Broken

My head bowed
I listen as you
Recite the happenings of your day.
Mundane, hopelessly boring events,
There is so much I need to say.

Yet I sit here, unable to meet your gaze,
Consumed by my silence,
Your chatter ceases
And we sit, together,
So near, yet so apart
The breadth of my couch, a yawning chasm,
That neither has the courage to cross.

Instead of bridges,
Why do we insist on building walls?
Why do we play these sick, sick games?
I gave you all I was
You laughed and turned away.
I clutch at your shrivelled affection
Hoping, praying, that you will stay.

The slanting night shadows,
Twist and turn,
Dance and burn,
A bacchanal of sorts;
An orgy of emotions,
Fueled by passing cars
And the tears that steadily carve rivers.

I don't know how we got here,
Yesterday was so rosy;
Another lifetime.
Please just reach out,
Hold my hand,
Don't let me spend yet another endless night
Staring at the ceiling in a trance.

I want to know you're hurting too,
My pain is magnified by the fact that-
you can still live, laugh and love,
And make your promises, your empty, empty apologies,
While my every waking moment
Stretches as an endless torment, from dawn to never-ending night.

The loss of trust is a terrible thing,
The loss of innocence, even greater,
Whom do I lean on? Where do I turn?
And as I struggle to rise from the ashes,
I still want you to know that
I did my best; I gave it all;
None else would've done any better.

Ah Biology :)

[Once again, a college application essay. This is one of my favourites, since I bravely attempted humour! Most of the credit for my performance in Biology should rightfully go to Pramila Ma'am. However, for the sake of easy reading, I have attributed all of my interest and achievement (in Biology) to Nirmala Ma'am. The essay topic was an approximation of:'What made you choose your particular major?']

Biology is not an easy or precise science. It is tricky, smells like formalin and involves a lot of intimidating diagrams and tongue-twisting taxonomical names. Schools teach it so students can learn how babies are REALLY made (in case their parents didn’t go the whole mile while telling them about the birds and the bees). At least, that was what I thought until I entered the ninth grade-and met Nirmala Ma’am.
Anyone who has ever had Nirmala Ma’am will tell you that she doesn’t teach Biology; she teaches children. Clad in her crisp cotton sari and standing at a diminutive five feet, she starts bombarding you with questions before she even closes the door behind her. From angiograms to angiosperms, no topic is overlooked during her intense review sessions. As you turn to pull out your notebook, her hands whirl across the blackboard, drawing brains and hearts with mind numbing precision.
The first month is a blur (neuron? nephron?), but when you finally catch up, you start wondering why you couldn’t answer her questions earlier, how many notebooks you will exhaust before the year ends, and whether your wrist will actually crack if you write faster than 3,000 words per minute. You also learn the meaning of all the trite little phrases that biology teachers often employ, like “Biology is the story of life.” You end up sitting before a computer screen for hours into the night, marveling at the seamless perfection of the DNA double helix and laughing uproariously at nerdy jokes like the one below.
Question-Why are amoebae so bad at math?
Answer-Because they divide while multiplying!
I was so moved by Nirmala Ma’am’s influence that I decided to beg and plead for 8 months for an internship at Biocon, India’s largest biopharmaceutical enterprise. A week there as their youngest ever intern was enough to make me realize that this was my calling. The biotechnologists that I assisted and interacted with could not infuse life into words and 2D diagrams, like Nirmala Ma’am could, but they taught me technical aspects I could never have learned in a classroom. I felt an adrenaline rush whenever I entered the bustling laboratory, buttoning up my spotless lab coat, breathing in the heady aroma of reagents. I progressed so quickly that I was even allowed to test enzymes by myself!
During the winter of my 11th Grade, I was selected to be a part of the prestigious CPYLS (CSIR Program for Youth Leadership in Science), a national initiative to encourage budding scientists. Once again, I saw, learned-and was conquered. I spent hours with Nirmala Ma'am after class, excitedly detailing all the state-of-the-art facilities, and describing the complicated procedures I’d witnessed. Her constant guidance and encouragement enabled me to start working on my long standing projects on prion diseases and micronutrition-projects that I’m still researching today.
Now that I’m in my fourth year under Nirmala Ma’am’s tutelage, I’ve realized what makes her so special. Unlike most teachers, she is driven by such a strong passion for her subject that it’s actually contagious! I have slogged for months just to earn an imperceptible nod during her review sessions, a word of praise during rare one-on-one conversations (when she sheds her ‘monster’ persona). Through my own efforts, I’ve discovered a curiosity and passion for this enigmatic, yet easy, subject; and thanks to Nirmala Ma’am’s, I can now predict genotypes of successive generations, classify organisms with ease, and even get a 790 on my Molecular Biology SAT with absolutely no preparation (needless to say, she wasn’t very pleased about that!). Like a Mills and Boons heroine, I eagerly examine every flower and leaf, classifying it, drawing conclusions-reticulate or parallel venation? Pinnate or compound leaves? Monocot or dicot?
If Nirmala Ma’am hadn’t entered my life with a swish of cotton, barking a volley of complicated questions, I have no doubt that I would be pursuing the Arts, particularly Creative Writing and Journalism. Without even trying, she made me chart a course very different from the one I had decided upon earlier.
A particular line comes to mind-"A teacher affects eternity;he can never tell where his influence stops."

My grandfathers

[I wrote this essay for my college applications; but it is a piece from the heart, so I thought it should feature on my blog.]

“Desire is the key to life because desire is power. You are what your deep, driving desire is. As your desire, so your will. As your will, so your deed. As your deed, so your destiny,” goes a famous Buddhist proverb. Perhaps it was composed by my two grandfathers, whose inspirational lives could fill entire Chicken Soup books.
Siddlingaiah, who grew up to be my maternal grandfather, was born to an impoverished widow in a god-forsaken South Indian village. Working three menial jobs by the time he was thirteen, he managed to attend school and win a scholarship to study medicine in the city. Times were hard; he was forced to copy out entire medical textbooks and subsist on water when his mother couldn’t send him his monthly pittance. Braving all odds, he rose to the rank of District Health Officer and even now, a year after his death, awed villagers recount to me how my grandfather had performed an emergency surgery in the forest, on a woman whose intestines had been ripped by a bear, with only saline water, needles and thread at his disposal. At his funeral, I saw the passing of not a man but a legend; yet for 16 years, I merely saw my aging Grampa cheerfully battling the repercussions of 40 years of diabetes, even as he coaxed me to finish my vegetables. People often tut-tutted about his deteriorating physical condition, commenting that a man of medicine ought to have had the 'sense' to look after himself. But Grampa's favourite Sanskrit edict was- Paropakarartham idam shariram (The purpose of this body is to help others). Once, in a ruminative mood, he narrated to me the incredible story of his life (making light of his hardships, including the onset of diabetes at a mere 27 years)and suddenly he murmured, "If I had wanted to, I could've taken better care of myself, sleeping regularly, exercising, eating healthy. I'm not a fool. But even if I live to be 80, fit as a fiddle, what is the point? It will only be advantageous to me. I would rather die young, secure in the knowledge that I have alleviated the suffering of others." He fixed his rheumy, nearly-blind eyes on me. "Always remember child, if you live only for yourself, then it truly makes no difference if you're alive or dead." He wasn't preaching; just explaining his chosen destiny. And die young he did, after a protracted illness. His patients, family and friends miss him terribly-the booming laughter, carefree smile and genuine concern. Even though he became irritable and irascible as his illness progressed, we all loved him sufficiently to smile through his tantrums.
Thimmappa, my paternal grandfather, was the eldest child in a family of ten, and had to shoulder the burden of his father’s premature death. He conducted tuitions, attended night classes, and became the youngest ever Assistant Commissioner of the Food Department. It can’t have been fun or easy, but I’ve never heard him discuss those dark years; he educated and married off his siblings, and is a contented, intellectual man to this day. He often tells me that 'education is the great equaliser' and insists on cross reviewing every one of my report cards.
Living with the legacy of these two strong men, I’ve never had the luxury of considering failure an option, and my definition of crisis has been forever altered. Even as I grumble about my unrelenting workload, I’m grateful that my biggest worry is usually a debate or the upcoming SAT. They were born in times and places where farming and drinking to death was the norm, but they fought the circumstances-and triumphed. Their burning desire to succeed eventually shaped their destinies-and mine. I owe my strong work ethic to their discreet, non intrusive influence. Everyday, I endeavor to achieve a little more by challenging my boundaries; my proudest moment was when my uncle casually remarked, “She’s a chip off the old block-truly her grandfathers’ granddaughter.” I strive for excellence, and vow to leave my mark on this world, just like my two heroes did. My attitude, as molded by them, has been aptly summed up by Adidas-impossible is nothing.

The Intruder

I pushed open the door, and stifled a gasp when I saw him standing there. He looked exactly as he had in my terrifying nightmares-menacing, unclean. I trembled as he slowly explored my room. Obviously, the ‘Trespassers will be prosecuted’ sign on my door had meant nothing to him…

But mother had promised me, just the night before, that I would never have to worry about this….this….monstrosity…ever again. That he was a thing of the past. Yet here he was, with his back to me, methodically and coolly walking through my disorderly room as though he owned it. The last shards of my self control shattered, and I hugged myself in an effort to stop trembling.

Slowly, as though he could sense my gaze, he turned and looked straight at me. Then, leering, he took tottering, unsteady steps towards me, as though he had all the time in the world. I couldn’t move; paralysed and frightened, I stood in the doorway and screamed like a banshee.

Suddenly, midway through his weaving path, he stopped abruptly and collapsed. His eyes, the eyes I had never had the courage to look into, seemed to cloud over. My breath caught. Slowly, I forced air back into my lungs and clung to the door, trying to calm my racing heart. It seemed as though the new insecticide had worked after all!

I strode into my room fearlessly, taking special care to squash the cockroach that lay sprawled on its back.

Yearning...

I'm working on seven blog posts right now, but the sentences are stubbornly refusing to flow!!!:( Until then, I thought I'd just post the lyrics of this beautiful song by Dido. It's titled 'Hunter', and is more relevant in my life than ever. I just hope the right people take note:)

With one light on in one room
I know you're up when I get home,
With one small step upon the stair
I know your look when I get there.
If you were a king up there on your throne
would you be wise enough to let me go,
for this queen you think you own...

Wants to be a hunter again,
wants to see the world alone again,
to take a chance on life again,
so let me go...

The unread book and painful look
the tv's on, the sound is down,
One long pause
then you begin
oh look what the cat's brought in

If you were a king up there on your throne
would you be wise enough to let me go?
for this queen you think you own...

Wants to be a hunter again
wants to see the world alone again
to take a chance on life again
so let me go
let me leave...

For the crown you've placed upon my head feels too heavy now
and I don't know what to say to you but I'll smile anyhow
and all the time I'm thinking, thinking...

I want to be a hunter again
want to see the world alone again
to take a chance on life again
so let me go.

Conscience

(Above-The cramped basement where Elisabeth and 3 kids were imprisoned; Below-Josef Fritzl; Lowest-His daughter Elisabeth at age 11)

'Conscience' is defined by Wikipedia as 'a hypothesised ability or faculty that distinguishes whether our actions are right or wrong. It leads to feelings of remorse when we do things that go against our moral values, and to feelings of rectitude or integrity when our actions conform to our moral values. It is also the attitude which informs our moral judgment before performing any action.'

By this definition, we can safely conclude that most of humanity has lost the responsibility, the essential sense of morality, that a conscience ensures.

Most of us are now aware of the 'Horror House' in Austria, where 73-year-old Josef Fritzl imprisoned his daughter Elisabeth for 24 long years in a windowless basement, locked with an electronic code. In a chillingly cold case of incest, he bore seven children by her. The former electrician, the perpetrator of this tragedy that transgresses all boundaries, reportedly said that he was 'sorry' for his family, and that he just wanted to be left alone.

Which, to me, is an incredible thing. In his quiet moments, doesn't the merciless pain he inflicted upon his hapless daughter torture him? How does his conscience allow him to sleep nights? Don't his thoughts and nightmares rankle with the corpse of the baby-HIS baby-that he incinerated in an oven? How could his wife and six of Elisabeth's siblings not have known what was happening? It has come to light that Josef first sexually assaulted Elisabeth when she was 11, precipitating her desperate attempts to run away from home at the ages of 16 and 18. Ultimately, her father lured her to her new 'home', a basement with a concrete door, devoid of natural light, hope or happiness. A place where she birthed seven children by a monster, without anyone knowing or caring. Josef claimed that she had run away with a religious sect, and made three of his illegitimate children(or grandchildren?) appear on his doorstep. The other three children were forced to live in the dingy room with their mother. It is impossible to empathise with what they must've suffered, and witnessed-rapes and beatings instead of school and games. I find it laughable that no one realised what was going on-Josef's wife, his family, his neighbours. Or did they turn the other cheek? That is more probable.

On a smaller scale, my mother and I went shopping the other day. We saw an old, shrivelled lady, standing near the shop, dressed well but not extravagantly. She did not seem well to do, her hands were twitching with nervousness and she appeared lost; she wasn't a beggar. She pleaded with us to help her and narrated her tale of woe-robbed of her purse, she was in a strange city with no food and no way to meet her son who lived here. Pitying her, my mother gave her money. When I looked back again, there was no sign of the woman. Her seemingly frail vulnerability had just been a phenomenal piece of acting.

Sigh.

In the fairytales everything is so perfect. In the movies. In all stories. Daddies kiss their little girls goodnight and little old ladies bake fragrant cakes and never lie because they are God fearing souls. In real life, incest is more common than most people believe it is and nothing is what it seems.

Reality is so disappointing. Painful. Cruel. Harsh. And oh yeah, real.

The metamorphosis

My eyes flew open as my breath returned in slow, rattling gasps. Vivid images chased each other incessantly in my head. Dizzy, muddled and disoriented, I reached for the glass of water on my bedside table-and promptly landed on the floor, because my legs were entwined in my blanket. Without even the will to pull myself up, I hugged my knees and started to cry.

It wasn't aways like this. My long awaited summer vacation had started well. I went swimming and cycling with Susan and saw my beloved Ryan everyday. Perfect? Well, almost.

Susan and I had been best friends since kindergarten. That first day, I'd been so intimidated by the stern teacher and unfamiliar surroundings that I'd had to go to the toilet-in class. Kids are mean; they all laughed at me. I stood there, mortified and in tears, until Susan came and whispered that she wouldn't let anyone laugh at me. She fought the bullies off. To cut a long story short, I found my soulmate that day; we spent every evening on the phone, every day chattering away in class, and even organised secret birthday parties for each other.

For 14 years, she was the mainspring of my existence; that place I went when I needed encouragement, support, help, courage, love. And companionship. The best friend any girl could ever have. Maybe not.

Another lifetime.

I grimaced as I rose from the cold marble floor. Shuffling to the bathroom, I switched on the light. I presently realised that darkness would be more soothing, so I shut the lid of my commode and sat in the blackness, trying to gather my wits.

Ah, Ryan. Simply put, the true love of my life. He had a crush on me since seventh grade, and tried to woo me(his version) or rather, bug me(my version) by dropping rubber lizards down my neck, tugging my hair and hiding my books. In the ninth grade, we started dating... and life has never been the same since. Suffice it to say that we have had our ups and downs-perhaps more than most, given our temperamental personalities-but our love has always seen us through. 'The couple of the school' is one epithet we've earned in school. Even our teachers have given up and let us hold hands in class without batting an eyelid. My eyes burn as a fresh onslaught of tears begins. I can't bear to think of him in the past tense.

To add to my woes, my academic performance had begun a downward spiral. "This is abominable!" spat my Biology teacher as she handed me my latest test, the latest record of my failures. A straight-A student all my life, I couldn't take the added pressure.

Walking away from the darkness that threatened to engulf me, I reached the kitchen as if by clockwork. Reached inside the refrigerator and pulled out a bag of nachos. Ever since I found out, this has been my nighttime ritual; stuff my face and watch mindless sitcoms on TV, pop a sleeping pill and try to sleep. The last two months have been pure hell. My mind involuntarily flashes back to that fateful day when I walked into Susan's room, clad in my new dress (that I had bought especially for my 3rd year anniversary with Ryan), eager for her approval. I pushed upon that familiar door, and saw them both in bed. I don't have a very clear recollection of what happened next; I'm sure I didn't swoon like a pretty blonde heroine, or shriek, but I'm eternally grateful that the blurred memory. All I recall is the feeling of unreality...and the blinding pain... Yes, cliched as it sounds, my heart shattered into a million smithereens that night, and now nachos and cookies are my best friends.

I was unable to tell anyone; I couldn't bring myself to spell it out, ever. I went to school only sporadically, and sat at home all day, enduring my mum's sarcastic comments about my expanding backside. I gained 20 pounds, and couldn't make myself care. My doctor prescribed sleeping pills; after all, I was 'emotional,' a word that he used instead of 'depressed.'

I sighed and dumped the food on the counter and walked into my room. I dug into the debris and found my journal. Slowly, I began to write. "My heart is broken, lying on the cold, cold floor..."

Shit! I hurled the pen and journal away as sobs racked my body. Why me God? I wanted to scream. I couldn't believe this was happening. How could my boyfriend be sleeping with my best friend when we had both decided to wait? How could I ruin my grades in senior year and screw my college prospects? How could I have kept up my hopeless fifth grade attempts at poetry?

I had had dreams of being a great writer someday. I had filled pages and pages with stories, poems, songs or random thoughts. But now I knew the truth-I was just a failure through and through.

As I sunk into my depression, I glimpsed a pale dawn beyond my window and realised it was my 18th birthday. No one had bothered to call, since I'd cut myself off from my old friends and refused to acknowledge even my family. I could hear someone moving around outside; perhaps my Dad was getting a drink of water.

I made my decision, and the profound happiness bouyed me to my bathroom. I carefully took out my bottle of pills. 'Anti Depressant....Blah Blah....LITHIUM' it said. I smiled in satisfaction and slipped my savior into the pocket of my bathrobe.

I could hear my father calling me. Damn him, I thought as I shuffled into the kitchen. What did he want? A travelling salesman, he was away most of the time. I hadn't even seen him for a month. Not that I especially cared. But once upon a time, he'd meant everything to me. Like most girls, I don't get along with my mother.
"Happy Birthday baby," crooned my Dad and gave me a quick, embarrassed hug. It was so unlike his usual reserve. I saw a handsome, expensive journal lying on the table. He looked at me expectantly, and when I didn't respond, he pressed it into my hands.
"I have an early assignment today, but I'll be back in the evening. Do you need anything? Money? A cake?" I silently shook my head, realising that I hadn't noticed that he was already dressed. With a smile and a wave, he went out the door.

I sat at that table for a long time, and finally opened the journal. On the first page, there was an inscription in my Dad's copperplate print.
"To Casey
Go for your dreams. I believe in you and your immense potential.
I love you very much.
Dad."

My hands started shaking. My Dad, undemonstrative and shy by nature, must have struggled to write those few simple lines. But more importantly, he believed in me and my lost dreams, even when I had stopped believing in them myself. I saw clearly that I had been wallowing in self pity and hiding from reality for too long. It was time to emerge from my cocoon. I hugged the book to my chest and wept for a long time.

A confused girl had metamorphosed into a young lady, who came of age that day.