Growing up

I've decided not to join the University hostel. The rules are ridiculous. I put my foot down. I cannot, I repeat cannot live by archaic rules which are meant for conservative girls of 18 years. I will not! I won't.
Appa and Amma are of the opinion that
a) It will do me good to be locked inside a hostel - maybe I will study instead of galavanting across Delhi. (????)
b) I won't have to commute and depend on buses, an extremely undependable mode of transport in Delhi, especially lately. ( I really don't care!)
c)A hostel like that is fit for children which I have proved to be, having lost my ATM card for the third time this year. (I have nothing to say.)

Losing my ATM card has become something of a habit with me. I really try to be careful. I really do. No one seems to believe that. But invariably I am in such a hurry to get out of the ATM vestibule after getting the money, I forget that the ATM card is in the machine.

I dreaded telling the parents. I wish it could all be done without informing them whatsoever. But I couldn't. A new card would be delivered to my parents home since that was the mailing address. And if I run out of money before it reaches them (definitly will) they would have to deposit the amount in Chechi's account - who for some reason has never lost her card. Bitch.

I was chatting with Amma on the phone. We get along so much better when there is some distance. And in the midst of a very pleasant conversation I started,
Me: "Amma I've done something really bad."
Amma: "What?"
Me: "It's really really bad."
Amma (whispers): "What is it?"
Me (pleadingly): "But you can't scream at me."
Amma: "Tell me, I'm getting scared."
Me: "It's not thaaat bad. I've lost my ATM card. Again."

Then started Amma's rant which basically featured the word, 'Again?' I told her I was sorry. And I don't deserve an ATM card. And if she could only send me a cheque book, then I will deal only with that. I don't deserve the convenience and the responsibility of an ATM card.
Amma agreed.

Later when it came up when we were discussing the hostel, Amma informed me that Appa blew his top. But when I said that isn't me not getting an ATM card punishment, I was informed that since my account was in Cal, it would take several days for a cheque to clear. And I will just have to be responsible and use the ATM card.

Growing up comes with such responsibility.

I love...

Ever since I remember I was always told I talk too much. In school I was always told off for being too talkative and disturbing the class. As a result most people immediately think that I'm a bit of an extrovert. That I love hanging out with people, meeting new people and generally being social. This is so not true. I like just being with myself a lot. I love entering an empty house. I like the idea of spending an entire day by myself. It excites me. Sometimes when I'm coming back home from G's place I keep thinking, "It would be so nice if I saw a lock on the door!"
I don't know why. Of course there are pangs of loneliness too. But I discovered a year or so back that I could be lonely even when I am surrounded by the people I love the most.
My parents claim that as a baby I was very difficult. Especially with strangers. On seeing a strange face I would start wailing and raise the roof down unlike Chechi who was the most congenial happy baby. In so many ways I am still like that. I have this 'comfortable meter' and I dislike hanging out with anyone who strikes low on it.

Very few people know this about me.

HP

I started reading Harry Potter when I was in Class IX. I loved it. But still just thought of it as a nice children's book. I actually stopped reading the second book half way. I found it boring. But when I did pick it up again ( I still remember discovering it in my top drawer in my desk and thinking, "Maybe it's time to complete this!") and finish it, I loved it. But true love formed after the introduction of my favourite, oh so favourite character of Sirius Black. From then on it was a roller coaster of an affair. An affair that has ended but will continue. In some odd different way.
Harry Potter took on a different meaning when I joined college. I found many like me. But the one who loved it with equal passion and a similar passion was Sanuja - Snooze. We read, re-read, re-re-read about a million times.
We'd sit with our wai wai, our individual copies and read. Read and then laugh out loud. It was a fake but not fake laugh out loud. I would truly find something funny. And knowing (subconsciously) that she'd find it funny too, I'd laugh loudly. Just cause I knew Snooze would ask me what I was laughing about. We'd discuss and tear it to bits. Formulate our theories and then read on. Only until the next person laughed(fake/not fake) out loud.
That year I even had a Harry Potter surprise Birthday Party - the room decorated in Griffindor colours because I was supposidly Harry. Chech was Ron, and Snooze, oh my Snooze, as such a great Mcgonagall.
It was appropriate that she went on to work at Bloomsbury and was able to send me Half-Blood Prince for free.
And now when I read Deathly Hallows I missed her so much. I stopped in the middle of the most heart wrenchingly thrilling moments just to mail her and say, "see I was right about this" and "Shit you were so right about that!". Or just to say, "Did you read that line, wasn't it funny?"

I loved it. I don't know or could never say whether I liked it. It's Harry Potter. I cannot not love it. The way it ended, the last chapter - I can't say right now whether it would be my ideal way of ending it, but it's over. And that is just sad.

She could have brought out probably a million more books and I still would have been lined up on the first day, waiting breathlessly for my copy.

21st July

From the moment I got up in the morning, I was after Chandan to get ready. I had to collect my book. HP dude had arrived. I wanted to scream to everyone on the street, "Harry Potterday".
I screamed at Chandan. He leisurely got up from bed. Went in to the bathroom. By that time I was ready, clothed and tapping my feet in impatience. Chandan then decided to settle down for a huge breakfast. Ten slices of bread and jam. (!!). I screamed. He screamed. Apparently his not getting in for a bath was enough of a concession. Needless to say, I didn't really see eye to eye with him on that score.
Before we left I realised I lost my ATM card. Again. Third time this year. I dreaded that inevitable conversation with my parents.
Went to CP, collected HP.
Went back home. Changed. Lay on my bed. Didn't stop for a bath or lunch. Just smoke breaks when it got too exciting. I realised so many of my predictions were coming true. I got calls midway asking me for lunch or beer. I told them flatly, until HP is over there is no way I'm going any where!!
At 9 pm I was dirty. But more than half way through HP. Realising if I wanted to meet G I would have to leave then. Put back on the clothes I had thrown off my body and onto the floor. Grabbed the book and left.
Throughout the auto ride my hand was itching. It was all I could do to stop myself from taking HP out of the knapsack and try and resume reading. Read whatever was visable from the passing street lights.
Reached G's place. Bought another pack of smokes. I knew the night would be thrilling. I needed sustenance. Yeah, I also bought a pack of wai wai.
Went up to his place.
I decided to calm down. Make my wai wai. Hopped into the bathroom. I didn't want to meet G after 4 days, stinking. Had a bath. Settled down with my wai wai and HP. My favourite way of reading.
Interrupted. Said hi to G. Went back to it. On and off I'd wake G up from his sleep. Just to kiss him in delight. I was amazed at my own genius. I screamed in delight, "I am a Harry Potter genius!" All my predictions came true.
Even after I finished the book at 4:53 am. I kept reading certain parts again. I slept at 7 am.
It was a good day.

What to do?

Over the past few months I have been preparing for entrance exams and writing them. Fearing that I would not get in anywhere, I wrote entrance tests for a wide variety of subjects. Now I have got admission to 3 places. One I'm not even considering. I am torn between two. And I am yet to receive news from place 4. I don't know what I will do. I don't know what I am going to do if I get in there. I don't know what I am going to do if I don't get in there.
Where should I go? What should I do? Are there any right answers? What if I later regret it?
What am I going to do?

Calcutta

The other day I discovered a poem I wrote in Class XII. Here goes..

Calcutta

The ancient city of the British Raj,
It's slums provoking literature at large.
Maidan - where fairs are held of all sorts,
From books, textiles to leather exports.

The busy road of Chowringhee,
Where people move in processions
Often without a clue, but more than willingly.
Footpaths filled with lazy strollers to work
Always ready to shirk
Work can wait... no question of job loss,
If ever it happens, go to the union boss

New Market or Hogg Market,
Joined to Park Street by Free School Street.
A quaint alley of knick knacks,
A collectors paradise.
Old books dog-eared and falling apart
Magazines, no longer in print, piled up in a cart.
Those old cassettes of yesteryear
Still a treasure to a sensitive ear.

Ancient gramophones made to look it's best
Still hoping to entertain many a guest.
But the sweat of the shop assistant
Is unnoticed, yet he's persistent.
And amongst shops of furniture and vintage silver
Is a grey tailor, trying hard to deliver.
His machine and pattern books out of fashion
His shop next to a red fire station.

The City of Joy truly
The home of Rabindranath, Teresa and Netaji.
Also of junk food, undeniably!
From puchkas to churmur and jhaal muri
Papri chat, shikanji and bhel puri
Makeshift shacks selling rolls and chowmein
Have grown roots for the time being
Undefeated champions of tasty rubbish
In this city I cherish.

Modes of transport - a wide variety indeed
From buses, mini-buses autos and cabs.
Rickshaws still being pulled by hand,
The sluggishly moving tram
Making the experience worth a damn,
In contrast the fast moving metros,
Technology means art!!
The stations having painting of Rabindranath.

Monuments are definitely Calcutta's boast
But enough has been dwelt on that
Instead to be highlighted in fact
Are roads like AJC Bose and Park Street
With Queens and Karnani Mansion,
Of a superior colonial pretension.
And every book ever published
Is found in College Street.
North Calcutta, the seat of many 'rajbadris'
Tales of it's every crack are not just fallacies.

Off Red Road are the sports tents galore
Instilling football madness for sure
Of which there is no cure.
The red brick building of Writers
Where men in power decide grave matters.
he clerks loiter on the street,
For a cup of 'cha', a real treat!

On the streets where the taxis rule
Black and yellow of their royal plume
Sending terror in their wake
Making every other driver quake.
The roadside barber, his tools of trade
On a battery shell neatly laid
Ready to cut shave and style
So please stand in file!

It's a strange city I live in
At times full of activity and din
At others, moving at snail's pace.
Screaming, 'what a place', is always the case!

Yet home to a true Calcuttan's heart.

Mussourie with the Family June 7th - 9th

I loved the lamposts there.

All through the mall prams were hired out to tourists for their bags, shopping packages or even to just push their children instead of carrying them.






Chechi and I discovered this old roller skating rink with wooden panels and floors. It even had galleries. Chech and I had a blast trying to learn roller skating for 2 hours. Needless to say we fell down a lot

We loved the outfit of the locals - Jodhpurs, shirt, long waist coat and cap!

Something felt so wrong about these coolies. They seemed more like packed mules!

In 1975 my father puked from the Mussourie Library Balcony after getting hammered.