulas named after them. It’s quite similar to the roads that are named after politicians. We saw all three and treaded over the two brothers. The water was at its shimmer-best with the sun setting, giving all its light to the water to absorb.

While two of us were blessed by the goo(d) others found peace in the distant humming of bhajans.

After climbing a 50 something stairs to get to the road for a tempo, we sat and left for the last stop- the bus stand. However, our adventures never end the expected way. On our way we passed by a bus whose driver yelled ‘Dilli Dilli’. That’s it. Tempo stop. Fly. Miraculously hop into the bus.

The journey back had its own adventure stories that we’d rather keep etched in cognitive history.

The Death of a Bubble

Sometimes things that you dream about finally happen, and when they happen you feel a strange satisfaction- a bliss that cannot be worded. Thanks to Mrina, we finally had a trip to Yercaud. Though there were less than half of the people who had initially signed up for it enthusiastically (frauds!) we had one of the best times of our life.

The train was at 11:20, but Mrina, Radhoo and I were at the station at 10:30 sharp. :) I'm sure our grandmothers would have been most happy about our timing. Anyway, we dragged our luggage to the platform and sat on amazingly dusty benches, waiting for the rest of the janta to arrive.Unfortunately we had seats in different places on the train. The fan conveniently didn’t work and we had a woman next to us who slept with a blanket in the sultry heat and shut the window as soon as the train started moving (after an hour’s wait that is!). Insane!

Come morning, after a rickety ride, and we find that the train is even more delayed. The train domesticated at night for an hour! For what joy, I’m yet to find out. The blaring sun creeped in through the windows and tanned us. Sweating, fuming, sweating we reached Salem Town at 8:15. But, where is the Tavera???? Hmmm, apparently he was ten minutes away when he finally turned up at around 9:00.

TWENTY hair pin bends to Yercaud. Clove, thou shall be my best friend! The journey to the hill top was one of the most scenic road trips I’ve ever been on. Green Green green. Then some more Green with patches of red and white. The air was fragrant like never before. We were on our way to heaven.

Star Hotels Inc- a bright orange and bright yellow building awaited our arrival. What a disappointment! The rooms weren’t that bad but there was a certain someone whom we all wanted to KILL by the end of our stay. “Swimming pool especially for women!” What nonsense! The pool was an abysmally small depression in the ground that was visible to all (so much for a pool for women!). Water? Well, in Yercaud people apparently swim in waterless pools that have a layer of black filth sticking to their surfaces. Among other amenities was the Jolly Park. We probably had our most fun morning there. Swinging on the swing and see-sawing. (Bounce! Bounce! ) We felt like hyper 3 year olds. Who’s complaining! :P

Lunch was at a gorgeously English place- Lake Forest Hotel. Wooden tables, long stain glassed windows with trees all around us. Oh and there were really old English songs being played. What more could one ask for. :] after lunch, we tried asking the managers if they could house us for a day, but to our dismay they were booked for the entire weekend. We gallivanted looking for another accommodation. Operation- unsuccessful. We were stuck with Star hotel with cockroaches, frequent power cuts and NO SWIMMING POOL. (Emphasis on swimming pool is for Nandini who was most affected by it.)

Move on! We left for shevaroy temple, from where we took a slightly long detour to land up at our own point from where one could see the valley at its best with beautiful hills at the background for the most picturesque sight. Unfortunately only Anjana, Nandini and I made it to the spot. We sat their gazing at the unbelievably vast beauty for one and a half hours. The sight is still engraved in my memory. One could see the shadows of the clouds on the forest parting and merging- the green changing from a darker shade to a soothing yellow under the play of sunlight. Listening to music made the place prettier. The song echoed through the distant mountains. I didn’t need the I-pod anymore. I was in another world, a world I’m definitely going to miss.

The temple was in a cave unbelievably cooler than the vicinity. Two hundred and fifty years old, the local deity was dressed in a beautiful gown. There was an indescribable peace in there. Silence never seemed more pleasing.

Post temple visit we went to the lake for a boat ride. The boat ride was followed by an eating spree- peanuts and candy floss. Bubbles never fail to fascinate. We bought three bottles of soap solution and bubbled our way to the cottage to see SIVAJI for the umpteenth time. :P But before we could even see half an hour of the movie, the DVD player crashed! (Another reason to kill that someone.) Grrrrr.

Stomachs grumbled and dinner beckoned. Hotel Grand Palace, here we come! This was the most hilarious dinner encounter. If I don’t write it in a dialogue form, it would be unjust. Here goes:

Waiter: Madam, what kind of water would you like?

Lakshmi: Regular water room temperature.

Waiter: Ok, Madam.

Returns after a minute.

Waiter: Madam, would you like warm water or cold water?

Lakshmi: I said we’d like regular water ROOM temperature.

Waiter: Ok, madam.

Returns again.

Waiter: Madam, would you like mineral water?

Lakshmi: I SAID WE’D LIKE REGULAR WATER ROOM TEMPERATURE!

Waiter: yes, madam.

The MUCH-AWAITED water arrived. What a start! Food wasn’t bad. The only regret was that the caramel custard Lakshmi and Radhoo had been craving for since afternoon (since Lake Forest was not serving it) was unavailable here as well. Sigh, Yercaud seemed to have run out of Caramel Custard.

Day 2- had more adventure on the cards. It was a lazy start at ten in the morning. We went straight for lunch to Henrietta (Lake Forest) -yummy buffet with a slight mishap with the pulao. Nithya got to eat her vaithakozamb rice :] with stomachs bloated no one had the energy to site see in the heat. Destination- cottage no. 6 and Sivaji. I’ve never enjoyed the movie, but this time it was different. I understood the jokes and laughed at the appropriate moments. We rewound (or in Anjana’s words- back forwarded) scenes that made us topple. (e.g.- kaun hai? Boss hai da kennai!)

After the movie, the six of us (except Anjana) went for cycling. While I sat in the car, these exploratory girls were back in fifteen minutes complaining of leg pains! :D The rigorous exercise now called for some rejuvenation- key= molgai bhajjis+ cauliflower bhajjis+spicy chutney. Then we went to another temple and discovered yet another scenic spot. We sat and yapped and yapped and yapped. Monfort School was next-a beautiful school where we tried entering fraudulently by making claims of being ex-students. Sigh! We settled for snaps around the place. Dinner was a light affair. We decided to experiment with our Star Hotel kitchen which we’d been avoiding conveniently. Not bad at all. The dessert was the best. Mrina, Nithya and Nandini surprised Lakshmi and Radhoo by getting their craving- Caramel Custard-our belated birthday present to them. We wanted to end the day by watching a scary movie. But then the DVD player was snatched from us for ten minutes (now we shall redefine ten minutes. The player was taken from us at around 8:30 and it was returned at 12:00). During the period of wait we were glued to Splitsvilla, which I must say can be addictive. It was amusing to see how stupid people can be. :P No offence to Splitsvilla fans.

Nandini was bent upon seeing the horror movie. She sat up with Mrina and Radhoo while the rest of us snored. They watched 3/4^th of it and abandoned it for they saw no ghost at all.

Day 3- Wake up! Get out of the bathroom! Hurry! We have to leave by six thirty! On our way to Salem we reheard our favourite songs of the trip- where’s the party tonight (silambattam) and daddy mummy. I can’t believe it still rings in my head! Breakfast was a happy affair at a place called sangeetha. We reached the station way in advance. The bubble solution saved the day. We bubbled out time out. We filled the station with bubbles of all sizes amusing people around us and sang old old English songs. Joy!

The train was late again. We got into the jam packed chair car naive of the adventure that awaited us. We were accompanied by a monstrous family that ate at regular intervals of ten minutes spilling half of the things. By the end of the journey the train floor was strewn with tamarind rice, lemon rice and curd rice along with some fanta and coffee. A treat for the cockroaches. The sight of Chennai Central had never enthralled us more. The joy of getting out of the train cannot be explained. :] home sweet home!

The entire trip was like a bubble- beautiful and short lived. Like Radhoo worded- the death of a bubble. A death not to be mourned but to be rejoiced for life.

To my Penguins!

"Why do you need a play?", they said.
"Its such a waste of time.", they said.
"Either the play or the fund-raiser.", they said.
We smiled and proceeded.

"Why do you need a director?", they said.
"Hall? Why?", they said.
"Do it on campus.", they said.
We smiled and proceeded.

"No whores! No prostitutes!", they said.
"You're a bunch of stubborn donkeys.", they said.
"You and your blessed play.", they said.
We smiled and proceeded.

"We can't have it in the open.", they said.
"People will jump over the wall and create nuisance.", they said.
"Mosquitoes will bite.", they said.
We smiled and proceeded.

"It can't happen over four days!", they said.
"The lights are stuck.", they said.
"You have to arrange the room yourselves.", they said.
We smiled and proceeded.

"Congratulations!", they said.
"We extended our full support.", they said.
"We knew you'd do it well.", they said.
We smiled. For now, we didn't have to proceed.

BaBaOH prevailed.
:)