Shades of Purple

So around three years ago, a year before I left for college, a house on the street that ran parallel to the one I live on was painted. It was pianted a bright shade of purple. And believe it or not, every time I pass that crazily purple house, I see someone dressed in purple. A man in a mauve shirt, a lady hurrying in her deep purple silk saree, a girl in her pretty lilac frock. Every single time, without fail. I'm no believer in the super natural or inexplicable forces. But in probability and the endless possibility of probabilities, well, the house has taught me a few lessons. The probability of me seeing someone dressed in purple while I pass the purple house has thus far been 1, and I use that road plenty much, it being the main road. And then the other day, as my searching eyes tried to spot the purple clad reminder of endless possibilites and failed, I grew despondent. It was only after I reached the end of the road that I realised that I was wearing a lavender shirt. Eerie, beautiful, quirky, I love my little connection with the purple house. It reminds me that even the seemingly impossible isn't really so. The seemingly warped needn't be so. And it's little things like this that make magic!

The Monarch of All I Survey

My most favourite part of any buliding is its terrace. It's the place I run to when I need to cry, jump with joy , spend time by myself, look up at the stars and clouds, sing out loud and dance or read a book. For the first 18 years of my life until I left for college, the terrace I went to was the one back home. It's an incredible place. On one side you can see the beautiful Chamundi Hills and on the other you can see the sun set in all its orange glory. The best time to go up there however is when it's dark...ah, the stars, the moon, the breeze, coconut trees as far as the eye can see....it's divine.

This post then is an ode to that beautiful terrace of mine. Why out of the blue you ask? Well you see my parents have been on this massive overdrive to rehaul the house and my pretty terrace is a victim of their madness. I haven't seen the new terrace yet, but before I do, I'd like to remember the old one.

When I was a really tiny person, making it to the terrace was like making it to the summit of a mountain. As I grew older, I went through this phase where I wanted a play house. My parents pulled their hair out trying to find me a place to make my home; my terrace came to the rescue...I found a perfect little corner under the water tank. I still remember that summer when I lovingly furnished my little house with food and toys.

One of my earliest chores was to get the clothes down from the line, my parents thought it would build character, but to me it was an excuse to run up and feel the wind in my hair. Some of my best memories with my family can be traced back to the terrace as well. It's where my sister used to give me her long goodbye talks. When my dad carried his drink up there, it meant he was in a mood to talk and we'd bond over peanuts under the starry sky. Amma and I have spent many gleeful moments up there as we'd run to get down the clothes before they got wet from the rain.

I've thrown birthday parties up there. I've sung out loud. I've studied there. I did most of my reading there. I've bawled like a baby, somtimes with joy and sometimes otherwise. In short, a lot of my childhood and adolescence has been spent up on my beautiful terrace, which is undergoing a facelife as I write. So here's three cheers to the old one, and a heart full of hope that the new one will live up to its legacy.

Revolution in the Air

I know I wasn't missed much, but hey, if I've got to holler, I've got to holler eh?

I've heard a lot about protests and revolutions lately. My history project is on the JP Revolution (an idealist fighting against a tyrant basically). And then there was the Flower Power revolution in Across the Universe. A political protest in Blue State, where the protagonist leaves the States and goes to Canada as a political statement of protest against Bush's re-election. I'm now making my way through Snow and hence hear so much about the revolution in Turkey. And then the one in the dystopic movie Equilibrium.

Or perhaps I hear about revolutions all the time but have never thought about them until now. So what is it really that makes people jump into them? I'm talking here of those who are in them for they actually believe in the cause they're fighting for. It's amazing that there are in fact people who are idealistic enough to believe that they can shout loud enough to make a difference. And that they shout. At one level, I'm psyched that there are such romantics. Jealous even, for I may never have the courage to ever act on the many things I believe in.

But on another level, I can't but help play the role of the Devil's Advocate. What good did these protestors ever achieve? Sure, they made some sound waves. Sure they walked out of colleges and homes and comfortable lives. Sure, they may have even made headlines. But did they ever achieve even a modicum of what they set out to? In the larger scheme of things, governments and corporations are far too huge and mighty for dins on the street to effect them let alone make them mend their ways.

But perhaps, even the most radical protestors know that their dreams are much too big to come true. But they'll dream none the less. And perhaps they may not be able to stop wars or change political positions, but they tried. I may never know what a revolutionary feels. But I'd like to believe that they go to bed satisfied that they don't just discuss what's wrong with the system, they go about doing something to change it. So hey, better to have protested and gone unheard than to have never shouted eh?

But then again, are revolutions the answer to changing a foul system? Perhaps not if this is the only means used. Some of us may have to join the system, as the cliche goes, to beat it. And some others may have to make a few compromises and adjust. but then, those few idealistic enough to take things head on, in my opinion, are doing their own bit, in the way they think best. Perhaps, with all these little ripples from different shores, we can some day hope for a tide of change, if not a storm.

Some day I hope I'll have the courage and conviction to make my own voice heard, in whatever way. But until then, I can always hide behind excuses.

I'm Moving On

I love the Billy Joel by the same name. But that aside, it's the way I feel I want to take my life forward. No regrets...learnt much, loved a lot, grew some, hurt tons. But I've given everything to it and now I need to stop dwelling in the past. And what I've wanted it to be.
Beauty and adventure await. A little bit of faith wouldn't hurt. It isn't wrong to want to face the universe with a little bit of unproven belief. Heck, wrong and right are oh so subjective that I've finally understood that I've been generally stuck about wanting to see things the way I wanted them to be.
It's a pretty messed upo world. Therein lies its beauty...and magic.
No, I'm not high. it's just that in the past few days much has happened to my mind. It's a happier place to befriend now.
A toast to happiness!

Scarred

Scars I wear as medals and memories as reminders of beauty. Looking back, I find the power to move ahead. The trouble somehow seems to be worth it after all.

i ramble too much

Ever since I was a little girl, I've been writing. I wrote silly stories at first and then prosaic poems that always rhymed and then I got on to keeping a diary in which I still write occasionally. I write about how I feel, what I want to do with myself, what I think is right and wrong (there are a fair few of these ). Writing for me has always been a way of communicating with myself. Things don't suddenly untangle themselves,but writing helps me cope with things.I guess therefore, in many ways, writing has been a very personal thing for me. Then came my blog. Initially, I was really excited about finding a new way of writing. But then, after posting a few rather badly written pieces, I realised I couldn't write when I knew there would be others reading what I write, even if it was just my sister. So why am I writing now? Truth be told, I don't know myself. Guess I just want to say something. And may be even be heard.
I'm in love. In love with learning. I'm in college now. A place where there is ample opportunity to learn for those who do want to learn. The past three weeks have probably been the most intensive learning period of my life. I've learnt about the social contract theory, about the theory of customs unions, about void contracts; I've also learnt from a woman in a little town in Karnantaka who wants to get back community land from powerful panchayat members so that the kids in her town can have a play gorund and women a place to form a union; I've learnt that there are people who share my love for learning. I guess I just wanted to confess my love out loud for once and where better and how better?

And finally,reason 101.

Faity tale.I've been living in a fairy tale.Sure,I've had a wicked step sister here and an old,miserable witch there but all in all ,it's been a good ride.And although I am grateful for all that I've been blessed with,I cannot help but blame this for my skewed perceptions about life.Reality is something I cannot cope with.

I've had a glimpse or two of some not so nice things lately.I try telling myself that everything's alright but fail miserably at coming up with a convincing explanation.No everything is not alright but then again not everything is bad either.Right...?

It's not like I've never known of the existence of madness and tyranny(mere rhetoric?).I've had copious doses of horrible news reports and have fumed with outrage at things I do not approve of in all my naive sense of righteousness or the lack thereof.But I've never really had to deal with that unsettling reality.Now that I do,I'm handicapped on two fronts.First,my very limited appreciation of all things real and therefore,second,my sense of being lost.Hopelessly lost.

The poet and the painter have lost sanity in trying to cope with the world outside their heads.Will that then be the path for an inveterate dreamer such as I?In some twisted turn of fate,maybe the fairy tale will have a horrible end.But I'm not crying for this,I know I'll find my way sooner or later.What I am mourning though is the death of beauty.Somehow,most things I've cherished have been distorted by a world which can't seem to appreciate beauty anymore.Or is my sense of beauty outdated?Should I change?At the cost of romance and hope...maybe not.