Tuesday, 28 August 2012



Maturity is all about accepting that life is going to hurl dollops of boredom at you, and you've just got to sit back and watch as it happens to you. I am not quite fond of the existentialist chaps whom I don't understand but I suppose I at times get why they were so cranky about life. Too much of maturity does that to you.


But of course, the happy-and-peaceful romantic comedies of the world are just going to make you believe that what is happening is funny, and in the long run you are going to spend your life crankily-happily-ever-after with the chick of your dreams, or something similarly fairytalish.


This is what I believed for a long time, till education happened to enter my mind like some obnoxiously stingy smell that you just can't avoid on the road even if you put your handkerchief in front of your nose like you are kidnapping your own self. With age comes excessive questions getting thrown at you about life and other profound nuisances. I ocassionally wish to retort that I can't think so much as I am going to die someday anyway. Might as well be peaceful in the meantime. Education and maturity nexus will question you as to what you want to be and become, whether a snooty academician who throws brillianty obscure post-modernist discourses on the dining table, or someone who works for a living, and then utilising the money to live life one's own way. It will be a bit sad if I find myself being defined and redefined by the small number of people I know, on the basis of my education or the lack of it.


Sometimes I wish to be more, or less, than a mere definition of educational degrees and professional jargons. Sometimes I guess one would like to stick to the childhood fairytale dreams that might give one a small life, but a valuable one, to me and to people I appreciate. But if scholastic intellectual brouhahas crept into everyday life, in every mundane experiences, then I suppose much of this world will remain unappreciated.

Sunday, 26 August 2012

Minor national park.

The idea of staying away from home began late in my life. Bred within the grand comforts of familiarity where even the hostile dogs on the roads are familiar enemies, a completely new city entail much excitement. So my appreciation for all the hardhips of life that hostel life entails is of much intensity. Along with the sense of liberation that you might feel, where several minutes in a day give you the whoopie feeling, the levels of toleration that one is born with is indeed increased manifold, up to a point when a rat is literally doing bungee jumping above your head, you can relax and continue with your task and let the fellow be. I've been alloted a hostel that's supposed to be the oldest in my campus. this entails families of rats that have been raised from generation to generations, and therefore have expertise of sniffing their ways into food like a trained hound. it also entails mosquito repellant resistant mosquitoes, some humble termites that recently made a friend of mine look like he's had the pox all over again and some darned dogs that breed like bunnies and proliferate the entire Earth in order to replace human race, someday very soon. And I am not alone. The jungle here is appealing. There's a joke that if one sees a nilgai in the first week of being in the campus, one is supposed to complete her PhD from here. In all fairness, I wish to run away. But to top it all, I have seen five such so called lucky charms, often in pairs which implies many more unborn nilgais in the making. Strange are the charms of luck. Then there are cats who stare at you, and you can stare back too. It's a game of who bats one's eyelids first. But cats are fine. My balcony also sees - what one of my friends searched in the internet to find out that its called a civet- stealthily climb up. We had a mutual moment of passion where we stared into each others' eyes while it dangled its tail. Then I silently went back, brought a can of baygon and sprayed in all my glory. My revenge was taken, and my uninvited guest has so far decided to run away for good. South Delhi, I conclude, has a lot of animals, human forms included. But indeed, it's fun. the days end when you wish to, the dead of the night is filled with wide-awake people on the roads, and libraries that are stacked with all sorts of books, YET kind enough to let us humble mortals access Facebook to spy on people's life like good old times when we had only studies to do, and some entertainment and the rest, that were taken for granted thanks to the odd blessings like parents, familiarity and neighbourhood. Life away from home is supposedly odd. It's everyone's life away from home out here, some more and some less. But, well, with a good friend or two, it's all good after all.