India

I was a 'patriot' before I knew what it meant. I swore I wouldn't work outside the country, and wouldn't be part of that term thrown about with such severity- "Brain Drain". At 22, I find myself leaving the country for the next five years, this inner patriot finds itself silenced. Do I intend to return (of course, I may not have a choice given the employment situation worldwide)? My answer is no longer a resounding yes. Working in India lays open its problems, and while I love her irrespective of these, they make me rethink living here. I'm no longer certain of returning to her thorny embrace. I want to do something for my country, but when the costs of such a contribution appear on the horizon, I am hesitant. I was a patriot before I knew what it meant. I hope I shall prove myself a patriot now that I fully understand what it means to be one.

Harry Potter

...for what else could 'H' belong to? Like millions of other fangirls, I miss the heady days of awaiting the next books, discussing plots and plot holes, characters and their quirks, debating Snape's evilness quotient and predicting the winner of the Quidditch Cup. JK Rowling gave us something to look forwards to, and gave us characters so much in tune with ourselves we couldn't not be hooked. My Harry Potter stationary set and posters now lie abandoned without the fuel of a new book to keep the fire going. It’s no longer cool to dress up as a character from Hogwarts. An era has passed. In our hearts, however, the memories shall live on.

Goodness

Babies have it. Some people retain it so you can see it shining through their personalities. It's not just limited to people. That serenity that hits you when you enter a temple or church, isn't that goodness itself (oh come on, you atheist, I'm talking to you too)? I don't know how you define it,
how you get it, how you lose it, whether you lose it, if our goodness, as I suspect is just inside all of us lurking inside the layers of shit life has thrown at us. Maybe that’s what self-awareness is- knowledge that you’re Good. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to find.

Forgive me if this post is a ramble, I’m NOT feeling very self-aware right now.

Fangirl

An abiding feature of my adolescent years has been fangirlism. While the objects of my affections have varied with time, the manifestations of my emotional involvement remained the same. From sportspeople to Harry Potter to movie actors, I was always certain of two things- the everlasting bond I shared with them, and the uniqueness of this bond. Conversely, the sense of being in a community with other fanatics who shared similarly “unique bonds” only served to strengthen this bond.

I still have soft spots for all of my everlasting loves, though their place is currently occupied by other everlasting loves. Adolescent or not, one part of me will always remain a naive fangirl.

Ego

Realisations from Baby Jaishna, who's actually a saint in baby clothing.

We're happiest when our ego is at its weakest. Every moment it makes its presence felt makes us unhappy by a definite amount. It goads us on to think unhappy thoughts, to become the worst we can be, to love less and to be less at one with people we claim to love. It's why time spent with kids and babies is so rewarding, they shear us of the malaise that grows on us with age, even if temporarily. We don't worry about how we look, what we do in life or how we sound.

I'd replace the seven deadly sins with the greatest of them all.

D for...

Note: This is what results when you are out of time and out of a topic and have pledged to write a post a day. Don't judge me :)


O' you flakes in pearly white
Why must you plague me so?
I rinse and scrub and oil and wash
And hunt for solutions high and low.

But, no, you’re always on my head
Reminding me, at all moments
(with an itch here, a scratch there)
Of your everlasting presence

My shampoos have given up in vain
In the bathroom, they, dejected, lie
As I turn to novel cures
But there’s only so much I can try.

One day, I’ll give up too
And destroy the habitat of this nasty stuff
I’ll get you, even if it gets me.
I’ll shave my hair off, O Dandruff!

Cities

After 22 years of having moved across different cities in India and Singapore, I know I like big cities. I currently live in one which is amongst the biggest of them all. I can lose myself in Bombay when I want. I like knowing that I'm in a place that matters to this world, that I can find pretty much anything I look for in some cranny of the vastness I inhabit. I like knowing that I can shrug off the anonymity I love and connect with the city's human side at my disposal. The diversity, the uniqueness underlying this very diversity, the hustle, the self-importance and the lack of it, drive me on.

I'm moving to a little dot on the map of the world called Ann Arbor this fall. It's a town masquerading as a city and the thought scares me.

Baby Day Out

No, there isn't a typo in the title.

The lone bright spark in my daily routine these days is the sight of baby Jaishna, whose lucky aunt I happen to be. As soon as I step into her house, the scent of baby emanating from its walls, its floors, its every inch, surround me with a welcoming hug.

And then I enter her shrine, where she lies swathed in her pinks and greens, kicking and flailing her arms as she awaits her next supplicant. She has tiny eyes which fixate upon me as she babbles and fully convinces you of her intentions to convey a message of the utmost importance. As her sparkling eyes fill my vision and her gurgling laughter my ears, I get sucked into her world, leaving the depressing world of adults behind. My only job is to wipe spittle off her chin and the only path to happiness is the sight of her smile.

For this escape, and for the sheer joy of having my finger clutched by a cherubic angel, thank you, my darling Jaishna.

A-Z Blogging Challenge, The

This scares me. Do I really have as much discipline in my closet of hidden virtues? I doubt it. I'm one of those people who's perennially with a writer's block, and my brain refuses to form coherent sentences when it's in in this phase. I always thought most of 'writing' is in the unconscious part of our brain, all we have to consciously do is translate thoughts to tangible words.

What happens when stream of thought dries up? Do you just wait for it to return? Or do you force yourself to exercise your brain muscle hoping it will find its way? Inexperienced as I am, I think you need to do both. You have to be able to write when you're at your worst. And you can never be your best unless that natural flow resumes in your head.

With this A-Z blogging challenge, I bring forth my bulldozer. Let's hope I dont' make it an April 1st joke.

31.

I wonder what Sachin Tendulkar does with his runs. Does he carry them around, pennies in a gigantic rucksack, lending weight to his every move? Do they wait to be sold or bartered for charity, food or fancy cars? That ache in his back, are the pesky runs the ones causing it, or the bag which grows along with the little mites? What will he do with them when he dies?

And that, is the question we ask of life via Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar's runs.

30.

Stories are found things, like fossils in the ground.

Whatever opinion I have about the rest of Stephen King's book 'On Writing', this statement gets the most vigorous nods I have in my arsenal. Writing has never been an act of deliberation but one of release. You let ideas come to you and engage yourself with the mundane goings-on of life while they ferment in your head, mutating and evolving organically. All you do is look within yourself, find them and hold on to them, then grab a pen as they trickle down from neuronal space to ink. Drug-addled smoke-spewing alcoholics or not, writers (and poets, and perhaps anyone involved in creative pursuits) are saints of the highest order for being able to find that space inside them unerringly and constantly, and for keeping this space sacrosanct and inviolable.

Inviolable, for you cannot afford an invasion by fear, that most cancerous of emotions, or by the clutter of your everyday life, which dulls your creative juices. Freedom is the writer's fuel, just as freedom is the monk's goal. All you wannabe writers, become saints first. And all you saints, it's time to realise sainthood can be achieved without abstinence. Just ask those drug-addled, smoke spewing alcoholic writers.

29.

In news from the Middle East, Iran has raised concerns about the United States’ rapidly expanding nuclear arsenal and questioned the security of small nations which aren’t under the aegis of the “United States Client States” commonwealth. President Ahmadinejad has ordered satellite missions to detect activity levels at various secret reactor locations in the USA. At the United Nations, the Iranian representative has called for sanctions on the United States, not on food or economic aid but Chinese-made goods which would cripple the average American. He has thus far been backed by Russia alone. Pakistan, a member of the extended 15-member Security Council has hinted it would back sanctions unless President Obama pumps in economic aid to its ally in the war against terror. The Indian ambassador was seen looking skywards and refused to comment on the issue. French President Nicolas Sarkozy and German Chancellor Angela Merkel were seen exchanging smirks but declined to offer comment.

28.

If I were a warrior in some medieval world, my weapon of choice would be a blingy fountain pen. Few things beat the sheer happiness of beautiful pen and paper. I’m often assailed by the urge to lay a nib on a blank sheet and pour out the existential woes that I feel are unique to me but are being experienced by approximately 14203622 people at the exact same moment. I’m stopped in my tracks by that most unconquerable of afflictions, a messy handwriting and an unfavourable disposition to, well, messy handwriting.

It’s strange how you can use an instrument for years, and find yourself wielding an object that feels alien. I have written reams upon reams of history, mathematics, literature, and sly notes to friends using these marvellous creations of man. Yet they refuse me. Every time we would have an extended break from school, we would come back struggling to put pen to paper. Such short memories hast thou, O pen! The malaise has continued for me, only that I do not need a break from pens to lose the ‘writer’s touch’. At times that are as stochastic (and as frequent) as the rains in Singapore, my pens shy away from my touch, refuse to move where I want them to, producing angry scrawls upon an obliging canvas. I have to force them into submission when I’d rather coax them gently. My hand looks upon them as a lover, they resist like the conquered would an imperialist.

I have drifted away from the world of messy handwritings to neat, if ugly, typescript because I loathe my inability to create something beautiful. It doesn’t capture half the joy of looking at a handcrafted article. Evade me not, my darlings, befriend me. You shall always remain my first loves.

27.

In 400 words or less construct a story in the form of a series of post cards. Give us only what is on the post cards being sent from one person to another, letting the post card messages stand on their own, allowing the reader to decide what effect the messages have on the recipient.

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17 July 2006
Dear Viv,
Everything’s new here. The coffee, cars on the wrong side of the road, the huge meal sizes. All this will take time getting used to! I’m about to begin with orientation programs at university, they go on for a week along with the medical exams. Later this week, we are touring Boston, that should be fun! I’m hoping I meet some interesting people soon. I can’t wait to take you around when you get here. Miss you so much already, I wish you were here.

Love,
Zia

1 August 2006
Dear Viv,
Yes, I did take plenty of pictures. You’ll have to come here to see them, though! Classes are fun and not too difficult, at least not yet. I like three-four of my batchmates, we get along well and spend our evenings together playing tennis. I showed them the picture we had taken at the beach and they think you’re pretty. I couldn’t agree more. Miss you as much as ever.

Love,
Zia

17 August 2006
Dear Viv,
I’m sorry to hear about your uncle. I hope you’re alright and taking care. Classes and my tutoring job have been keeping me busy here. My students don’t take me very seriously, I’m too lenient to be a decent teacher. My friends (Amanat and Roy) and I are doing a weekly potluck, that has been fun so far. Cooking can be fun when you create your own recipes! Miss you, come visit me sometime!

Love,
Zia

1 October 2006
Viv,
Nothing much has been going on here. I’ve just been been busy with the usual stuff. My friends and I have been thinking of going on a trip around the US for our winter break. I did think about coming home, but the airplane costs proved prohibitive. It would have nice seeing you after what seems like ages. I hope your job is going on well. What else is new with you?

Love,
Zia


10 January 2007
Dear Viv,
I’ve been thinking, and this long-distance relationship really isn’t working. It’s so difficult keeping up the intensity via postcards or letters. If only someone would invent a way to keep in touch in real-time and didn’t cost as much as international calling...I hope there are no hard feelings, Viv, and that you remain the cheery girl I know.

Take care of yourself,
Zia

26. Mumbai Local

I was waiting on platform 2 for the Panvel local. As the train approached, winding into the station like a gigantic flat-nosed anaconda, a bearded man started hailing it standing on a narrow edge of the platform. “Stop, Stop!” he seemed to cry, as his arms flailed, his hands waving the obedient train to a complete halt. As everyone else on the platform exchanged amused glances at this self-proclaimed conductor, I wondered what was going through his head. Did he think the train would go crashing into the station (it’s a one-way platform) eliminating humanity in its wake if it wasn’t given a gentle signal to stop by a bearded man in a red shirt? Or was he a funnyman who managed to break the monotony of our daily lives by giving us something to remember?

I’m no good at clambering onto moving trains, but needless to say, as any self-respecting traveler, I need to display my experience at this feat. I stare confidently at my competitors for a seat, sometimes I smile (mental games), I brace myself as the train arrives, and move to my position three feet from the platform edge. I congratulate myself on being the first woman in the first class compartment crowd. This glow of smugness lasts for about 10 seconds. That’s how long it takes for a horde of roughly a million women to appear from nowhere right between me and my compartment. Mumbai women are clearly emergent phenomena.

25.

Over 22 years, I've lived in 8 houses. It makes my definition of 'home' malleable, I move in and move out in a trice leaving behind but traces of my existence. Perhaps that's why I started calling my hostel room 'home' before most people did. It didn't really matter when the room I had spent years in and embossed my personality upon was suddenly taken over by a friend whose family moved to our office-owned quarters.

We've lived in my current house for 6 years now. Lived, though, is a touch incongruous. I've lived in it for a year and then visited it twice a year while I was away in college. It was brand new when I moved away. When I came back every vacation, I'd find my parents older than before in a very noticeable way. The house seems to reflect this. It's creaky at the knees, looks worse for the wear and complains of disfunctioning parts. Not to equate my dad's hearing with a malfunctioning flush, but maybe that's what a home is about. It grows with you. If my mother's redecorations had anything to do with it, the house would grow every week.

The plumbers are over this week to fix that flush. Painters will be over soon to brush over the blotches on the wall that the monsoons bring. Our homes reflect our lives. Now if only our lives could reflect our homes and the painters and plumbers for our lives took our ageing blemishes away.

24.

She works in a development bank at Mohammad Ali road, two hours away from her house at Kharghar. She chomps on roasted gram which keeps colds away. She used to live closer by in Andheri, but her son's college is in Kharghar, and there the family shifted. He studies chemical technology at Bharatiya Vidyapeeth, a three year diploma that will lead on to a bachelor's degree. He will then go to join his uncle's chemical plant in Oman where his gransmother lives.

She is worried about her son and she shows it. He loses Rs 22000 phones, scores just 77% in his boards, is barely passing in college, and takes full advantage of his mother being away most of the time.

A mother who's extraordinary by virtue of being one.

It's funny how much you can learn from conversations you've eavesdropped on during your morning train ride.

23. Visualizing the Brain's Senses

How are images and movements, in fact, memories in general, processed, recorded and stored in the brain? This is a question which has been asked repeatedly by neuroscientists for centuries. Recent experiments from the last year are bringing us closer to the answer.

When we ‘see’ something, our eyes transfer signals via the optic nerve to the visual center of the brain, which, like every part of the brain, is made up of nerve cells called neurons. This brain region processes and visualizes these signals, thus enabling us to recognize and classify objects. This processing occurs by the neurons ‘firing’, i.e, they transfer electrical signals between each other in a pattern that depends on the image being processed. Scientists have developed a procedure called Functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) to map this neuronal activity.

fMRI, a variant of the MRI scans record brain activity by detecting the changing blood flow in the brain using magnetic fields. The magnetic fields produced by blood rich in oxygen differ from those produced by blood poor in oxygen. The balance between oxygen-rich and oxygen-poor blood indicates the level of brain activity. fMRI can zero down to within a few millimetres of the active regions in the brain.

In 2011, researchers at the Gallant lab at the University of California (Berkeley) have observed dynamic neuronal activity patterns in the brain while patients are shown short movies. Described in the journal Current Biology, they first recorded the temporal neuronal patterns for
a number of movies, to try create ‘dictionaries’ (in terms of the observed neuronal pattern) for each scene along with the shapes, colours and edges in it. In other words, they tried to correlate electrical patterns both with the ‘big-picture’ depiction of the scene and with elements in it like
shapes and contours. Then, they tried to find out if they could predict the reverse direction- conjuring movies from brain patterns. The data from the fMRI scans for each movie was fed into a computer to create these ‘dictionaries’. Subjects were then asked to imagine a sequence from a movie that had been shown to them earlier. When patterns from their brain scans were recorded and transmitted to the ‘decoder’ computer, it could reconstruct the scenes they had been imagining with a fair amount of accuracy. With some science, imagining something could bring it to life.

Such studies can be extended beyond visual sensing to any form of brain activity, which could lead to direct communication to and from the brain via a computer. These could have great potential for improved and reliable lie detection tests, speech-impaired patients and perhaps even communication for paralysed patients. Decoding the language in which the brain converses is an important step forward in understanding the mechanisms of the brain.

Detour

“Life is not lost by dying; life is lost minute by minute, day by dragging day, in all the thousand small uncaring ways.”
— Stephen Vincent Ben

22.

I'm a (reluctant) and infrequent member of the Bombay Bus Commuters' Association. A recent journey by the red buses enlightened me about their foremost entertainment options- in-flight, er, in-ride television.

While the screen is mostly blank in the mornings with a strip of information containing the news and sensex at the bottom, commuters at other times of the day get to view non-stop advertisements for programs on Star plus and Sony. The folks at BEST do bring in infotainment once in a while, though. "Test your English" is one such feature. You answer questions like "I was so _____ in class that I felt asleep". That isn't a typo. Ah, ironies.

The news marquee at the bottom displays cryptic news items like "Khurshid visits PM after EC sends complaint". What complaint? To whom? BEST is thoughtful enough to leave its users with interesting questions to pass the journey by.

I saw some “hi-sound” speakers on the bus, but it turned out the engines were “higher-sound” and you thus can’t hear a word from the lovely television while moving. But I then realised I couldn’t hear anything while the bus was still either. No-sound speakers? No, they merely happened to be connected to the PA system and not to the television.The television is mute. So this is the BEST’s message to Mumbai- Just watch Vidya Balan, what’s to hear?

21.

Baby Jaishna now laughs! Yes, this calls for a celebration. She lies swaddled in her blue and pink baby clothes (yes, her mother picks boring colours) looking every bit like her father, and gurgles and laughs as spittle drips from her mouth. She makes these noises now, trying to say mumma, as her vocal chords protest. Her huge eyes light up even more and the smile is as much in her eyes as on her lips. They're brightest when looking at her mum.

When her father speaks and he's out of her line of sight, her eyeballs drift to the corners of her eyes in search of his voice, her mouth forming a slight 'O'. She kicks a lot and she's going to be an excellent footballer. Her voice also makes it likely she'll sing like her great-grandmum. Welcome to carnatic classes in a couple of years, little one.

20.

There was a research study that said that you can never hear yourself sing badly in the shower because of the vibrations your voice makes against the drops of water. I can't find the paper anywhere, but I suspect singing in the face of a strong wind falls under the aegis of the same theory. Which is why I love standing in the doorway of the CST-Belapur local and singing loudly. I sound great, and I feel great.

While I'm at the doorway clutching the pole with my right hand and the hand-railing with my left, I ensure I catch a glimpse of the fluttering orange flag of the hilltop temple in Nerul. The sight of the brightly lit temple standing still is a nice reassurance. The temple stands tall and still while the world survives another day.

19.

“Who broke the vase?” Ms Mala’s strict voice boomed across the filled classroom. Her question was met with a silence in which you could hear a pin drop. “Who was it?” repeated Ms Mala, only to receive the same response.

Siddharth sat cowering in his seat, certain that everyone’s eyes were on him. He had slipped into the class for a sip of water during the physical education period. He had stumbled at the doorway and fallen right over the teacher’s table, resulting in the vase falling to the floor with a mild crash. He had turned around and run away immediately without giving thought to what he should do. Later, as he participated in the game of cricket which was going on in the grounds, he had wondered if he should go back and tell the teacher. But the vase was expensive, and Ms. Mala stern. And besides, he’d just get into more trouble for not having owned up immediately...

Very soon, worried of another nature assailed him. What if his friends realised it was him? They all thought he had gone to the cooler to get his water but what if they put two and two together?

As the pin-drop silence in class continued, his arm slowly rose a few inches, trembling before it crashed back down. His heart was racing, what if someone had seen him? He was class topper, star student, what would people think of him now? Would they tell his parents? Would be have to endure the humiliation of standing outside class for an hour?

“If no-one owns up, the next PE period gets cancelled for the whole class!” This was getting worse. Silence followed.

His mouth parched, Siddharth sat still while Ms Mala punished the whole class for his cowardice.

18. The Brain that Changes Itself

We all talk about how ‘10000 hours’ rule inspired by Malcolm Gladwell, about how spending enough time on an activity would lead to mastery of it. The essential message of the book ‘The Brain that Changes Itself’ talks about why this is true biologically.

Intrinsically, this is a book that dispels common notions in science, putting forth research that should have been in the spotlight but isn’t because of its being overshadowed by conventional viewpoints. Every student of biology learns about brain maps in their textbooks, a diagram that divides the brain into distinct and well-delineated regions each performing a specific function. We were all taught that this was the schema in each of our heads, and this is what the author Norman ___ rejects. He provides compelling evidence to the fact that our brain is not hard-wired when we are born, but are constantly getting wired- this is what he calls “Neuroplasticity”.

The book starts by describing a woman given to bouts of imbalance because of an impaired vestibular system which is responsible for balance in our bodies. She is treated by a prodigious doctor who plants receptors on her back and magically makes her brain recognize input from another part of the body. Later, scientists show the converse. They treat stroke patients by training a healthy part of the brain to receive input from nerves that originally transmitted signals to other, injured locations in the brain. Both of these examples point to the brain constantly learning new things, including its own structure and connections that exist in it. Sure, these rewirings are faster in babies, which is why they are so quick to learn, but don’t use that as an excuse to stay in your comfort zone- all brains can rewire themselves with the right stimulation!

The book has a Freudian take on love and sex. It states (with numerous examples, but of course) that our proclivities in love and sexual partners are a result of some innate connections in our brain that are created during childhood experiences. It also talks about, and this might interest many, why we turn to romantic poetry and raptures of happiness when we fall in love. It’s because love produces the same responses in our brains as cocaine, as does an apparently non-addictive activity like running!

A man addicted to sadomasochism who is cured of his obsession, blind patients who can see with an apparatus consisting of a camera which transmits electrical signals to their tongue, autistic children who develop social well-being and children with improved IQ prove gripping instances that the author uses to illustrate his points.

The brain is one of the greatest mysteries to mankind, and the author unravels many of its workings eloquently making this a fascinating read. Dollops of interesting facts and trivia, and understanding the way we work and why we feel the way we do about a lot of things is thoroughly enjoyable. Without explicitly saying so, the book talks about how we are as much about our genetic makeup as about what we feed our brain and turn it into. All we must do to improve ourselves is apply ourselves to it and pay close attention. If you’re asking if there’s a way to learn to pay closer attention, well, the answer, is to pay closer attention! We are what we do, is what the author seems to say, and what he tries to show makes us greater masters of our destiny.

17

Yesterday, my Bollywood-crazy, party-going,Marathi-speaking, sleeping-so-late-it’s-considered-early cousin sat back and called herself the ‘perfect Bombay girl’, the implication that I was, thus, not one hanging in the air. I bristled, as steam started rising from my ears. How DARE she claim this city as hers? How dare she even suggest that I don’t belong in a city that offers refuge to anyone willing to embrace it?

Bombay is a sorrier place if you label it and stamp your stereotypes upon it. The ‘dumb Bombay‘ stereotype or the ‘posh Bombay’ stereotype says nothing about the huge numbers (huge enough to form majorities in most other cities) which do not conform to these. In all honesty, I came to Bombay expecting people in these very moulds, only to find my dearest friends who are as much Mumbaikar as my Ganpati-adoring cousin. Sure, perhaps the average Bombay girl is represented by stereotypes, but were these the only ones ferrying food packets to stranded passengers during the floods? Are they the only ones travelling two hours on rickety trains across the city to earn their livelihood?

If the ‘Bombay girl’ were instead represented by the sense of humanity, empathy and tolerance, it would do more justics to this city that millions (many of whom choose to curl up at home with a book on New Year’s eve) call home.

Or perhaps, as my friend Anu said, make traveling by local trains the acid test for Mumbaikars. The numbers, as you’ll probably find out, will be more than those of the ‘perfect Bombay girl’.

16

“Repeat what you heard”, the cold voice from the shadows said.

“The end of July will bring forth the child who has the power to kill you, my Lord. This child has been prophesized to be the one”.

The Dark Lord stood pale as death, drawing his breath in a hiss that sent shivers down Snape’s spine. “My killer...”, he whispered. “Let’s see how well the slayer does at the hands of his prey at the powerful age of 1”. It had been a year since the prophecy had been made. Now was the time to strike.

“ We leave now. Snape, with me.”

“My Lord, you promised...to spare...the child’s mother...” spoke Snape hesitantly. “I remember, Severus”, replied the Dark Lord with a touch of irritation “The Mudblood will be left for you. Now leave.”

In a whirl of wind, they were gone. Simultaneously, in a village called Godric’s Hollow 200 miles away, two cloaked figures appeared at the doorway of Number 31. It was a quiet evening but for the birds chirping. The Dark Lord flicked his wand casually and the door blasted open. A meoment later, James Potter came running out from an inner doorway, spells bursting froth from his wand. Snape hesitated, then stepped beside the Dark Lord and fired a curse at Potter. As things went crashing around the house, he watched as a framed picture of the Potters fell to the floor, as if in slow motion. It shattered to pieces as Snape said, “He’s dead, my Lord”.

They moved to the bedroom off the living room. There she stood. Lily Evans stood defiantly in front of her son, shielding him from them as golden sparks erupted from her drawn wand. She shot Snape a disgusted look before turning to The Dark Lord. “Step away girl”, said the Dark Lord. At least he was keeping his promise, Snape thought.

Lily wasn’t playing, though "Not Harry, please no don't kill him, take me, kill me instead —"
"This is my last warning —"

“Okay, take him”, she gave in!

The Dark Lord, with eyes furrowed, uttered a curse that would shoot a stream of green light at the babe and kill the prophecy. It blew up into smithereens. James Potter turned into Rudolfus and Lily into Bellatrix as everyone yelled “SURPRISE” and a banner streamed from the ceiling “HAPPY BIRTHDAY LORD VOLDEMORT- From your Death Eaters”.

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Disclaimer; None of this belongs to me, it's all JK Rowling's!

15

I’ve spent the last 4 days in Mahabaleshwar for a scientific conference that has made me wiser with respect to at least three things. 1) Scientific conferences are largely a colossal waste of time and money. 2) Most scientists either do great work or present well. The proportion of researchers falling in both of these categories forms a minuscule number. 3) The most interesting scientists are all evolutionary biologists!

We’re staying at the Club Mahabaleshwar, which is an exceedingly beautiful place tottering from a colonial hangover. Established in 1881, this place is severely old-school with “No Chappals or shorts” permitted in the dining rooms and guests allowed by invitation or via contacts only. However the hammocks strung in the picturesque gardens, the chairs you sink into and the pervading air of calm make us wish we could stay longer, minus the 30-odd lectures we have been subjected to. And the food, oh the food! The best jam I’ve ever had, sumptuous curries and desserts that just melt in your mouth have been our rewards for the aforementioned lectures. We’re already worried about how we’re going to manage with the food at North canteen once we get back. And yes, kidnapping the chef is an option that has been considered, thank you very much.

The lectures. Ah. I sleep through most of them while being worried that in my trance-like state, I will blurt out something loudly in the midst of a bunch of distinguished researchers. Not fun. lectures aside, what the conference HAS done is is narrow that barrier that separates ‘us’ from the ‘real scientists’. I haven’t spoken to as many of them as I would have liked, because of the fear that the first thing they say to me will be “So I saw you sleeping during my talk”. But they seem less distant when you see them swinging their kids on their shoulders or discuss marathons with them or listening to them saying things they shouldn’t be because they are drunk (but that’s a different story). You arrive at the conclusion that scientists really are kids at heart (maybe even a bit mentally) and you know there are few options you would care for more.

14. The Crimson Throne- Sudhir Kakkar

“India is not the only country where momentous events are too often caused by insults to honour, or as a result of envy. Historians ignore this truth and indulge in vain speculation as to the causes and courses of agitations that shake up empires.” says Nicolass Manucci, one of the book's narrators.

Against the backdrop of 17th century India, we witness, in grand and simultaneously minute detail, the succession struggle following (and, in fact, during) Shah Jahan’s rule between his two worthy sons Dara shiloh and Aurangzeb.

“Your birth starts the process of dying”, prophesizes an ancient crone about the mighty Mughal empire. We follow the events of the struggle from two voices both prescient about the imminent demise of the empire, and who touch their accounts with a sense of the importance that will be placed on the events surrounding them in the pages of history. Nicolao Manucci and Francois Bernier, our narrators, are as starkly contrasting as can be, both in their personalities and in the sides they choose to align themselves with, united only by their naked ambitions and their colonial outlook on India.

Both these narrators take turns to provide narratives that fit into the jigsaw of the royal succession. While they have sworn to their honesty of their accounts, the authos beautifully brings out the unconscious manner in which our prejudices colour the way we view incidents. While Manucci is a carefree liberal who regards native Indians with mild amusement, Bernier is a serious, often pompous conservative who talks about Indian ‘idolators’ with open disdain. One for Prince Dara, and the other for Aurangzeb, the story of a bloody overthrow is no longer the dull uni-dimensional collection of facts presented to us in history textbooks.

What the author brings forth the best is his attention to detail to the lives and customs in times of the Mughal empire. From the windowpanes of the gentry's houses, attitudes to sexuality, religion and societal structures are presented in a manner that is understated yet precise. Royal harems are the hotbeds of gossip and palace intrigues, and homosexuality is widespread and accepted, even encouraged. When Bernier adopts an African boy for companionship, the prevailing assumption is that the act is primarily for sexual purposes. The game of political intrigues is less riveting, yet provides glimpses into the foibles and personal rivalries of Mughal royalty which are captivating and another rejoinder to history textbooks.

The text can be plodding, the story more interesting than its telling, with vast swathes of the book laborious to read. This makes what could be a possibly engrossing book closer to ordinary.

14.

Vapi, a little industrial town sandwiched between Gujarat and Maharashtra, greets you with the acrid odour of industrial exhaust. This happens to be perhaps Vapi’s only unfortunate problem (though the beer-guzzling adversaries of Gujarat’s dry status might disagree). It’s a city like most of India’s small cities, though better planned by those standards. Characterized by small streets, chaotic traffic with more than its share of two-wheelers, and a bustle that is accompanied by a laid-back tenor, Vapi has very small-town feel to it, though better-planned compared to most of India’s other small cities.

A bridge separates old Vapi with the ‘new Vapi’, where commerce thrives. Vapi is a front-runner in the GUjarat government’s plans for industrialization of the state. The newer part of town is more prosperous, green and has a fresh look to it. The one apartment complex I had the opportunity to visit compared to any housing complex in Bombay when it came to facilities.

Vapi is a lovely place for a child to grow up in. There is a multiculturalism, though a Gujarati essence thrives. In my cousin’s building, the elevators are turned off during non-peak hours to conserve electricity. That’s apparently how conservative Gujaratis are when it comes to money! Every facility a kid could need, with the friendly neighbourhood that, for some reason, is the property of the small city rather than the big ones, makes Vapi a very pleasant environment. Except, of course, for that unfortunate smoke.

13.

He locked himself in his room and then proceeded to hit himself on the head repeatedly till he couldn’t help crying out in pain. He sobbed, stopped to savour the throbbing in his head, and continued beating himself up. He needed the pain; it helped keep away the frustrations that had built up within. Who’d ever guess that cheery ol’ Jason beat himself every night?

That saying he had heard, like most other sayings, he thought wryly, was true. There truly was no greater burden than great potential. He had been the star of his family- star student, star athlete, star kid. All his relatives had predicted greatness in his future. His job did not match that definition at any level. Neither did his friends. Sure, he had a job that paid decently, and a life that was comfortable, if not cushy. But what that meant was that he was merely treading that dreaded path to ordinariness. Where were the great things destined for him? Why was he in this rut of obscurity?

Why didn’t he quit? He was scared. What else could he do? He lived in the hope that his job would get better. It never did, but as long as there was that glimmer of hope, why take chances? He tried to accept the circumstances gracefully, but this was not what life was supposed to dish out to him!

This unfortunate mix of fear and ambition did him no good. Pent-up energy converted itself to productivity only when left alone by frustration. He hated not being able to take responsibility for his situation, and self-loathing got added to the mix.

There was a knock on the door. “Jason?”, his mother called. There’s someone I want you to meet. Mrs. Robinson, this is Jason, my son. He works in a software company as a manager, and we couldn’t be prouder of our wonderful little boy”.

12

At a time when ‘coming of age’ is a term much overused, K Sridhar verbalizes coming of age as it happens- in the mind. Set in Bombay of the eighties, the book revolves around three twenty-something year olds- Prahlad, Laila and Ananya who are coming to grips with their changing lives and with themselves.

This books makes us revisit college days as the trio meet over tea and heatedly discuss matters of philosophy. What is as poignant is how their sure-footedness with philosophy disappears as they begin to apply to their own lives...and loves. The relationship between the trio becomes messy when Prahlad realises he is in love with Laila, and when Laila is attracted to the mysterious and profoundly intelligent new entrant of their lives- Dorai.

The book brings forth tenets of Vedanta and much from the canon of Indian philosophy (being unacquainted with much of Western philosophy, I can’t say much about its presence in the book). Destiny, the meaning of life, and meaning of love are questions that have cropped up in every individual’s head, and the three protagonists voice them out with great deliberation. Philosophy and spirituality underpin this book at every level, and give the book its essence and defining quality.

The importance of Bombay in the book cannot be understated. The author draws a detailed portrait of lives in the city that Mumbaikars will latch on to with relish. Surely a doff of the hat to the city, is this. As their stories unravel, the book brings the question...just how much do our choices change our destiny, as opposed to carrying us along the path laid out for us? ‘Twice Written’ throws out all these questions, and keeps you riveted as the protagonists, and consequently, we, find answers that we might not always understand. Give this book a read, it’s one you will relate to and give you something to think about.

11

Baby Jaishna now has cheeks. Cheeks that are chubby enough to make you want to pinch them all the time. It's incredible how you can notice a baby grow in the mere span of 48 hours. Every day I see her take a little step forward in the transition from babydom to childhood.

Today, the little tyke lay calmly on her giant bed as her mumma spoke about how she had refused to sleep the entire day. If she chose that precise moment to sleep so she could ignore her mausi, I'm very upset!

10

I smell of baby. I have realised that very few things compare to putting a 15-day old baby to sleep in your arms. Baby Jaishna (my niece, yay!) is one smart girl. She whimpers and twitches till her mumma or her aunts pick her up and only then will yield to sleep. I gave it a shot yesterday. I rocked her to sleep, and her little bright eyes slowly closed shut. As soon as I stopped rocking, her eyes shot open- "What is going on here? Why aren't you doing your duty, mausi?" Nothing skips her attention!

When awake (and not crying), she stares at you with those shiny eyes of hers, her wide-eyed stare taking things in, making you wonder what's going on in that tiny little head. She smiles a lot while dreaming, making you think that there are pleasant things inside. She's growing so fast, and her legs are so long you want her to be a footballer. Well, I want her to be a cricketer, so close enough!

Being around her makes you forget the world outside, a pleasant drug with no side-effects. I can't wait for her to grow up, while simultaneously dreading it because I won't be around to see her grow and cuddle her and be her awesome-est aunt. I'll be the aunt she sees once a year, who she'll know by name. Everytime I see her, I'll exclaim over how much she has grown, and she'll smile politely. I don't want that. Ah well, lots of time to worry about that later. For now, I just want to smell the intoxicating scent of baby.