The Poetry Club.

I have to tell you this.

My colony is filled with cats that are pretty frisky. They play, run along the trees and bikes, hide under the cars and broken brick walls making faces at each other, or simply occupy a cozy corner in our balconies for a pleasant afternoon siesta. But there is one kitten -- almost white in colour with two brown spots on it, that is perpetually isolated. It plays on its own, and often pushes itself to seek company of not just its fellow cats but humans too. It leaves after a while though, you’ll never find it spending more than a scheduled amount of time with anyone. Much to my chagrin, it barges into our kitchen to drink the milk I set aside for making coffee.

Funnily, it reminded me of my poetry club at school where I was like the solitary kitten writing poems on the most mundane things right from civics to squirrels. Mostly, on squirrels because they were my favourite subject. No one would visit my club though. With cool things like science club (Of course, it is quite cool) displaying models of solar system and fancy rockets, which child would pay attention to literature? And that too to a club which had just one member.

I wasn’t the one to give up though. I really wanted the kids to appreciate the beauty of poetry and look at the world with an entirely different perspective -- I wanted them to understand the beauty of stars, and love the sight of a pond full of ducks without getting into the details of science behind stars. I was a romantic and I desperately wanted them to experience the profundity of my mighty squirrel talking about its woes to the ruler of the kingdom. To lure more kids into the club, I decided to create and draw attractive posters and sketches with my poems carefully scribbled on them with crayons and sketch pens I adored. I put them in the classroom, and requested a few of my friends who I traveled along with to put a two of them in their classes too. Needless to mention, they were always dominated with the posters of Parts of Speech, and Global Warming. I remember my science teacher telling me how these things matter, and that I was simply wasting my time on literature. Nothing would come out of it, she claimed. I remember how much I hated her when she would urge children not to read stories like Nancy Drew or Malory Towers in the library, instead forced us all to read Britannica encyclopedias only. She probably never understood a right balance had to be created between literature and science. For the longest time, I was distracted in her class owing to her haughty nature of brushing aside everything that wasn’t science.

Before I digress, let me tell you more.

I joined way too many clubs to talk about mine. I joined the Karate club too, and ended up resenting myself. I quit them all mid-way, mostly because no one really cared about poetry as much as I did. Sniff.

Irrespective of all this, my club did manage to get featured in the annual exhibition where I displayed a few of my poems, including a series on the mighty squirrel with a pride.

Sooner or later, I came to terms with the fact that you cannot force poetry on someone. You cannot make people fall head over heels for it. Poetry too is just like love. When people get a dose of it, it would be the most enriching feeling that will last for ages.

P.S. Don’t ask me about the little kitten in my colony though.

A Table For One!

It is a common misconception that I am a people person. Maybe I am. Maybe I am not.

But if I am gifted the opportunity of choosing my solitude over the company of people for at least 10 days a month, I would gladly accept it, and quite graciously at that.

Of course, I love people, I love listening to their stories and to their tales on hope and endless possibilities of attaining something totally unattainable. But I also like to sit in peace, and read fascinating stories of the same people in the form of words and metaphors.

I guess I really like to oscillate between the two worlds - the one brimming with people, and the other filled with silence.

I would not call myself a recluse, but, there are moments when I prefer to do things alone - You know, like shopping, traveling, and eating out.

While one can do most of the things alone, the problem occurs only when you are trying to eat out alone.

This happens with me most of the times, and it is quite funny. I walk into a certain restaurant and ask for a table for one, and I find the waiter giving me a really sympathetic look, and much to my horror, I am given a table right in the center of the room.

I don’t know, does the waiter think I am all by myself (Read desperately alone) and hence, I need to sit in the middle of bantering people and chaos?

I am not sure.

Because when I ask for a corner table, the waiter gives me a once-over and asks, “Are you sure, ma’m?” And for reasons I cannot fathom, I earn the wrath of either a bad table or really pesky, overly helpful service.

You have no clue how many times I control my urge to tell them that I am here, only to enjoy good food while I am reading, and to remind them, that nothing is wrong with me.

There are a lot of people who ask if my solitude benefits me, and I tell them that it does in many million ways.

For one thing, it increases my productivity. The fact that I am able to read or write without any human contact, or my mobile phone constantly giving me constant notifications about mundane things is an achievement in its own league, if I might say.

A person who appreciates his solitude would appreciate the company of people even more. His attachment with nature and self increases leaps and bounds.

Okay, that was deep yet stupid stuff.

But let me admit, the whole point of writing this post is, this - dear waiters, let me devour my pasta in peace. No, I do not need sangria to wipe my tears away, and I definitely do not need several helpings of cheese to lead myself to the Prince Charming.

I am pretty complacent with whatever I have, and doing right now.

However, if there is something that I would really love, it is this - a corner table in a coffee shop adorned with fairy lights, a copy of Italo Calvino’s Difficult Loves, the aroma of coffee and a cup of coffee in my hand, good music playing rather faintly in the background, and people sitting in a distance talking about love and literature, and laughing at humourous things that tickle them.

Because that would be the perfect end to a solitary day at my table for one.

The Great Expectations: The Teacher & His Book

“There are two kinds of teachers: the kind that fill you with so much quail shot that you can't move, and the kind that just gives you a little prod behind and you jump to the skies.” 

― Robert Frost

This post was meant to be updated during Teachers Day but it was lingering in my head since a long time. It got delayed. Nevertheless, I am out with it.

You remember all those amazing school days? The incredibly pure days when a bar of chocolate, or a game of Uno with your friends in the colony gave you happiness that a pair of Charles & Keith shoes too cannot.

So, as a child, I had to hop from one city to another, one school to another quite often owing to my father's career. I hated it. I was always the new girl in the school, and there were times I felt like an outsider. Right from my language, to food, everything was different. I was always that weird, and probably geeky South Indian who could not connect well with the East Indians. I was always that strange child who preferred math over socializing with fellow classmates.

But then, I am also glad that I hopped from one school to another. Because, I have made many friends, and have a fair understanding of various languages now.

My family and I shifted to Hyderabad when I was a twelve year old girl. Surprisingly, I was still an outsider, here. As a person who could not decipher or write Telugu, I had a tough time making friends, and explaining people that I was a South Indian. I was. I just grew up in different places. As days went on, I made friends and all that, but you know what my problem was with the school? It had no library, it had no physical activity sessions. It was an utterly boring place to be in, and while my grades were always high, I was never happy with any of it.

The next year, I had this absolutely brilliant teacher for English called Murthy. At first sight, you might take him as just another grumpy old man who would strangle you to death if you were a naughty child, but he was anything but grumpy. He was happier than any of us; he dreamt higher than any of us. He always dressed in black and white, and on odd days, we would see him in blues and greens. He was fairly old. Say around, 70 years? I am not sure. But I still remember that I didn't want to miss any of his classes. Ever. I loved his lectures beyond anything. He had an aura that spoke volumes of his experience; and his flair at weaving and narrating stories was beautiful.

He taught us The Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. This is one book I go back to, time and again. I have lived with this book ever since ever, and let alone talking about it, I do not even like sharing the lines from it with anyone because I am so possessive about it that I feel like I am sharing a part of myself with them. You can call it ridiculous, but that is how this book has always worked with me.

With Murthy sir, this book was treated with an entirely different perspective. A story, that I would like to save for later.

There were many teachers before him, and there have been many teachers after him. Teachers I do not remember, teachers I doted on, teachers that made me hate Physics, teachers that ended up late for every session-basically, teachers who didn't leave a mark in my life like Murthy sir did.

I do not know if my stay in the school would have been the same without him; I do not know if my love for Literature would have been this strong without his stories; I am not sure if I would have written anything at all after my seventh grade if he stopped nudging me. Relentlessly. I would have been clueless about the beauty of words, and the sorcery of Ruskin Bond's work. I would have been just a person who took no interest in art, and I shudder to think of a life like that. And much to my chagrin, my Grammar would have been pretty horrible if he wasn't there in school, explaining me the difference between its and it's, patiently, and sometimes, quite impatiently.

I wouldn't even know if I would have read all the classics if he wasn't my teacher for his classes were always about great stories, good Literature, dreams, and many more.

I do not know where he is now, what he is reading now. I do not know who is being admonished by him right now. But if I really could, I wish I could sit down with him, and talk to him about all the grammar issues he found with the teenagers, I would love to ask him if the teenagers are getting any better. I would love to ask him, if he has ever considered writing down the stories of his adventures.

If only I could see him and tell him that he is loved, and whatever I am right now, I'd owe a major part of it to him. Bits and pieces, and everything!

Does Your Love Story Need A Reality Check?

“I no longer believed in the idea of soul mates, or love at first sight. But I was beginning to believe that a very few times in your life, if you were lucky, you might meet someone who was exactly right for you. Not because he was perfect, or because you were, but because your combined flaws were arranged in a way that allowed two separate beings to hinge together.” 

― Lisa Kleypas

I woke up this morning to a surreal image of love in my head.

L-O-V-E

This four letter, just a tiny four letter word has all the power in the world; practically it is the most unpractical emotion ever, and we all know it, love is outright ridiculous. But we all crave this emotion, in spite of knowing its repercussions.

So, when I was thinking and having a rather profound conversation on this strong emotion with people around me, I had this strange feeling that most of us, maybe most of us are setting ourselves up for a massive disappointment. And I would like to blame Literature for this. Yes, let me just thrust the sole blame on Literature and Fiction.

When women talk about love, all they need is a Fitzwilliam Darcy, and isn't it ludicrous that he is a fictional character? I mean, how fair is it to compare any average man with Mr Darcy? Cut the man some slack. I am glad that men do not read Jane Austen because no lady can match up to the wits of an Austen heroine.

Literature forms paints this ethereal and rosy image of love. You know the one, the perfect one, the Prince charming, the drool worthy vampire, Emma Wodehouse, and the metaphors that maybe, just maybe we forget that we live in a cynical world where the goodness of fiction is unavailable. I know, what a shame! Fiction and Literature have been messing up with our romantic lives since times immemorial and much to my chagrin, I find myself saying that Fiction is a fallacy. Quite a fallacy!

Can we all for a moment forget that there is a thing called Fiction and say this to ourselves, especially all the women out there who are smitten by Edward Cullen? (Hold your horses)

I look at this man, a man who is not a fictional character, he is noble but he has his off moments. He is imperfect. He is flawed in many million ways. He does not have blue eyes. He does not read out Pablo Neruda to me. He does not hold my perfectly manicured arm all the time and sing Bryan Adams to me all night. He does not function that way.

But he is there for me when I need him. He knows that I am a simple girl with a plateful. Hey, I do not need a man who can get me a Volvo like Edward Cullen. Not an Edward Rochester either. And when I find a man who loves me in the non-fictional way, I will hold on to him. And I know for a fact that I will open the Pandora’s Box. I do not want to run away from it and crave for a blue eyed boy. When I see this man, all I can think of is home. And I want to go home to him everyday.

Love is all about putting up with the whims and caprices and loving the idiosyncrasies of our partners in the most convenient ways ever.

Read fiction for the whole purpose of enjoying Literature delightfully. Do not dive into them so deeply that you do not own a story of your own. Why do you want to live a story written by some neurotic writer who wrote a story all because he has insomnia and was high on caffeine all night? Be the lead of your story and make your partner the hero. What is the point in living a life if all you need is a Darcy? Because no surprises there, he belongs to Elizabeth Bennet and erm, you are a non-fictional person, aren't you?

There are no free lunches in life. You need to meet your partner mid-way to make things work because this vile thing called love is worth all the pain and effort and this is not fictional.

So now, close your eyes and ask yourself, does your love story need a reality check?

(Disclaimer: I am a strong lover of Jane Austen's work and this is still an understatement.)